Thursday, March 31, 2011

"Do Unto Others"

Welcome to the Navajo Nation! We are very happy to welcome you and your family to our tiny little slice of America.

Did you know that the Navajo Indian Reservation was established in 1868 after the Long Walk of the Navajo in 1864, which was the forced deportation and attempted ethnic cleansing of the Navajo people by Americans? That’s an interesting little tidbit. Just something to think about.

We hope you enjoy all of the unique cultural offerings the Navajo Nation has to offer. We also insist that you be aware of the sometime striking differences in American and Navajo culture, so what follows is a brief guide to proper etiquette in the Navajo Nation to ensure a safe and pleasant vacation.

• When exploring the Navajo Nation, it is standard practice to give every Navajo $5 whenever you see them. It is a great offense to not hand over cash, so always be prepared. There are several ATMs in all hotel lobbies.
• In the Navajo Nation, polite titles such as “Oh great holy one,” “Beautiful, intelligent god,” “Lord of all that is wonderful,” or a combination of the three are always used when addressing people. For example, after your hotel concierge recommends a guided tour through Antelope Canyon, your response would be, “Thank you very much, Oh great holy god, you beautiful lord who is so much better than I could ever dream of being,” and then slip a $5 bill into his or her hand.
• If your tour guide sees a coyote, it is customary for you to get on your hands and knees and let your donkey piss all over your face. If your guide laughs, that is a sign of great respect.
• When your tour guide suggests a restaurant and they serve you an item that looks like human feces in a tortilla, it is human feces in a tortilla. It is then tradition for you to eat all of it and pay double the menu price. If you are wondering why only the white people were served this dish, it is because we consider this item a special delicacy reserved for our most valued guests.
• Many words in the Navajo language sound very similar to English words, but they of course have different meanings. For example, when returning to your hotel for the evening, you may hear one employee say to another, “Look at that pasty fat family. They stink like piss and I bet they ate the shit for dinner.” The translation of these sounds is, “I love foreign travelers. Interacting with their culture is so interesting!” You should then hand the two employees $5 each, bow, say, “Thank you for this privilege, you fine spirits of a holier realm," and kiss their kneecaps.

We hope you have a great vacation and collect lots of fond memories to reflect on when you drive out of our territory, without being forced, to return to your home on the land you totally deserve to live on.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011


An Excerpt from the Diary of Mitch Magenta, the Man Who Lost His Senses of Sight, Smell, Taste, Touch, and Hearing in an Accident, Causing a Superhuman Heightening of His Sense of Entitlement

March 30, 2011
Am I responsible for doing a handstand on my motorcycle and driving it straight into a brick wall at 120mph in a failed attempt to earn a sponsorship from Amp Energy Drink? Yes. Was I imagining hot babes on my arms and an endless river of the neon green juice when my spinal cord snapped like a twig, reducing my body to a living casket for my soul? Sure. But does that mean I do not deserve the common decency of a name-brand mattress and a badass hospital gown with some flames on it? Absolutely not. I’m suffering here. A legend like me needs memory foam, a flaming wolf skull on my chest, and I obviously should get a few cases of Amp for my effort.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Schrödinger’s Wife’s Sister’s Cat

-This is ridiculous. I’m not spending money on that thing.
-Oh, come on, honey. It’s just fun. You’d like Mr. Puddins to celebrate your birthday, wouldn’t you?
-I wouldn’t care either way. Besides, it just sits on top of the fridge all day, out of sight. I’m telling you, it’s just as likely to be dead up there as it is to be alive, so it might as well be both. A half-dead cat doesn’t deserve any toys.
-At least he has the option of being alive, unlike your soul. I'll be at the fabric store preparing his vest.

Monday, March 28, 2011


Harmful if inhaled. Causes moderate eye irritation. Do not inhale dust, vapor, or spray mist. Avoid contact with eyes. Do not swallow. Also, do not wear boxer shorts covered with the phrase “Runs on Natural Gas” to bed if you have any hope of your wife removing them. Do not at any point, even in jest, refer to your semen as “the cottage cheese” if you have any hope of your wife ever interacting with it again. Do not assume your wife will consider it endearing or cute to show her your testicle poking through your zipper during the divorce proceedings. It will not win her back. Do not insert into your wife’s sister. That one applies to both you and the drain cleaner.

Friday, March 25, 2011

"This Guy Has Been Around Forever"

-Have you tried this new milk stuff?
-Yeah, it’s this creamy liquid that comes from cows. Super tasty.
-I know what milk is, champ. I drank it months ago.
-Really? I just read a review of it in Drinks Magazine.
-I read about it in Obscure Liquids Gazette, a local independent pamphlet. Milk used to be a lot better before it got all homogenized. Now everyone drinks it. It's been commercialized for the masses.
-But it tastes so good.
-I’ve moved on. I only drink goose bile. It channels the energy of liver and distills thousands of flavors of complex mucus and digestive excretions into one very singular and sublime vision.
-I remember when you were an okay guy.

Thursday, March 24, 2011


“How I Remember the Order of Operations” By Stuart Slouch

Three weeks ago I was at the Post Office shipping off a flash drive loaded up with scans of the Rainbow Six Vegas Official Strategy Guide to a sucker from eBay. By the time I got to the front of the line to suffer the salted-soup stench of the geriatric clerk, I had played fourteen games of Cat Photo Memory on my iPhone. I said to the aged clerk, “I want this Parcel Post, okay? (And please remember to ship it to the correct address this time, grandpa).” The clerk heard what I had muttered and punched me in the mouth.

The clerk, Timbo, was much stronger than his frail arms made him seem. He waved to the back and all of these other antique guys started pouring out, first two, then four, then eight, and so on, increasing exponentially until I was surrounded by thirty-nine elderly men wearing pleated slacks and expressions of utter hatred for youth. These powdery ghosts were obsolete relics of a miserable pre-digital era that their atrophied brains had the pleasure of forgetting. They had the translucent skin of shrimp and I could see their liver and onion lunches passing through their intestines.

Each of the thirty-nine elderly men whistled in unison and thirty-nine mighty elephants, looking like they'd been out of commission since India was the Crown Jewel, galloped through the Post Office’s front windows, multiplying by two the number of creatures who were displeased with me. There were now seventy-eight seniors wanting to teach me a lesson about mocking the old geezers.

The frail army divided into six units of thirteen and each formed a human-pachyderm pyramid. Timbo stood atop his and shouted, “What dare you think about your youth? Be you superior? Be you superior because your mind has a better capacity to store useless knowledge? Be you superior because your mind can hold all of the passwords to your accounts on Japanese pornography websites? Recall, child, that my frail mind still holds within it the memories of storming the beach at Normandy and then bedding a higher quantity of women than the attendance of the Seneca Falls Convention.”

I added, “That’s such a dated reference only someone with a dusty dick like yourself would understand. Get with it, grandpa. Buy a PSP; get on Skype. Back up your rusted bones to an external hard drive before they collapse under the weight of your dead dreams.”

Timbo and his elderly army descended upon me, beating me with penny loafers and newsboy caps. From the commotion arose a cloud of chalky old-man dust that smelled like an embalmed corpse. The elephants slapped my cheeks with their leathery trunks and my body bruised with each whap of a shoe or cane or flat-rate Priority Mail envelope. I shouted, “At least I can see, you blind old creeps!” Just then, one of them put his fingers into my eye sockets and subtracted two eyeballs from my face.

Now every time I smell a movie theater at 11am on a Tuesday or listen to someone play Rainbow Six Vegas, I remember the order of operations and wonder if those senile brawlers have kicked the bucket yet. Thanks to my 16GB iPhone I will always remember the order of operations. The memory is stored right next to my knowledge of the box office grosses of the Spider-Man trilogy.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

"In Media Res"

-Then you install the beams and interior joists, then attach the trim and decking and you’ll officially have built yourself a deck.
-Why the hell don’t you ever start at the beginning? These instructions are useless.
-Perhaps. But someone must continue the legacy of Homer.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

"Time to Die"

Reggie Mushroom was vomiting into some dirt when he decided it was the perfect time to die. He had just been beaned in the chest with a ninety two mile-an-hour fastball thrown by Ralph Wolfstain, the most disgusting pitcher in the Majors. Wolfstain had a face someone could only love ironically, with spiky teeth jutting out in every direction and the sort of fat grey cheeks that look like they belong in a deli freezer. Wolfstain loved beaning new players almost as much as he loved snorting cocaine, putting on a canine costume, and participating as a sled dog in the Iditarod.

Reggie was the hotshot new shortstop for the New York Mets. The buzz around him had been loud ever since his college days, when he always covered himself in honey. This was his first game in the Bigs. He was doing well; a single, a triple, and now an easy stroll to first base on account of the hit by pitch. An easy stroll except for the blood he coughed all over his chin. Reggie figured his career batting average was 1.000 so if he were to die tomorrow, he would go down as the greatest hitter of all time. He also had other reasons why now was the time. He had purchased the last bucket on his list needed to complete his collection, and he had finally gotten closure with his father. Also, his wife caught him fucking the cotton candy girl on top of the visitors’ dugout.

Reggie decided to end his life peacefully by swimming to the ocean floor and waiting until his oxygen tank wheezed empty, a flawless plan he read about on a Geocities webpage. Reggie bought scuba equipment from a morbidly obese man named Flip-Flop Gomez, who had himself acquired the gear by devouring a banana-flavored diver named Chip Simian.

Reggie sped into the Atlantic in his amphibious German Schwimmwagen, which he had won in a game of regular roulette with a bunch of Russians who had later shot themselves in the face. He parked it about a mile out from the shore and flipped over the edge. He swam deeper and deeper, past sunken boots and abandoned Outback Steakhouses, until he reached the sea floor. He sat and stared, waiting for the gentle grasp of death to lead him to the other side. He imagined his face, cast in bronze, hanging in the Hall of Fame.

Something tapped Reggie on the back. He turned around and staring at him, with its spiky teeth practically touching the fogged lenses of Reggie’s mask, was a six foot long brutally fat Angler Fish, its jaw open wide. It was a mirror image of Ralph Wolfstain, except Reggie figured the Angler Fish probably had sex with human women more often. Reggie flinched into action and poked the beast’s eyes out in a show of amazing muscle memory. Reggie had dealt with an Angler Fish before. When he was thirteen one had rang his doorbell in search of late payments for magazine subscriptions.

Reggie was horrified. His heart pounded against his ribs as if Neal Peart himself were inside Reggie’s heart (which was impossible, because Neal Peart was at the time inside Reggie’s shoe). Suddenly everything became clear. A thought flashed across Reggie’s mind: If I die now, I’ll never eat any more Newman’s Own cereal. I’ll never get revenge on Ralph Wolfstain. I won’t see my daughter graduate. I’ll never try the other varieties of Honey Bunches of Oats.

Reggie sprang off the ocean floor towards the light. He saw that he had ten minutes of oxygen left. He would make it. He would survive. He would get his revenge on Wolfstain by disguising himself as a rock of crack cocaine, selling himself to Wolfstain, being snorted into Wolfstain’s nose, and springing back to full-size inside Wolfstain’s body, which he would wear as a costume. He would then control Wolfstain’s body to apply to be a contestant on Who Wants to Be A Millionaire, win the preliminary rounds, making it to the televised competition, and then answer the first question incorrectly, causing Wolfstain endless embarrassment. It was a flawless plan.

Reggie kicked his muscled thighs harder than he had since he last played soccer, when he was forced in the penalty box to stomp grapes to make wine. He began feeling light-headed. “I’m exerting all of my energy,” he thought. “Gonna get a little tired. But being alive never felt so good.” He was pumping his arms and kicking his legs so hard that he forgot to breathe. He could only focus on getting to the sweet surface.

Reggie’s head burst into the air and he opened his mouth. “I ascended a thousand feet in two minutes,” he thought. “That’s got to be a world record. I’m the best!” He pumped his fist in self-congratulation and felt an incredible pain. His veins were inflated with nitrogen bubbles and his arms were swelling like water balloons ready to burst. He felt an immense pressure in his chest, as if Freddy Mercury were inside, studying for his MCAT. Just as Reggie remembered something Flip-Flop had said about the seriousness of equalizing lung pressure while ascending to the surface, his chest began expanding, inflating like Flip-Flop’s waistline after Fat Tuesday, which was every Tuesday for Flip-Flop. Reggie’s lungs swelled and blood poured out of his face. Reggie thought, “Could this pain be in my heart? Am I aching on the inside for acceptance? For love?” One thousand microscopic air sacs burst inside his right lung. “Nope,” he thought, “this pain is in my exploding lungs.” His ribs popped one at a time, each resonating a tone higher than the previous, like Mickey Mouse ascending a staircase. Reggie’s wetsuit stretched and split open and as his brain oozed out of his nostrils, he mumbled, “I don’t want to—“ but was cut off when his lungs exploded, sending meaty flaps of Reggie Mushroom soaring into the sky and splashing into the calm Atlantic Ocean.

Six miles away, Napoleon Snorkle, the Mets’ second baseman heard a loud pop and echo. “What was that?” he said.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Elizabeth Mushroom. “Let’s have some more sex on Reggie’s bed.”

Monday, March 21, 2011

"Directions Are Relative"

“It was great to see everyone. Could someone tell me how to get back to the highway from here?”

After you leave my neighborhood, you take a left at the Stein Mart where my friend Gloria passed away, then after about five miles take a right at the Belk’s where my friend Theresa passed away, and then another right at the shopping center we don’t like to talk about anymore with the Picadilly Cafeteria where my friend Craig had his heart attack. That’ll get you to the highway where my friend Rose fell asleep behind the wheel.

No problem, sweetheart. Just make a left at Briarson’s Antiques, where they’ve got the big fat kangaroos, then make a right at Plaster Palace, where they’ve got some Eastern Grey kangaroos you can paint yourself, then make another right at the shopping center with the Hallmark with the overpriced figurines that don’t even feature accurate snouts, which is just another reason to not go to that shopping center after the disgusting tragedy Dennis caused.

One sec, let me just swallow this gristle. Okay, what you do is you take a left at the KFC/Taco Bell combo, pick up some popcorn chicken, then right after you finish eating those you’ll take a right at the Denny’s where you should sit at the last booth down because the waitress there, Patricia, will let you choose a syrup tub as your beverage, then after that you take another right at the shopping center with the Picadilly Cafeteria, you know, the shopping center where the incident happened, where you should pick up a couple Blackened Porks with Fettuccini Alfredo to go because you’ll be on the highway for about fifteen minutes so you’ll need a snack.

Hell yeah, just take a left at the Blockbuster where me and Cindy Kirkpatrick filmed our sex tape in the Gamecube aisle, then make a right at the Kohl’s that has the ATM I chained to my truck that ripped off my bumper, then another right at that shopping center with the Picadilly Cafeteria where I slaughtered all those kangaroos to have my Kangaroo-B-Q, which would have been pimp if the news vans hadn't shown up.

Sunday, March 20, 2011


Mrs. Johnston was out that day, sick with a parasite. We didn’t wonder where she went. We were just glad to have a day off from drinking spoiled milk, which is what she made us do during Social Studies.

Mr. Ferrell came in her place. He looked very odd for a substitute teacher, which is to say he didn’t have a gun in his mouth. Mr. Ferrell was pleasant and we soon found out why.

“Guys,” he said, standing in front of, no, defying Mrs. Johnston’s desk. “Today we are mixing things up a bit. Today we are having a movie day.” We all looked at each other, mouths open. “I brought a selection from my personal collection.” He slowly pulled a DVD case from his leather jacket. “It is Monsters, Inc.”

The class erupted in celebration. Desks were thrown, trumpets blared, and Pete Hemsworth blew chunks all over the window, he was so excited.

The next day Mr. Ferrell was the substitute for Mrs. Bostick and when the muffled explosion of joy hit our ears just as we began sipping our yellow milk, we all knew what was happening across the hall.

After school that day I saw Mr. Ferrell getting into his 1992 Ford Taurus. “Where are you headed?” I said.

“I’m out of here,” he said. “I have spread the joy of movie day to the students of Creek View Elementary School and now other people need me.”

“Can’t you stay? Just one more movie day? We need you.”

“I can’t, kid. Everyone needs a movie day. Without me this world would collapse.” He flicked a cigarette into the dead grass. “People get so tightly wound from doing the same work every day that their scrotums swell with tension and burst like grapefruits in a vice. I was put on this earth to prevent that.”

I looked at his grizzled beard and the worn DVD case in his hand. I knew then that the world was bigger than me.

His Taurus coughed to a start and he was off, veering left down the street on two flat tires.

“Where are you going?” I shouted.

There was no response.

Twelve years later a newspaper headline gave me the answer.

“Hero Brings Peace to Mid-East with Monsters, Inc. Viewing”


-You ever consider that maybe if this thing ran on gasoline we’d be able to donate a whole lot more of this blood?
-Gasoline? The emissions are terrible for the environment.

Friday, March 18, 2011

Thursday, March 17, 2011

"Family Computer"

DOUBLECLICK ADVERTISING SERVER ONE: You see this order? We need three banner ads for IP
DOUBLECLICK ADVERTISING SERVER TWO: Yeah, it’s showing Female 45-60, suburbs outside Atlanta. I’m thinking we do one for Foundry Park Spa and two for Talbot’s.
ONE: Look closer. The profile also shows a strong interest in video games and extreme sports. I say we do two for Talbot’s and one for the new Shaun White Skateboarding game.
TWO: Huh. Check this out. This user spends almost equal time shopping at upscale women’s clothing websites and looking at lesbian pornography. I can’t imagine what sort of bizarre person this is.
ONE: So let’s do one for Talbot’s, one for Shaun White, and one for
TWO: Hang on. This last part shows considerable interest in golf and retirement planning.
ONE: Well…Huh. A non-traditional user, with interests spanning across several demographic and psychographic categories. It’s almost as if the user has…
TWO: Dissociative Identity Disorder! That’s it! Three ads for Saddle Brook Psychotherapy Associates.
ONE: We nailed it. A real hole-in-one.

Saturday, March 12, 2011


Dear Dad,

Writing Camp is going great! Thanks so much for letting me come here. It’s the best summer my young eyes have seen! I have written several stories and have been reading some really interesting literature. I have become fond of the memoir genre and I dream of one day publishing a funny and heartbreaking memoir about my childhood. For this, I request your support. In order for my memoir to rank with those of Augusten Burroughs or Mackenzie Phillips, my life needs to be out of the ordinary and I am asking for a little cooperation. For example, when I return home, instead of asking me how much fun I had, maybe you could make me defecate into a Ziploc bag and store it in a cardboard box in the basement. Just something a little zany. Would you be willing to quit your sales job so we could move out of the suburbs to live as nomads, traveling from city to city selling artisanal pottery and scarves? Any little thing would help. I am thinking in the memoir you will be a bohemian figure who has given up his steady but heartless corporate job to pursue his passion as a performance artist. Like for Christmas this year, instead of getting an Xbox 360, maybe you could give me a bunch of dead kittens as a metaphor for the end of my childhood or something. It’s really up to you here; as long as you do something disturbing involving dead animals it will be a good story for the book. Whatever you're comfortable with. Maybe you could convert to Slavic Paganism and spend all of our savings on icons of the Sun god Dazhbog. Would you be willing to move to Pakistan so I could be oppressed at school? Maybe you and mom could start fighting. You guys always watch movies and make dinner together but my memoir outline is pretty reliant on you two throwing pans at each other after she catches you making out with Mr. Barnett. By the way, would you mind making out with Mr. Barnett?

I have already started doing my part for this project by eating my own hair. It tastes really bad, but it will make for an interesting quirk. I have also trained myself to be afraid of the color red and as soon as my package of roses and Sea-Bond is delivered I will be in the initial phase of an affair with Mrs. Garvey across the street.

Just to update you, in considering plans for after high school, I am keeping in mind the memoir. I have applied to work as a donkey castrator on a small ranch in Palenque, Mexico, and also at the Royal National College for the Blind. If admitted, I will gorge my eyes out.


Thursday, March 10, 2011

"The New Paradigm"

DON: I have called you three in because you are my top employees and I have some big things in store for Golden Ice Creams.
PETER: That is an honor, sir.
SUSAN: Very exciting. Will we be opening a new store?
DON: Better. Gang, I recently read a magazine article that has me very excited for the future of our little ice cream shop. Two words, guys: new media.
ALEX: Oh yes! Digital is in! We must go digital. Great idea, sir.
PETER: Excellent! The future of ice cream is digital.
DON: This article told me everything we need to do. We will expand our services by creating an app for smartphones as well as a slick new website, a Twitter feed, an RSS feed from our blog, a YouTube channel, and a Facebook page.
PETER: Great thinking, Don. It's what the people want.
ALEX: I'm envisioning a viral marketing campaign. A series of videos featuring a man slaughtering a turkey in the woods.
SUSAN: But we sell ice cream.
DON: And with these new platforms, who knows what we can do? It's all about expanding our brand, and in one word our brand is "delicious."
PETER: We can put up some delicious statuses.
ALEX: How about a podcast? Maybe a two hour delicious daily podcast?
SUSAN: I just don’t see how those things are relevant. What did the article have to do with local ice cream shops?
DON: I assure you, Susan, it was a very juicy article.
PETER: Extremely juicy.
ALEX: A real cantaloupe of an article.
DON: Here’s our new business model: In fiscal year 2011, I will redistribute funds so 50% goes to ice cream and the other 50% goes to social media. That should be stable enough to last us to the next year, when we will shift to a 100% social media focus.
ALEX: Brilliant. I wish I could download you as an app, sir.
PETER: That funding could hire a Flickr consultant to manage an hourly photostream featuring children playing with rabbits.
ALEX: Photos of rabbits are huge with females 11-14. Big demo.
SUSAN: But we sell ice cream. Why don’t we invest in new flavors or opening new stores? Who needs all those news feeds about ice cream? What will we even put on them?
PETER: Susan, if we don’t grab the slippery eel that is social media now, in two years we won’t be able to sell any ice cream because Ben and Jerry’s will have all the Facebook fans.
SUSAN: But our new business model says that in two years we won’t make any ice cream.
DON: Exactly! We will be entirely social media based. Thank about it: Would you rather have a tiny cup of lame ice cream or a high-definition, interactive, Web 2.0 ice cream app?
ALEX: My mouth is watering thinking about the app, sir.
SUSAN: What will be the first story we post? “Hey everyone, we still sell ice cream”? This is the dumbest plan I’ve ever heard.
PETER: Maybe we could do a little news bullet about a new job opening because Susan got fired?
DON: Hey, now…Susan has a valid opinion, even if she is living in the eighteenth century.
SUSAN: Fine. I quit. I’ll work for Henderson’s Ice Cream.
ALEX: Selling analog ice cream to analog customers? Good luck with that, Susan B. Anthony.

"It Has to Happen Sometime"

-Hey Dad, it’s Matt.
-Hey! Great to hear from you. How are you doing? How’s school?
-Everything’s good. Grades are fine, classes are still fun.
-Sounds great. You’ve always made me proud, from making the little league all-star team right up to today.
-Thanks, Dad. That means a lot. I’ve got a quick question about an internship application.
-You’re already applying for an internship? For the summer? That’s planning ahead. Always thinking quickly, just like me. You remember what I always said about planning ahead?
-Definitely. I just sent in my resume yesterday and I’m wondering when you think I should give them a follow-up call. I was thinking Thursday.
-Thursday is good. I mean, they might get in contact with you before, with…Uh…Hang on a minute...Uh...
-Dad? You still there?
-What? Yeah, wow. Shit. Um, resumes? You should just give them a call on Thursday, I guess. Maybe. It’s all a crapshoot.
-You don’t think Thursday is too soon?
-I have no idea.
-But just a second ago you said that Thursday sounded good.
-I really don’t know. Let me tell you something: Remember that little league team I coached? When I had the hat and the uniform and acted all in charge? I had no clue what I was doing. I just made you guys run around the field ten times every practice because I liked watching that fat kid Ron run.
-Did something happen to you just now?
-What? Nothing happened. I’m just sitting here on the couch looking for something hot on TV.
-Dad, I think I know what’s going on.
-Rob told me this was going to happen. It just became clear that in addition to being my dad, you are also a regular guy.
-Huh. I guess so. Want to hang out sometime? You should come on one of my business trips. We can stay up late watching HBO.

"Don't Stress"


Winner gets $100,000
Losers executed

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

"Mutually Beneficial"

Fisconn Consultants
(Board Meeting Minutes: March 9, 1978)
(1:00pm, Los Angeles Office)

Board Members:
Present: Howard Feldman, CEO; Mitch Stalling; Ellen Goldberg; Doug Lipwitz

- Meeting called to order at 1:00 p.m. by Chair, Howard Feldman
- (Last month's) meeting minutes were amended and approved

- Chief Executive's Report Provided by Howard Feldman:
- Outlined new project: Skeeter Woodman, a director at SpreadEm Films, has requested consulting on his company’s time management. He says that it is taking far too long to film a man and woman switching off performing oral sex on each other. He is looking for a time-saving solution. Feldman mentioned that performing well on this project will not only help SpreadEm make more films, but will also help Fisconn land more contracts in the adult film industry.

- Proposal provided by Mitch Stalling:
- Stalling pitched a potential solution that would involve placing steam-operated motors on each performer’s tongue that would increase the lick rate sixteen-fold.

- Proposal provided by Ellen Goldberg:
- Goldberg suggested that the steam motors may cause tongue burns and suggested a system of ropes and pulleys, by which a performer’s tongue could be manually flicked up and down by a crew member as if it were a marionette puppet.

-Proposal provided by Doug Lipwitz:
-Lipwitz pointed out that many performers may object to having a crewman operate his or her tongue because it would harm the integrity of their performance and may reduce having sex on film from the level of art to some sort of craft. Lipwitz told a personal story that never should have been made public involving himself walking out of the shower and tripping, tumbling forward onto the bed on top of his nude wife. They found themselves pleasuring each other simultaneously by assuming alternate orientations. While he faced north, his wife, Janeane, faced south, and they at once gave and received below-average pleasure to each other. His wife left unsatisfied as always. He suggested this method will lead to time savings of 50%. He drew several diagrams and equations to explain his unique idea and proposed it be named "The Lipwitz Lick" and flicked his eyebrows and licked his lips when he said it.

- Assessment of the Meeting:
-Feldman and the rest of the board overwhelmingly supported the idea, although they considered the proposed name disturbing.
-Feldman proposed they all order a pizza from John's to celebrate.
-Goldberg looked up John's phone number and wrote it down: 069-069-6969.
-Lipwitz pointed out that the numbers looked like they were in the Lipwitz Lick position.
-Stalling proposed they call the position the "69."
-Feldman called a vote on the name, which passed 3-1.
-Lipwitz stormed out.

- Meeting adjourned at 2:21 p.m.
- Minutes submitted by Secretary, Janeane Lipwitz.

"Morty Faughn Gets His Ass Kicked"

I think all my veins have burst. I am sitting on a tiny Oriental bed in a tiny Oriental room. This bed is creaking like it's going to bust. It wasn't built to hold an American. My skin is bruised dark purple and I look like I fell in some India ink. The footprint of a strong Asian man stings red on my belly. These two tiny women with miniature feet brought in some rice for me to eat and I had to eat it on the floor. At first I was all, Come on, now. But it was actually kind of nice and now I get why my dog Lucifer seems to enjoy it so much. The walls in this room are made of paper. I'm scared to fart because this room will probably collapse.

Two days ago I woke up early to grade tests from my Macroeconomics class. I walked outside around seven to get the paper when this neon-green Honda with all these fins and add-ons and neon lights pulls up. Out pop these two samurai-looking characters with spiky hair and big swords and robes and wooden flip-flops and everything. I say, “Howdy, fellas,” and the next thing I know they throw a robe over my head, tie my hands with a rope or maybe it was one of those finger-traps, toss me in the trunk of their ride, and we start drifting to Tokyo.

I wake up in what I ascertain to be some region of Siam, based on a postcard I saw as a boy of Siam. There are green hills and sheep everywhere, and everyone seems to want to kick my ass.

Next thing I know, I’m wearing this black thong diaper, standing in the middle of a concrete ring near some rice paddies. About five hundred ninjas are standing around the circle and then this Bruce Lee-type character pops out of nowhere. I think he jumped off the roof, which was about five hundred feet off the ground. This is a big change because my plan for that day had been to watch the Rockford Files but it looked more likely that I was about to be beaten by this martial arts guy. He looks invincible and does all these warm-up moves that show off his toned sweaty muscles and then one of the ninjas holds up a big bamboo tree, like an entire big bamboo thing, and he smacks it with his head.

All of a sudden I’m getting hit in the face over and over again. My glasses disappear and I feel my thong diaper ride straight up my crack like it’s got an express ticket to my esophagus. All I see are hazy black blobs of ninjas and this Bruce Lee guy starts kicking me in the belly and I feel yesterday’s roast beef sandwiches smack each other like gunpowder balls. My ding dong is flopping around in the thong like a weasel in a wind tunnel and I try to land a punch but my fist hits his and all of the bones in mine explode on impact. By this point I was hurting pretty bad. One of the ninjas was keeping score and I’m not positive about the scoring system, but I was pretty sure I was losing. I realized that this was some sort of martial arts tournament. A wealthy-looking Asian businessman was watching me get my ass kicked from a real tall chair. Bruce Lee kicks me in the throat over and over and I make this sound like, “Guh” and I thought it was kind of funny but the other guy I guess didn’t because he just kicked me some more until blood came out of my face. I think I passed out then.

I have to fight someone else tomorrow, so I guess I’ll do some pushups tonight so I'll be good and ripped for Jackie Chan or whoever I meet in the concrete ring. I keep trying to figure out why they took me here. My top suspicion is that they meant to take Hairo Wantanabe, my next-door neighbor who is an expert martial artist and has kicked my ass many times for indiscretions regarding leaf disposal. But perhaps they took me because I just look like I could whoop a guy’s ass. I just have that look.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011


"Mission Accomplished"

-Mr. Dickens, I take it your sabbatical to the country was well? We are eager to publish the remaining adventures of Edwin Drood. Mr. Dickens? Are you okay?


-Mr. Dickens? Where are the new chapters?

-There are no more chapters. On my trip I met with a soothsayer who informed me of my fate. In the year 2005, Jenna Long, a fourteen year-old American student, will announce to her English teacher that I am a fraud. She will say that the symbolism in Great Expectations is unintentional, that I was merely writing because I am drunk and need money, and that teachers only assign my novel as part of a grander scheme of torturing young people.

-But sir, those are the ramblings of a child.

-A child who knows the truth. She will expose me. I must not continue. I must not anger Jenna Long.

Monday, March 7, 2011


MARTIN: Now this over here is actually the oldest part of the mine. Tunnel One. If you can believe it, it’s older than me! This tunnel was carved out in 1849 and is actually still used today as a transport tunnel for the ore. It is so old that it is the only tunnel in the mine without an emergency ladder, but don’t worry. There hasn’t been a dangerous incident here in over ninety years.
DEREK: Incredible.
MARTIN: Let’s go over here and I’ll tell you about--
ALISHA: Did anyone feel that? I just felt the ground shake.
HUGH: Yeah, I felt it. Is it an earthquake? It’s getting stronger.
MARTIN: Hang tight, everyone. Find a wall and brace yourself. This should be over in a few seconds. Just a minor shake; happens all the time.
VOICE ON PA: Attention! Attention! Exit the mine immediately! Exit the mine immediately! We are experiencing a tunnel collapse! Exit via the emergency ladders!
ALISHA: There’s no ladder in here! We’re going to die!
MARTIN: Stay calm, everyone. We can find an exit through Tunnel Six. Just stay calm, follow me, and we’ll be fine.
VOICE ON PA: Attention! Tunnel six has collapsed! Tunnel six has collapsed!
HUGH: We’re going to die in here. My life ends on a mine tour.
DEREK: Wait! Everyone stop freaking out. We must adapt to our surroundings and formulate a plan to get out of here. What’s vital is our ability to improvise during a crisis.
ALISH: He’s right.
MARTIN: What do you propose?
VOICE ON PA: Attention! Tunnel One will collapse in two minutes! Evacuate Tunnel One!
DEREK: We need to improvise. Quick, everybody get in a circle. Now look at me. Look at my hands, people. Look at my hands! I have here a ball of incredible energy. If I pass the energy to you, you must talk like a crazy robot and do a little robot dance. Then pass the energy on to someone else. Got it, people? This is an emergency! Go!
ALISHA: Beep! Boop! Beep!
MARTIN: One one one zero zero one! Destroy humans!
HUGH: This doesn’t make sense.
DEREK: You didn’t talk like a robot, man! You lose this game. Your punishment is you have to step into the circle and act like you’re a supermodel on a runway.
HUGH: What? No. We have to get out of this mine.
VOICE ON PA: One minute! Tunnel One will collapse in one minute!
DEREK: Listen! This is a crisis! We have to improvise! Walk like a model, for christ’s sake! Work it!
MARTIN: Come on, man, just do it!
HUGH: Who made him leader?
MARTIN: He had the energy ball.
DEREK: Quit screwing around; this is a crisis. There's barely enough time for you to perform a monologue. Someone shout out a profession! For god’s sake, we’re running out of time, people!
ALISHA: Plumber!
DEREK: Go! You’re a plumber! Do a monologue! Now!
HUGH: Fine. But everyone remember that this guy is responsible for all of us dying. Hey everyone, look at me, I’m a plumber. Just fixing some pipes over here, showing my butt crack and wasting our time as we die in this mine. Just pulling levers—
(He pulls a lever and a ladder descends from the ceiling)
MARTIN: The fabled hidden ladder...I never would have thought of that lever...
DEREK: Everybody up the ladder! Go! Go! Go! Great work, man. We should be scene partners sometime. You've got the goods.
HUGH: I don’t know what to think.

Sunday, March 6, 2011


QUESTION: Will taking Susan Sanders out for a fancy dinner cause her to finally have sex with me?

HYPOTHESIS: I predict that a pair of steaks and some crème brulee from Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse will be the classy catalyst I need for Susan to finally do it with me.

BACKGROUND INFORMATION: Donald Mills took Madison Crenshaw to Ruth’s Chris before homecoming and they boned in his car right afterward, so according to him this plan is “a sure thing.”

CONTROL GROUP: At no point during my and Susan’s previous twenty-eight dates have we gotten it on, and during those dates we also did not dine in nice restaurants.


(1) Chevrolet Malibu

(1) Polo shirt

(1) Fried calamari appetizer

(2) 16 oz. Cowboy Ribeyes (medium for the lady, medium rare for the gentleman)

(2) Sides of mashed potatoes

(2) Glasses of water

(1) Diet Pepsi for the lady

(1) Crème Brulee with

(2) Spoons

(1) Durex Pleasure Curve Condom


  1. Drive to Susan’s house and perspire while talking to her dad about football game I didn’t watch.
  2. Open car door for Susan, drive carefully to ensure not destroying penis before the big show.
  3. Point out my name on the reservations list to hostess, take table by window.
  4. Enjoy tasty fried calamari appetizer.
  5. Enjoy juicy Cowboy Ribeyes and buttery mashed potatoes.
  6. Spoon-feed Susan the crème brulee.
  7. Pay the big tab with summer job money.
  8. Drive to empty elementary school parking lot.
  9. Bang.

OBSERVATIONS: Susan’s beef consumption is inversely proportional to her libido. Susan does not want to screw when she is stuffed with meats and feels “greasy.” Susan does not get in the mood for love after smelling my “briny” “meat-breath.” She was apprehensive to me lifting up her shirt because she said she felt “bloated and ready to vom.” She said that kissing me after the meal was like “making out with a box of fish sticks” and that “our mouths are so buttery we’d just slip off each other.” Susan said she needed a shower to erase the oily feeling that coated her body. When I pulled out the Durex condom, she looked disturbed and said, “I can’t. I just can’t. It’s not that I’m against it; I actually want to. It’s just that right now I feel like a greased whale.” She spent the evening watching A Walk to Remember while I spent the evening sitting next to her, lamenting the loss of $64.

CONCLUSION: My hypothesis was not proven correct. Donald Mills doesn’t know what he’s talking about and I think he lied about everything. I’m pretty sure he just masturbated in the car.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

"Scenarios That Would Justify My Keeping Contacts I Haven’t Seen Since Middle School in My Phone"

-Hey, Kyle, it’s Matt Burns.
-From middle school. I think we were in a group for a project once.
-Oh, right. How’s it going?
-Listen, I’m on this game show and the million dollar question is, are you ready? We’ve got thirty seconds. What is the nickname for the Boeing B-52 Stratofortress? Is it SLUFF, BUFF, Hoover, or Guppy?
-I thought you were into military aircrafts.
-I was when I was thirteen.

-Hi, you’ve reached Kelsey. Please leave a message and I’ll call you back.
-Hey, Kelsey, this is Matt Burns from middle school. I don’t know if you remember me, but listen, I’m in a tight situation. I’m pretty sure I remembered you saying your family was moving to Albuquerque after eighth grade and I’m here now and I ran in with the wrong crowd. Anyway, I need ten thousand dollars or else these big guys will cut off my fingers and –
-Who is this?
-Oh thank god. This is Matt Burns.
-From middle school?
-Yeah. Listen, I’m in a bind. I need ten thousand dollars.
-You’ll lend it to me?
-Wow. This is amazing.
-As soon as you give me back the pencil you borrowed.
-That was years ago.
-I know. Now you owe me two pencils.

-Hey, Matt? This is Anthony.
-Anthony! I saw you on the caller ID and I couldn’t believe it. It’s been years!
-I know.
-I’m so glad you called. I really want to apologize for how I treated you in middle school. I’m sorry for saying you looked like a retarded fish and for calling you a turdburglar.
-Listen, I’m going to be in your area soon.
-Great! Let’s catch up.
-Well, let me be blunt. I don’t mean to burden you but I recently won an electric guitar solo contest and now I’m sponsored by Panama Jack Suntan Oil and I’m touring the country in a bus full of bikini models and millions of dollars in cash. If we ditch some of the excess cash we can fit another model on here, so I was wondering if I could drop off a few boxes of cash at your place. Sorry about sticking you with this chore; if you don’t –
-I’ll take it! Sure, no problem! It’s always great to help an old friend. I’m so glad we can get over the mean things I did.
-Thanks, man. Your house is on Hull Street, right?
-No, it’s on Milledge.
-Wait, is this Matt Burns?
-Oh shit, I meant to call Matt Kohrs! My bad, man. Burns, right, the asshole. You still wearing those husky jeans?
-Hey! That’s not exactly fair.
-I got to go, dingbat. These ladies need an oiling.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011


-So we’re supposed to run out there? Right into the bullets?
-Yeah, Sarge ordered a direct attack. He said to really raise hell.
-But all of our comrades are getting mowed down out there. No one stands a chance.
-Sarge said to charge head-on.
-But we will surely be killed. The enemy is a genetically engineered human supersoldier, three times our size, who can jump fifteen feet in the air and seems practically invulnerable to our weaponry. He appears to become stronger just from momentarily standing behind a wall. He has the powers of a god.
-We cannot defy Sarge’s orders! Do not discredit his motivational speech.
-All he said was, “Get in there and die, boys.”
-But we must fight for our race! For our world! It is up to us!
-That superhuman just killed six of our best soldiers in half a second! Are we really expected to put up a fight? He’s a grizzly, psychologically unstable human with titanium body armor that far surpasses our exoskeletons, with the devil-may-care attitude of a twelve year-old.
-I suppose my armor is sort of…squishy.
-Our crude, photosynthesis-based weapons are spitballs compared to his grenade-launching chain gun, which seems to have unlimited ammunition. He carries fourteen guns! Plus grenades and knives! We don’t stand a chance. Why does Sarge have the final say in this matter?
-I suppose some of Sarge’s past orders have been a bit misguided. He did once order three squadrons of our finest warriors to fly directly into the sun.
-Two months ago he made six officers battle a mile-deep canyon by charging headstrong into it.
-And he does have a history of commanding soldiers to eradicate poisonous spores by consuming them.
-I feel like maybe Sarge was promoted only due to his relation to the Emperor. Perhaps the royal inbreeding affected his decision making abilities.
-You’re absolutely right! Sarge has no authority to lead. We’d have better luck fighting an atomic bomb. When I signed up for this they made it seem like we’d really play a major role in our race’s salvation.
-Seems to me like we’re just pawns in a big game that Sarge has been trying to throw for years. I think we should flee and rally the others to do the same.
-We can start a new faction to rise up against unjust and unqualified leadership.
-We will rule this world fairly and sensibly. As soon as the superhuman god-warrior pauses to reload, we must retreat to that outcropping.
-Wait, is that a bird headed for us?
-That looks more like a grenade.

"I'm Telling You the Truth, I'm a Regular Cool Teenager"

“The biggest reason teens lie is that they don't want to disappoint their parents. They really care what you think.” – Jennifer Powell-Lunder, author of Teenage as a Second Language.

My parents’ bedroom.

-Hey, Matt. Did you have fun tonight?
-Yeah, it was fun.
-Who was there?
-Just me, Daniel, Chris, Paul, and, um…a few girls. Yeah, there were definitely a few attractive girls there.
-That’s a nice change of pace. Any girls I would know?
-No, none of these girls were any you would know. They go to a different school. We all, uh, danced and played spin-the-bottle. You know, the usual.
-Oh, that sounds like fun. Did you play that Rock Band video game you guys like?
-Definitely not. We’re not into that anymore. We just talked about football. You know, with the girls.
-I didn't know you guys liked sports. Are the girls football fans?
-They love football almost as much as they love making out with us. They love watching us play football, which is what we did earlier today. Actually we and the girls started planning a weekend trip to a cabin that, um, Jennifer’s parents have. We’re going for the Super Bowl and we’re going to have a big party and drink lots of beers. You know, like teenagers do.
-But I just spoke with Paul’s mom and she said that you boys were planning to have a sleepover at their house to watch all the Lord of the Rings movies that weekend. Will you have to cancel?
-Oh. I guess I’ll have to check with, uh, Jennifer. Maybe I can squeeze it in around all the, uh, sex we’re going to have, you know.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011


BRYAN: Okay, team. The city is facing its biggest revenue decline in fifteen years. Home sales are in the toilet and nobody pays their taxes. The mayor says we need something big and we need something now.
AMY: Perhaps we could open a pool and charge membership fees. It gets extremely hot during summer.
CRAIG: Or how about we increase the cost of downtown parking? The current rate isn’t even half the rate over in Ellijay.
BRYAN: Your ideas are good, but they’re shortsighted. We need a fresh, creative activity that can provide a consistent, year-round revenue stream for years to come. Maybe something like dolphin tours in Savannah.
AMY: But there are no dolphins here, sir. We have no coast.
CRAIG: How about ghost tours like they have in Charleston? Where they show you haunted buildings and graveyards.
BRYAN: That’s it! It’s brilliant. A fun, family-friendly attraction that will drive up tourism and isn’t bound by season, and it will require a very small staff. We can start the tours by the end of the month. You’re brilliant, Craig. Truly at the top of your class.
AMY: Sir, which ghost stories should we emphasize?
BRYAN: Well what ghosts are around here?
AMY: I…I don’t know of any, sir.
BRYAN: Craig, what ghosts do we have? Which buildings are haunted?
CRAIG: I actually don’t know, sir. I’ve never heard a ghost story about Alpharetta.
BRYAN: I also can’t recall any.
CRAIG: I suppose we’ll have to think of something else.
BRYAN: Not necessarily.
AMY: What do you mean, sir? Fabricating ghost stories would be deceiving our citizens.
BRYAN: Which is why we will not make up any stories. Amy, get me a sheet of paper.
AMY: (handing paper) What for, sir?
BRYAN: Craig, how dedicated are you to this plan?
CRAIG: Fully dedicated. I will do whatever it takes to get the city on stable financial ground.
BRYAN: Great. I am drafting a contract. Here we go. I, Craig, pledge to haunt the town. I swear to haunt the town every night at 8pm and 10:30pm for the rest of time, beginning as soon as Bryan turns me into a ghost. Here, Craig, sign this.
CRAIG: Wait a second.
BRYAN: What? This was your plan. It’s perfect! Revenue will be through the roof.
CRAIG: What did you mean by “turn me into a ghost”?
BRYAN: What did I mean?
CRAIG: Yes, you said you’d turn me into a ghost.
BRYAN: Right. Our ghost tour needs a ghost for the ghost tour to work.
CRAIG: I’m a city councilman. I’m not going to wear makeup and a costume to act like a ghost.
BRYAN: No, no, no! You’ve got this all backwards. We’re not going to dress you up as a silly pretend ghost. Only idiots dress up and dance around to attract attention.
CRAIG: Oh. Good.
BRYAN: I'll just kill you to make you a ghost. (removing pistol from jacket) We can’t dupe our citizens with a false ghost.
AMY: Think of the budget. A bullet is a very cost-effective way to create a ghost, Craig.
CRAIG: This isn’t what I meant.
AMY: Everyone would see right through a fake ghost. We need a real see-through ghost. Don’t be difficult.
BRYAN: Come on. This was your idea. And the sooner we get this set in motion, the sooner we can have busloads of tourists paying twenty dollars to watch you make spooky chicken parmesan in your haunted condo. (waving pistol) Come o-on! Ghost tour!
AMY: Just sign the thing, Craig. We need a ghost. You’ll be great at it. And look at the hours. You’ll have the whole day free.
CRAIG: But I’ll be dead! My family won’t accept me as a ghost! I’ll be miserable and alone.
BRYAN: You’re driving a tough bargain. Remember this is the sort of civic duty you signed up for. Without your help, we may have to fire all the teachers.
AMY: It’s what you’ve dreamed of doing your entire life: Civil service to save your town. You’ll be everyone’s favorite ghost and a town hero.
(Craig stares out the window)
CRAIG: A town hero?
BRYAN: The biggest and best hero this town will ever have. We may build a statue in your honor next to the one of the hot dog salesman.
CRAIG: Fine. I’ll do it. If only I am willing to save the city, then I will save the city.
BRYAN: Excellent! I look forward to your spooks.
(Craig and Bryan exit. Amy looks over the papers, then a knock at the door. It’s GINA.)
GINA: Hey, Amy. Good news. Accounting just found an undeposited check for five hundred million dollars behind some yogurt in the refrigerator. The town is –
(A loud gunshot)
GINA: The town is saved.
(Bryan enters. The spirit of Craig floats through the wall)
BRYAN: We’re all set for the ghost tour. Check this out.
(Bryan waves his hands through Craig’s presence)
CRAIG: Stop it. I’ve done more for this city than anyone. I deserve respect.
GINA: We found five hundred million dollars.
BRYAN: Well great! The city is saved!
AMY: Hooray!
BRYAN: How about that, Craig? Now you’re off the hook for those tours!
AMY: And we really appreciate your dedication.
CRAIG: (Staring at wall blankly) I'm cold.
BRYAN: I know! We’ll make you the minor league baseball team mascot!
AMY: That would be great! You could haunt the visitors’ dugout.
CRAIG: But our team is the Grizzlies.
BRYAN: That's no problem. We'll just kill a bear and you can wear its ghost pelt. We'll put some makeup on you and get you into the costume and everything. Then you can dance around and attract attention.
AMY: We'll be the Ghost Grizzlies!
GINA: Go Ghost Grizzlies!
CRAIG: (staring into distance) I wanted to be mayor.
BRYAN: Go Ghost Grizzlies!


-Who ordered all these crates of raisins? They barely fit in the break room.
-I don’t know, and I don’t care. Remember, boss said that today we’re all getting raises.
-Wait a second.
-God damn it.