The year was 1952. President Dwight D. Eisenhower signed into law a new bill that was expected to end the spread of disease as we know it. The law, entitled the End the Spread of Disease As We Know It law, was considered to be the most significant law in the history of disease-prevention laws. This was how the law read back in 1952. I think:

From this day forward, all citizens of the United States of America must abide by these rules. Those who do not, will be punished within the full extent of the law.

Any citizen who has recently evacuated the contents of his lower intestine must wash his hands thoroughly before returning to the workplace. The same holds true for those who are only going pee pee. Should someone return to the workplace before washing his hands, he will be punished within the full extent of the law.

To ensure that disease is not spread any further, the right hand will be reserved for the handling of toilet tissue and doing other dirty things. The left hand will remain clean for grabbing loose snacks, such as cocktail peanuts and pretzels. Anyone caught using his left hand to do dirty things or using his right hand to grab loose snacks, will be punished within the full extent of the law.

Because of obvious conflicts, citizens who naturally favor their left hands to do dirty things will be immediately sent to a special facility where they will be taught how to use their right hands to do dirty things. Various reconditioning methods will be used, including psychoanalysis, training exercises and electroshock therapy.

As an added incentive to abide by these new rules, any citizen who witnesses another citizen using his left hand in a dirty way is hereby authorized to pelt that person with an object no smaller than a baseball and no larger than a refrigerator. Should this pelting cause the peltee to lose consciousness, the peltor must then pin a sign to the peltee’s chest that reads “I’m a Dirty Southpaw.” One sign will be provided for each household. Do not lose your sign.

Because disease is often spread through the borrowing of writing implements, each citizen will be issued one mechanical pencil and one matching fountain pen. Under no circumstances shall a citizen offer his pen or pencil to another citizen. Should a citizen be caught using a writing implement that is not his, that citizen will lose his writing privileges and be pelted with an object no smaller than a mason jar and no heavier than an elephant. As for typing, well, just be careful.

We realize that these new laws will take some getting used to, but you also must recognize that this is the only way to prevent the spread of disease as you know it, and as others know it, but not necessarily as I know it. Over time, the laws will become second nature to us and merge into our culture. How long this will take, no one is certain. It could take weeks. It could take months. It could take milleniums. Just follow the rules and don’t make a big deal out of it. It’s not like you have a choice, is it?

Two weeks later, after nine referigerator-related deaths and one very gruesome incident involving an elephant (don’t ask), the End the Spread of Disease As We Know It law was repealed, thus making it the most insignificant law in the history of disease-prevention laws.

I was reading an article in Forbes about how sponsored links on Google and Yahoo(!) are a good way to increase traffic to your site. Well, I’m sure this isn’t a new idea, but I decided to enter a few choice words into the Google search engine to see what kind of ads I could get. Here are some screenshots of the better ones:

That’s all for now. Incidentally, most X-rated searches didn’t bring up any ads. But I still managed to find ways around the system. That said, this is a fucking family-friendly blog, so I chose not to post those. All I’ll say is that when I clicked on one of the ads, it resulted in an eBay listing for “Bad Ass Toys.” Uh huh.

I was watching television the other day when a commercial for a new KFC product came on. The spot was for something called New KFC Famous Bowls.

Now, how a new product could achieve fame before it was released is beyond me. But all that aside, this was quite a big idea. You start with KFC’s world famous soupy mashed potatoes, top that with gravy, top that with overcooked corn, top that with pieces of greasy fried chicken, top that with even more of that questionable gravy and cover it all with a three-cheese blend. Wow. I don’t know about you, but I just threw up a little. Which is the very same reaction I had when I saw this product advertised on TV. I actually felt sick to my stomach. Hey, I think that’s a first in advertising. I mean, usually, you try to make the product look as appetizing as possible. But when you start with shite, you end up with shite.

Then again, my opinion shouldn’t matter much. I’m one of those weird people who only eats fish. So please, enlighten me. Explain to me why these Famous Bowls are so appetizing. I just don’t get it. As far as I’m concerned, anything that makes me want to blow, sucks.

Update: It seems that Pip actually had the nerve to try one of these things. Incidentally, he didn’t read this blog entry before he wrote his review, so any similarities are completely coincidental. At least that’s what he says. Mm hm.

Well, I held my annual yard sale for the second time this year, and let me tell you, it was not the success I imagined it would be. While people literally fought over my 15″ widescreen TV (actually just a regular TV with a “letterbox” frame glued to the face of it), a lot of other items remained unsold. Some of these items are one-of-kind objects that I created myself. Others are just rare finds that I no longer have room for. If you’re interested in any of the following, please leave a comment and an e-mail address where you can be contacted. Thanks.

1. Beautiful tampon caddy made with the finest popsicle sticks and felt. TAMPAX spelled out with rhinestones on the top. $95.99
2. Origami paperweight. $150
3. Portrait of Wink Martindale eating a bialy, created with dried pasta and the cremated remains of various roadkill. $2,000
4. Striped headband made from a pair of recycled Fruit of the Loom briefs. $80
5. Candle designed to look exactly like a chocolate candy bar. It looks like chocolate. It smells like chocolate. It even tastes like chocolate. But if you eat it, it will kill you. $75
6. Set of five one-of-a-kind macrame cereal bowls (broke the sixth one) $175
7. Pair of magnetic chopsticks $25
8. Exercise device for strengthening fingernails. Instructions not included. $400
9. Various drawings created by my 5-year-old niece. $20-1,000 each, depending on how difficult it is to tell what the object is actually supposed to be.
10. 2006 U.S. Nickel, featured on a famous blog. $15

That’s about it. Let me know if you’re interested in anything. Oh, and In case you’re wondering why the headband is so cheap, it’s been previously worn. But not as a headband.

As I was getting ready to do the laundry this evening, I happened upon this odd looking coin in my pocket. “What country is this from?” I thought to myself. And then I took a closer look. It was a nickel. Some kind of new nickel. Not only that, it was an ugly nickel. The distinguished, soft profile of Thomas Jefferson was gone. In its place was a more chiseled image of the man, staring at me with his beady eyes. He no longer looked like the author of the Declaration of Independence. He looked like a guy who owned 400 slaves (For the record, it was only about 200, and he inherited them). See for yourself:

OK, I couldn’t quite capture the creepy stare he has, but you get the idea. And what’s with that hair? Did they not have combs back then? Maybe this is supposed to be a hipper, more modern Jefferson. If that’s the case, just go for it and show him on a skateboard holding an iPod.

Come to think of it, who decided that we needed a new nickel in the first place? Sure, they recently redesigned our paper currency, but that’s because anyone with a decent inkjet printer could counterfeit the bills. Are people starting to counterfeit nickels? And if they are, who really gives a rat’s ass?

Let’s compare, shall we?

On the left, we have the classic nickel. On the right . . . what the fuck? Honestly, with all this new currency we have, it’s getting to the point where I don’t know what country I’m living in anymore. That said, there is still one thing that remains unchanged: embossed into the top edge of the coin are the words “In God We Trust.” But if you ask me, what it really should say is “The New Nickel Sucks.”

Get this: I’m sitting here on the couch with my 22 cats, just sneezing away (on the account of my allergies), when all of the sudden, one of the feistier felines, Brown Kitty, starts batting a ball of yarn around the room. Now, to the average observer, this might be considered adorable, possibly even precious. Personally, I find it horrifying. Why? That ball of yarn isn’t just your average bundle of crochet-caliber crap. It’s from my private collection of fine and rare knittables.

Yes, as many of you already know, I have a rather extensive yarn collection. It began with just a few small strands and grew into thousands upon thousands of cherished skeins. For a long time, people thought I was crazy. “What’s with the yarn collecting, Smivey?” they’d say. And I’d respond, “If you have to ask, your vacuous mind would never be able to comprehend it.” Nine times out of ten, this would result in me getting my ass kicked. But I didn’t care. It was all about the yarn.

Later on, as an adult, I discovered an entire Web community devoted to yarn collecting. After joining the online forums, I learned where the best yarn conventions were and even got some pointers on dealing with the ridicule associated with being a yarnny (that’s what we call ourselves). Before too long, I became a highly-respected yarn trader and was even asked to be a guest yarn appraiser for the Antiques Road Show (the British version, not that crappy American one). To date, I have over 1,000 varieties of yarn, most of which are hermetically sealed and stored in an undisclosed location.

Why hide what I’ve spent so many years to acquire? Well, I wasn’t always so protective of my collection. But one day, when I was about 12, I came home to find several skeins of laceweight baby alpaca missing from my stash. My mother told me not to worry. “I’m sure they’ll turn up somewhere,” she said. And she was right. About a month later, my grandmother came over to celebrate my birthday. Her present to me? A beautiful alpaca scarf. “NOOOO!” I screamed. “My alpaca! My prized alpaca! You stupid bitch!” I grabbed the scarf and ran up to my room. After locking the door, I got out my loupe and examined the fibers. The damage was worse than I thought. Honestly, she might as well have knitted me a fucking toaster cozy. Still, after hours and hours of meticulous unraveling, I was able to salvage a few precious yards.

But that’s all ancient history now. Oh sure, I still despise my grandmother. But since that time, I’ve acquired not one, but three beautiful skeins of exquisite alpaca (on sale at the Yarn Barn). Vicuña, on the other hand, is a completely different story. I have only one tightly bound ball of it. Unfortunately for me, it’s the same ball that Brown Kitty is currently batting around the room. Every time that ignorant animal’s claws tear into those precious fibers, I envision a frail, naked vicuña shivering in the cold.

Oh course, now that Brown Kitty has discovered my vicuña, all my other cats want to get into the act (Phallus, Mega, Apeshit, Minty Fresh, Snoopy, Pickle Feet, Cat, Walking Goiter, Herbert Bennington III, Yttik, Tool Shed, Fat Angry Dog, ODK, Foamy, Rancid Tuna, Third Base, Rice Pudding With Cinnamon, Sickly Wretch, Blow Pop, Pet Sematary and Dr. Pinebetty — Cognitive Therapist). They’re each taking turns attacking my vicuña, completely ignoring the alarm system I installed to deter them.

Granted, it’s a rather primitive alarm system, but ingenious just the same. Rather than rely on fancy electronics, I carefully attached a series of tiny jingle bells to the surface of the yarn. The idea was that if a cat ever touched my vicuña, the tiny bells would ring, thus scaring away the stupid animal. At least that’s how it was supposed to work. In reality, the cats seem to love the bells, attempting to ring them over and over and over again.

In hindsight, it probably wasn’t such a good idea to leave my prized vicuña out on display like that. But I was so proud of it. I discovered the delicate ball of beauty just two weeks ago on eBay. Of course, I ended up paying a small fortune for it. But I’ll never regret transferring that $25.75 from my PayPal account. Never.

Mind you, I didn’t just stick my ball on the mantel and leave it at that. I did what any intelligent person would do with a delicate work of art: I displayed it high above the ground on a pedestal covered with carpet. Where does one find a carpeted pedestal? Well, oddly enough, I obtained mine from a neighbor’s yard sale. That soft, fluffy surface seemed perfect for my yarn. But then the oddest thing happened: The cats went fucking nuts over the pedestal. I swear, they started scratching at it like there was no tomorrow. Fortunately, using an average spray bottle, I was able to quickly teach the cats to stay off my post. All but one, that is: Brown Kitty.

I found Brown Kitty in the alleyway just days ago and immediately knew he would be the ideal addition to my cat clan. I named him Brown Kitty because when I looked at him, he reminded me of a teacher I once had whose name was Professor Brown Kitty.

Anyhow, none of that’s important. The only thing that really matters is my lovely vicuña. And at this very moment, I’m watching it being torn to shreds by those fucking cats. I suppose instead of typing this story, I could have reached for my spray bottle and blasted those motherfuckers away. But what if i were to accidentally dampen the vicuña? What then? I couldn’t risk using my hairdryer on the delicate fibers. I suppose I could hang it outside, but then that leaves the chance of mildew forming.

Hi. Sorry to cut off my story like that, but I just got my weekly e-mail from YarnBarn.com. Guess what’s on sale? Uh huh. Vicuña. Two skeins for seven dollars. I’d say that’s a tad bit cheaper than the twenty-six bucks I paid for one ratty ball of the shit. You know what, fuck eBay. Hell, fuck the damn vicuña! . . . Oh shit. Looks like one of my cats had exactly the same idea. Ugh. That’s just wrong. Where’s my spray bottle? Bad kitty! Bad Phallus! Or is that Snoopy? I can’t tell these fucking beasts apart.

Welcome to my new/old blog. Of course, this is just a temporary design. The new one is going to blow you away. No, really. Just take my word for it. OK, I don’t really have any idea of what the new one is going to look like. But trust me on this one. In the meantime, you’ll just have to settle for what you see here.

That said, I’d like to thank a couple of people for making the transition possible. Thank you to the incredible Pip and the brilliant Justin for all their help. It is truly appreciated— especially since I didn’t have to pay for it. Heh. Well, I guess I have to actually start writing something entertaining now. Thanks for your patience.

As a writer, I’m usually very protective of my ideas. But then I got to thinking, who am I to deprive others of my genius? Besides, I can’t possibly write a screenplay for every plot line I come up with. That said, I submit to you these movie ideas. Feel free to make them your own. All I ask is that you give me props in the movie credits using these exact words: “Genius by Smivey.” I thank you.

The Pig, The Boat and a Man Named Mestipapulious
OK, so there’s this pig, right? And it’s in a boat, OK? It’s just a tiny boat, though, like a dinghy or something like that. Keep in mind, this isn’t one of those fucking cartoon pigs that talks. It’s just a regular pig, but it’s wearing one of those tiny leprechaun hats that’s attached to his big head with an elastic band. Anyhow, for almost the entire film, you just see the pig hanging out in the boat, making those pig noises and wallowing in its own filth (note: make sure there’s mud in the boat.). At the end of the film, the pig reaches land. A man is waiting there. His name is Michael Radcliff. Not Mestipapulious. See, you’d be expecting it to be Mestipapulious. But it’s not. it’s Michael Radcliff. That’s the twist.

The Lesbian Princess
Princess Lolly is 25 and still single. She is totally hot and spends most of her days hanging out with the handmaidens in the garden. She also likes to take baths. Perfumed baths. With the handmaidens. Anyhow, she finds out that her father, who is also the king, has arranged for her to be married to Prince Jack. Oddly, Princess Lolly protests. Why? It can’t be because of the way Prince Jack looks. He’s totally hot. No, it turns out that Prince Jack’s sister, Princess Mildred, is a full-on lesbian. And Princess Lolly? She’s nothing but a close-minded homophobic bitch.

The Placebo Effect
George Herman works at the local Rite Aid as a pharmacist. Bored with his job, he decides one day to substitute everyone’s prescriptions with harmless sugar pills. All the patients take their medication as directed on the bottle, and faster than they can say “I’ve never felt better,” their health quickly deteriorates. Some die within days. Others suffer for months. As the patients’ symptoms worsen, the doctors prescribe different medications for them, only to have them substituted with another placebo by George Herman. Many years later, the authorities finally trace the cause of all the deaths to Herman. They come to the Rite Aid to make the arrest, but Herman quickly downs a handful of pills before they can stop him. As you might expect, the pills were only placebos. Nevertheless, he dies instantly. That’s the placebo effect.

Stuffed
Steve is a Certified Public Accountant who longs to become the world’s greatest competitive eater. Of course, he has to overcome a lot of obstacles before he can reach his goal: For one thing, he’s six feet tall and only weighs 130 pounds. He’s also a vegetarian and suffers from Irritable Bowel Syndrome. But Steve is determined to succeed. After suing the Nathan’s Hot Dog company, he wins the right to compete in their hot-dog eating competition — without having to eat any actual hot dogs. Wolfing down 400 lard-free buns in just 30 minutes, Steve beats the skinny Japanese guy’s record by just seconds. He goes on to compete in other competitions, but never even places in the events. At the end of the film, Steve enters himself in a habanero-chile eating contest and dies from internal bleeding after swallowing just one chile.

OK, that should be enough to get your started. Enjoy your fame and fortune, courtesy of me.

Dear (Name Omitted),

I’m sorry that our date turned out to be a complete disaster. But you were warned. Yes, I realize that I seem like such a suave, funny, sexy, genius of a man online. But the truth is, I’m not all that suave. Believe it or not, I spend most of my evenings at home, chatting online and eating dry cereal from the box. And as for dating, well, I don’t have a lot of experience.

Honestly, I thought it would be really romantic to send a taxi cab to pick you up. I even requested that the driver be a nonsmoker. But since there is no such thing, I insisted that he only smoke cigarettes. No cigars. That was thoughtful, wasn’t it?

And what about that gift I had waiting for you when you got in the cab, the case of Butterfinger candy bars? Didn’t you think that was nice? I mean, who the fuck doesn’t like a Butterfinger? Are you allergic to artificial peanut butter or something? I waited in line for 30 minutes at Costco to get you those damn candy bars. The least you could have done was eaten one. OK, I’m sorry. This is supposed to be an apology letter. Maybe those Butterfinger candy bars were a bad idea. But you have to admit, they are delicious.

In any case, let me explain why I was eating my dinner when you arrived. You were almost 20 minutes late. How long is a guy supposed to sit around eating appetizers and drinking wine? Granted, I probably should have left my phone on when I got to the restaurant, but I find it rude for people to take calls while others are eating. Of course, you later explained to me—okay, yelled at me—that you didn’t have enough money for cab fare and that the driver actually backed up his car and made you walk six blocks to the restaurant. How is that my fault?

Anyhow, after I polished off my seared scallops (delectable!), I was kind enough to offer you the green beans and mashed potatoes that were left on my plate. As you might recall, you declined. But did that stop you from whining about how hungry you were for the rest of the night? Nooo. I bet you’re sorry now for not eating one of those candy bars.

Alright, I know this is supposed to be an apology letter. But you really made me uncomfortable, what with the way you stared at me all night with your brow furrowed so unattractively. What did you expect me to do? I eventually paid you back for the cab fare, didn’t I? And I didn’t even complain when you threw only $4.50 in change back at me. I mean, any moron knows that $25.17 from $30 is $4.83.

But back to the apology. I really am sorry. I’m sorry that you didn’t think it was funny when I suddenly threw water in your face. I’m sorry that you had to go to jail for assaulting me with a steak knife. I’m sorry that I couldn’t stop laughing as I watched the police officers tackle you to the ground (you really should have seen your face). And I’m sorry for pressing charges. I suppose the least I could have done was bail you out.

That said, I’d like another chance. Maybe we could have dinner at one of those fancy European cafes? You know, something cozy, but not too intimate. Just some wine, good food and a little conversation. Oh, and don’t worry. This time, I’ll take care of the cab fare.

I can’t believe how many ignorant people live in this county. Of course, I watch Fox News, so I know exactly what to think about the latest issues. But what does the average, less-informed person have to say? I set out to Santa Monica, California to find out.

Of course, Santa Monica is a pretty large city. There are people, like, everywhere. Seriously. Fortunately, there’s one place where everyone seems to congregate: The 3rd Street Promenade. This is a closed off street about four blocks long, where the latest stores share the sidewalk with decrepit bookshops and pushcart vendors. Street performers entertain the crowds with their creative begging. And propagandists sit behind portable tables, handing out pro-marijuana literature. There is nothing quite like it in the world. And even if there is, I don’t give a fuck.

In any case, I wasn’t visiting 3rd Street to purchase a new pair of shoes or even watch the latest movie. No, I was there to locate the average person and find out what he or she thinks about the current issues facing this country. Fortunately, it didn’t take long to find that person. In all honestly, she found me. As I was walking on the sidewalk getting ready to cross Wilshire Boulevard, a woman came running up and quickly introduced herself:

“I AM THE ANGEL AND THE DEVIL, THE BLACK AND THE WHITE!” she screamed. This was one of those eccentric-artist types. Her hair was grey and frizzy and she was wearing at least 15 different layers of clothing, accented with a rainbow colored ski vest.

“Hello,” I replied. “My name is Smivey. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

“BLEAAHHHHHHHH!!!!” she shrieked, pushing me back, almost knocking me on my ass. She hobbled over to the other side of the street, but her scent lingered. It was a smell I was quite familiar with, possibly one of those foreign perfumes, the kind that reminds one of exotic flowers and goat manure. Needless to say, I was intrigued.

When I caught up with the woman, she was frantically digging through a trash can. This explained why she was so angry. She had obviously lost something important to her. I didn’t waste any time. I just jumped right into the questions:

“At last count, George W. Bush’s approval rating was at 36%. What do you feel the President needs to do in order to make the public understand what a great leader he is?”

“GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU MOTHER FUCKER!!” she croaked, throwing a half-eaten burger at me before hobbling away. Of course, I went after her. Apparently, she was one of those walk-and-talk types, never stopping for a moment, even ignoring the traffic lights.

“Ma’am,” I shouted at her, ” I only ask for a moment of your time. How do you feel about the government tapping our phone lines?”

No reply.

“The war in Iraq?”

Again, nothing.

“Dick Cheney’s hunting incident? Hurricane Katrina? Our overflowing landfills?”

Suddenly, she spun around and opened her mouth. I was expecting wasps to come flying out of there. Instead, there were only words:

“Actually,” she said, “the problems isn’t with our landfills. It’s with the people. They throw things in the trash without thinking about the consequences of their actions. I mean, it’s not like there isn’t a solution to all this extra trash. We just have to get into the habit of recycling. Used aluminum cans can be made into new aluminum cans. Plastic bottles can be melted down and made into a number of useful things . . .”

She went on with her speech for what seemed like hours. And as she spoke, I suddenly came to a realization: This woman was fucking insane. She was living in some kind of fantasy world where sticky soda cans could miraculously be turned into new soda cans. And what was all that nonsense about plastic bottles? It sounded like something from a bad Science Fiction novel, like the crap L. Ron Hubbard used to write.

Anyhow, I couldn’t deal with that kook any longer, so I just walked away. And you know what? The bitch started following me! And she wouldn’t shut up. When I began walking faster, she started walking faster. When I ducked into a store, so did she. After twenty minutes of this, I was at the end of my rope. Finally, I just grabbed her, pushed her over a nearby bench and made a mad dash for it. The last thing I heard her shouting was something about “greenhouse gasses.” No, I swear, that’s what she said. Greenhouse gasses. Ha. Where does she come up with this shit? No doubt, she’d been smoking too many of those marijuana cigarettes. People can be so stupid.