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.

Yes, it’s true. I was one of those guys who advertised in the back of Vegetarian Times magazine. In my ads, I claimed to be able to solve all of your problems through a series of cassette tapes. Each tape sold for $25, but you could buy the entire series of 500 for only twelve easy payments of $1,500 (It’s a little known fact that vegetarians aren’t very good at math). Anyhow, the tapes were a big hit. But after buying my fifth home, I started feeling guilty about what I was doing. Not because I was robbing vegetarians of their hard-earned tofu money. Actually, that was kind of fun. No, the real reason I was feeling guilty was because my tapes weren’t everything they claimed to be. To give you an idea of the horrible things I did, here’s the transcript from my Be A Better Person tape:

Close your eyes, relax your body and imagine yourself in a large, white room. At the end of the room, is a soft, white couch. As I count down from ten to zero, I want you to slowly step towards the couch. With each step, you’ll feel lighter and more relaxed. And by the time I reach zero, your body will feel very heavy and very relaxed. Ready? Let’s begin.

10 . . . you are walking towards the couch. . . 9. . . closer, feeling more relaxed. . . 8. . . there’s something on the floor. . . 9. . . What is that, peanut butter? Why is there peanut butter on the floor? . . 10. . . I thought we were counting down. . . 11 . . . What are you doing? We should be on 5! . . 12. . . Come to think of it, why is there peanut butter on the floor and no jelly? . . .13. . . No jelly! No jelly! . . 14. . . I’d settle for some marshmallow fluff. . . 15 . . . You know, make one of those fluffernutter sandwiches. . . . 16 . . . I mean, I’ve never had one before, but I hear they’re good. . . 17 . . . Fuck, that couch is not getting any closer, is it? . . . 18 . . . Are you even trying to relax? . . 19 . . . Well, I can’t exactly relax for you. . . And 20. . .

You are now in a completely relaxed state, your mind is clear, your muscles are soft, and your arms and legs feel very, very heavy, as if they were bound with thick leather straps. . . No? Too creepy? OK, let’s just say that you’re very relaxed and leave it at that.

OK, so, to begin with, enough with the fucking smoking already. What are you, insane? Duh, gee, I wonder if there’s something I could do to improve my chances of getting lung cancer. You know what, fuck you. Smoke all you want. Besides, you really do look sexy with that cigarette in your mouth. Anyhow, what other problems do you have? Confidence? You want confidence? OK, here’s an idea, why don’t you grow a fucking pair? Confidence. Bleh. You disgust me.

It’s time to return to your regular state. Normally, I would count up to 20, but since I fucked that up, we’ll count backwards to 1. The closer I get to 1, you will feel more awake, more comfortable, and very sleepy. Ha, no, I was kidding about the sleepy part. You’ll just be awake. Not sleepy. So, scratch the sleepy. Actually, let me just speed this up, because I want to get back to watching my movie. When I snap my fingers, you’ll feel completely awake, incredibly refreshed, and have an overwhelming craving for capers. Seriously, you’ll just want to devour them by the spoonful. Mmmm capers. Ready? Here we go. Three, two, one, *SNAP*. Wide awake, feeling refreshed, ready to take on the day. Now, why don’t you go get yourself a snack, hm?

For over five years, I’ve been telling my shrink, Dr. Steinway, my deepest, darkest secrets, all with the understanding that what was said in his office would remain in his office. That said, I was a little shocked when I found a blog entitled “Shrinking Heads” a few days ago. The blogger goes by the pseudonym “Dr. S,” but I know exactly what that S stands for (aside for Shithead), and believe me, that motherfucker is going to be hearing from my lawyer very soon.

But since his blog has been up and running for over a year, what point is there in me trying to pretend I’m someone I’m not? As a record of my shrink’s fucked-up ways, I’ve copied and pasted one of the transcripts from his site. It’s titled Confessions of a Man/Boy.

The subject walks into my office, wearing a pair of worn-out jeans and what he must assume is a clever t-shirt (it’s not). He approaches my desk and doesn’t say a word for about ten minutes, just stares down at me. I do my best to remain calm.

DR. S: So, tell me, what it is you’re thinking about.

MAN/BOY: I don’t know, man. I had a shitty day. I don’t feel much like talking.

DR. S: OK, would you like to play a board game then? I think I have Clue.

MAN/BOY: Very funny. OK, fine, you wanna help me? Help me.

DR. S: I can’t help you. You can only help yourself.

MAN/BOY: You have got to be kidding me. Did you really just say that?

DR.S: It’s true.

MAN/BOY: It’s a tired cliché.

DR. S: Is that how you feel?

MAN/BOY: So is that.

DR. S.: So is what?

MAN/BOY: That whole is-that-how-you-feel thing. Is that the first thing they teach you in shrink school or what?

DR. S: Let’s keep the discussion on you. Unless, of course, you’d rather play that board game. I get to be Colonel Mustard.

MAN/BOY: Ah, fuck it. Let’s just get this over with.

The subject stops staring at me and has a seat on the couch. He crosses his legs like a girl.

DR. S: OK, let’s continue where we left off yesterday. I believe you were starting to talk about your latest obsession.

At this moment, the subject reaches into his bag and pulls out a bottle of Evian. There is a pitcher of iced water on the table and a clean glass, but he refuses to use it.

MAN/BOY: OK, I guess it all started back when I was in between jobs.

DR. S: Uh huh.

MAN/BOY: Sometimes, I’d spend the entire afternoon doing nothing but watching TV.

DR. S: It can be addictive.

MAN/BOY: Yeah, would you just shut up and let me tell my story?

DR. S: OK . . .

MAN/BOY: Anyhow, after a while, most of the shows on TV just got too boring. And then . . . and then I discovered . . . Nickelodeon.

DR. S: Really, now?

At this point, the subject stands up and stares at me in a threatening manner. After a few moments, he sits back down and continues:

MAN/BOY: As I was sayingggggg, I started watching Nickelodeon, and it was great. Suddenly, there were all of these new shows for me to watch. Of course, they were kind of juvenile in nature, but I started to appreciate that.

DR. S: Ahhhhh

The Man/Boy stops what he’s doing, takes out a ballpoint pen from his pocket and throws it at me, hitting me on the head. He then continues:

MAN/BOY: As I was sayingggggg . . . I started to appreciate these new shows. I guess you could say they made me feel more youthful. And that’s when the idea came to me: If these shows could make me feel youthful, what would happen if I upped the ante? So I made a trip to the local Toys backwards-R Us, and all I can say is, wow. It was amazing in there. . . . Hello? Are you even fucking listening to me?!

I nod, trying to avoid having anything else thrown at me.

MAN/BOY: Anyhow, so I grabbed a cart and just started going nuts in there, ya know? I bought all the stuff my parents wouldn’t let me have when I was younger: the Battling Tops game, the Tyco slot racing set, the Barbie’s Dream House. . . Yeah, that’s right. I said the Barbie Dreamhouse. You wanna make somethin’ of it? ’cause if you do, I will fucking cut you!

At this moment, the subject takes out a very small pocket knife and reveals the tiny blade. I shake my head to assure this psycho that I have no intentions of ridiculing him (at least not to his face, ha ha ha).

MAN/BOY: Yeah. You better not be makin’ fun of my fuckin’ Barbie’s Dream House. Anyhow, I totally filled up my cart up with all this shit and then I brought it home and pretended it was Christmas morning, which was totally weird, since I’m Jewish. After a while, I couldn’t get enough of these toys. It was like an addiction. I started going online and ordering everything I could see. I even got one of those See & Says with the different animal sounds. It’s so fuckin’ cool. You turn the dial and pull the cord to hear that creepy voice: (He tries to mimic the voice and does a very poor job of it) “The cow says, mooooo” hahahahahha . . .

The freak continues to laugh at his mildly amusing anecdote, until finally—thank the Lord—the bell on my timer rings. I tell him our 50 minutes is up, but actually, I only set it for 40 minutes. That’s about all I can stand of this guy in one day.

OK, I think you get the idea. First of all, in my defense, he made a lot of that shit up. For one thing, I was not wearing one of my clever t-shirts that day. And I never threw a ballpoint pen at his head. It barely hit his left shoulder. And finally, I don’t know where he got that bullshit about me buying a Barbie’s Dream House. It was the Barbie Totally Real House. It’s just a place for Barbie and Malibu Ken to kick it, ya know? And if you think that I’m just playing around with dolls, let me tell you, nothing childish goes on in that house, if you know what I mean. Awwww yeahhhh. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.

For the past several months, I’ve had the exact same dream. What’s worse is, I have no idea what it means or how to make it stop. Here’s as much of it as I can remember:

There I am, sitting at a secluded table, with Scarlett Johansson as my date. She’s wearing a black strapless dress and her hair’s up in some sophisticated way. And for some reason, in her left ear, there’s a single pearl earring. I mean, she’s Scarlett Johansson. Can’t she afford the other one? In any case, she looks amazing. And that’s when it hits me: I’m having dinner with Scarlett Johansson!

“Holy shit,” I say. “Scarlett Johansson. The Scarlett Johansson. I can’t believe I’m having dinner with Scarlett Johansson.”

“Oh, Smivey,” she says. “It’s no big deal. Just try to relax and eat your salad.”

And so I do. I try to eat my salad. But every time I look up, Scarlett Johansson is sitting across from me.

“Fuck. Scarlett Johansson. This is fucking amazing. The Scarlett Johansson. Why would Scarlett Johansson ever want to have dinner with me? I’m so much older than she is.”

“Would you stop talking about me as if I’m not here? You know why I agreed to go out with you. It was that letter you sent me almost a year ago.”

“Yeah, I still can’t believe you actually read that.”

“Oh, I read all of my fan mail. Usually, they’re just requests for my undergarments, but yours was so different, so special.”

“Oh, stop.”

“No, really. I still carry it with me wherever I go.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I do!”

“Uh huh.”

Scarlett digs through her Prada bag and pulls out a neatly folded piece of paper. She unfolds the paper, because it’s much easier to read that way, and then proceeds to, duh, read it:

“Sweet Scarlett,

I realize you probably get hundreds of letters every year, but this one is very special and you will, undoubtedly, hold it dear to your heart. After you read it, you will become my girlfriend and then we will stay at home and watch DVDs on my home theater system with 5.1 surround sound.

Holy shit. Scarlett Johansson. I can’t believe I’m writing to the Scarlett Johansson. This is fucking amazing. The Scarlett Johansson. Why would Scarlett Johansson ever read my letter?

Oh, I have to go. My Pillsbury Toaster Strudel is ready. It’s important to frost them while they’re hot. Otherwise, the frosting won’t be all gooey and runny the way I like it. Do you like toaster strudel? I need a woman who likes toaster strudel.

Anyway, please give me a call. Better yet, IM me. I’m always online. Always.

Yours, very soon,

Smivey”

“OK,” I say to Scarlett, “will you put the fucking letter down and eat your salad? You’re embarrassing me.”

“Sorry. It’s very dear to my heart.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Honestly, I think you should know, I sort of knew about you before you even wrote to me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, I kind of heard about you from a friend of mine and I decided to check out your blog.”

“You used to read my blog?”

“I still do. It fucking rocks.”

“My blog?”

“Sure.”

“My blog??”

“Smivey, you really need to do something about your self esteem.”

“Maybe.”

“Isn’t it cool that I was a fan of yours before we even met?”

“Not really. Actually, it kind of freaks me out.”

“Freaks you out?”

“Yeah, I feel a little violated here.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Do I need to spell it out for you? I don’t like the idea of some woman obsessing over me. It’s like you were cyberstalking me or something.”

“Oh, suck it! I wasn’t cyberstalking you. I just read your blog occasionally to see what you were up to.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s fucked up.”

“Are you insane?”

“No, I believe you’re the one who’s insane.”

“Look, can’t we just finish our dinner and talk about this later? I don’t want to cause a scene.”

“Here’s a better idea. Why don’t you get the fuck out of here?”

“Ha. Yeah, right. Very funny.”

“You think I’m kidding? If you’re not gonna leave, I will.”

“Smivey, are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

She stares at me for a moment. “Fine!”

She throws her napkin at me, gets up, then pours what’s left of her wine onto my head. I watch her as she storms out of the room, her long, slender middle finger extended out just for me. I casually pat my face dry with Scarlett’s discarded napkin and then go back to eating my salad. That’s when it hits me: Fuck. Scarlett Johansson. I can’t believe I just got into a fight with Scarlett Johansson. The Scarlett Johansson!

But wait, here’s the strange part: The salad has honey-mustard dressing on it. I hate honey-mustard dressing. But in the dream, it tastes pretty damn good and I end up devouring it. How fucked up is that?

Normally, I hate people who make resolutions at the end of every year, but I felt I really needed to make some changes in my life. I mean, it sucks the way people have to make promises. Sure, you need to make changes in your life, but why can’t you do that any time of the year? Why not January or April or May or September? It just doesn’t make sense. It’s pretty perplexing. But, still, we do it every year, don’t we? Every time, when the end of December comes around, we’ve got a new list of things we want to change about ourselves, things we’d like to be different, things we wouldn’t mind altering. Well, this year, I have a couple of my own. Yes, two resolutions, two vows I must keep, two promises to myself, oaths, if you will. The first one is probably one of the more difficult ones. I’m listing it first because it’s most likely the hardest to make happen. I don’t know why I’m even bothering to try, because it’s unlikely I’ll succeed. But here it goes: I vow, from this day forward to stop rambling and just get to the point, so that people will understand more quickly what it is I’m trying to say. The other resolution of mine, for myself, is to stop being so redundant and not repeat myself so much. But that one’s easy. I could do it with my eyes closed.

She seemed to appear out of nowhere, a mysterious figure in the night. A moment ago, I didn’t know she existed. But now, there she was before me. I had to get her attention. My mind began to race:

Should I flash her? Might she acknowledge me then? Would she appreciate what she sees? Would she thank me forever?

Perhaps. But there was a better solution, one that would leave no doubt in her mind of what I longed for. I approached her cautiously, and once I was near, I turned towards her, took a deep breath and shouted my wants and desires:

“Turn on your headlights, you fucking idiot!”

And with that, I sped off, leaving her in the dark. But only for a moment. Within seconds, her headlamps came to life and her car horn blared. I glanced in my rearview mirror to find her waving at me. Ah, a gesture of good will. She had recognized her absent-mindedness and wanted to thank me. . . No, upon further inspection I realized the hand she was waving had only one finger extended—and it was not her thumb. Alas, my assistance was not met with the gratitude it deserved. What a bitch.

hello. notice anything different about my writing? well, you should because im not actually typing it. cheryl is. :-) who is cheryl? only the hottest girl i know. hey, what are you typing? i haven’t said anything. stop typing! let me see. i didn’t say that. delete it. im not kidding! apostrofy M. that’s not how you spell apostrofie damn it!

My apologies. I never should have let Cheryl type for me. She’s a good nurse, but that’s about all I can say for her. Fortunately, my friend Steve was kind enough to take over the keyboard. He knows how to type. And more importantly, he knows how to spell.

So why do I need anyone to help me type my latest blog entry? Well, it’s a long story. But I’ll try to condense it into easy-to-swallow paragraphs.

I guess it all started last month when I was on the toilet having a pee. As I was sitting there, reading the latest issue of Soldier of Fortune, I began to feel a familiar sensation in my legs: they were falling asleep. Why? It might’ve had something to do with sitting on the toilet for over an hour. But, no, there was something else. It was my posture. It was awful. I was all slumped over and my legs weren’t bent at a comfortable 90-degree angle. It seems, today’s toilets don’t provide the best support for people with longer legs. My solution: build a better toilet.

So how does one go about building a better toilet? I started with the basics. Obviously, it would have to have a hole in it, yet at the same time, it would also have to be able to hold water. A receptacle that holds water, but has a hole in it. How the fuck did anyone figure that out? It seemed impossible to me. And it was, to me. I decided that instead of building a better toilet, I would simply modify my existing one. But unlike most toilets that are one-size-fits-all, mine would be . . . adjustable.

That’s right. The first adjustable toilet. Why hadn’t anyone thought of this before? It was brilliant: a toilet that could be raised or lowered to accommodate the person who used it. Of course, making the toilet raise and lower was a little harder than it sounded.

The first problem was that the toilet was actually bolted to the floor. This made it very difficult to raise and lower it. My solution: Have the entire floor raise and lower with the toilet. Fortunately, somebody explained how stupid that idea was before I started to tear up the floor. Instead, I went with Plan F (plans B through E were too embarrassing to mention. In fact, after mentioning them just now, I am embarrassed.).

So what was Plan F? I’m glad that I pretended you asked. It was quite simple, really. The toilet would be built on a platform and that platform would then be raised and lowered using a pneumatic lift, similar to those used in automotive-repair shops, mainly because I bought the lift from an automotive-repair shop that was going out of business.

Although I don’t consider myself a handyman, it didn’t take long for me to figure out how to pick up the Yellow Pages and find someone to build my invention for me. In a matter of no time (Actually, it took a lot of time. That’s just a figure of speech), the project was complete and the toilet was ready to test out. Unfortunately, it was bad timing, since I had no desire to pee. One-and-a-half hours and 32-ounces later, I was ready to give it a go.

Upon sitting down, I quickly realized a flaw in my design: Since the entire platform lifted up with the toilet, the user’s legs would not extend as the lift was engaged. What a fucking waste of time. In anger, I slammed my hand across the lever that activated the lift, which somehow caused a short in the wiring. Before I could react, the toilet platform was hopping up and down like a lowrider show car, slamming me into the ceiling over and over. What’s worse, I couldn’t reach the lever to stop it. The toilet probably would have continued to abuse me, if it wasn’t for my upstairs neighbor who sensed something might be wrong after my head came crashing through the tiles of her bathroom floor.

By the time the fire department broke the door down and recovered from laughing, the damage was done. Fortunately, my spine was miraculously OK. Every other bone below my neck, however, was not so lucky. And so I sit here in a full body cast, dictating my story while I listen to the contractors working away at removing that fucking evil contraption in my bathroom. Of course, being incapacitated, I’ve had a lot of time to think, and I realized that I was going about this whole toilet thing the wrong way. Rather than lift the toilet up with a pneumatic device, there was a much simpler solution: suspension cables. Yeah, with a good pulley system and some heavy gauge cables, I can be certain my legs will never fall asleep again—after all the bones heal, I mean.

“Hello, my name is Mr. Conversation. I realize you’re just here to have a quiet cup of coffee, but I noticed you’re reading today’s paper. Did you see the story on page six about the cat that was stuck in the mailbox? Hahahahahha, boy, that’s a classic. ”

“Uh, no, I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

“Oh. You should definitely check it out. Definitely. Anyhow, I’ll let you enjoy your read.”

“Thanks.”

Less than a minute goes by.

“Excuse me. Uh, hello?”

“Yes?”

“Sorry. Me again. I was just wondering what you’re drinking there.”

“It’s . . . coffee.”

“Coffee? Ha, yeah, that’s a stupid question, isn’t it? What are you drinking? Coffee. Duh. I can be so stupid sometimes. I meant to ask if that’s the Kona blend.”

“No, it’s just the house blend.”

“Oh, you should really try the Kona blend.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Oh, sure. Sorry. I tend to ramble.”

About a minute goes by.

“Do you put cream in it?”

“Excuse me?”

“In your coffee. Do you put cream in it?”

“Not usually, no.”

“Yeah, I like it black, too. Sometimes, I might put — hey, where are you going?”

“I need to get back to work.”

“Oh, sure. I understand. I used to work, too. But now I’m retired and crave human interaction.”

“Uh huh. Have a good day.”

“Hey, thanks. You finished with this paper?”

“All yours.”

” Great. Thanks. I just want to read about that cat again. Ha! Classic.”

As many of you already know, I became independently wealthy in my early twenties when I developed a line of skin-care products for dogs called Pampered Poochâ„¢. But that’s old news. I have more interesting things to write about . . .

Hm. I know there’s something.

Give me a minute.

Maybe I should’ve thought about this before I started typing.

Oh, my friend just suggested that I tell you about my “unusual” eating habits. He must think it’s funny that I butter my bread on both sides before I ingest it. Either that or he’s talking about Mumford, the guy who chews my food for me.

Oh, don’t give me that look.

It’s not like I employ someone to masticate my meals because I’m lazy. I have a very serious stomach condition which requires every morsel of my food to be properly chewed.

Why not use a blender, you ask? You are obviously not holding a medical degree. That act of chewing does more than just make sure your food can fit down your throat. Your saliva has important enzymes in it that aid the digestion process.

No, really. Look it up. Even if I ran all my food through one of those overpriced Vita-Mix blenders, I’d still have to swish it around in my mouth for a while to break it down properly.

So, yes, I employ a full-time masticator. But it’s a win-win situation. Mumford gets to enjoy all the flavors of a gourmet meal without gaining an ounce. And me? Well, I get the nourishment my body requires, minus all that bothersome chewing.

There. Was that really so interesting? Yeah, I didn’t think so. I promise my next entry will provide a much more intriguing read. And with any luck, it will be slightly less nauseating.

I’d like to apologize to everyone for the last commercial that was posted on my blog. It’s not easy to find advertisers who want to support the kinds of things I write. Fortunately, pharmaceutical companies seem to have no problem with it. However, Zizzaxo, the makers of Podiarrest, may have taken things too far. While the blog entry seemed to be just normal ad copy, it actually contained subliminal messages that would cause readers’ feet to start itching several days after reading it. I have hired a professional to scan the copy and remove all the suggestive words. Of course, the easiest thing to do would be to remove the offending advertisement altogether. But Zizzaxo paid for a five-year run and I already cashed the check. Needless to say, Zizzaxo will no longer be allowed to advertise on this site. Again, I apologize for any discomfort you may have experienced after reading the Podiarrest advertisement. Have a good day.