SHAKESPEARE’S INSULTS TRANSLATED, FINALLY

Billy-Boy Shakespeare is rightly considered one of the greatest living authors who died a really, really, really long time ago (see also: Marlowe, Jonson, Steele, Grisham, Clancy and that chick who writes all the cat mystery books.) The problem is that he’s so hard to understand in this Internutso MTV 2 modern age world. The mysterious vibe his Elizabethan soliloquies evoke probably got him loads of trim in his day but leave us today dudes poetically blue-balled. So, for your pleasure I have translated some of Shakespeare’s most biting retorts into the modern vernacular. So now when you read the great master’s works, you know how far the dissed have been put down. Snap!

-“I biteth my thumbeth at thee!” “What are you looking at, 

dicknose?”

-“Get thee to a nunnery, wench!” “Get yer face outta my eyeholes,

nungirl!”

-“Friends, Romans, Countrymen, “Put skates on your face, and

lend me your ears" skate!"

 

-“To be or not to be…” “Why, I oughta…”

-“Four score and 7 years ago” “Bite my thumb off, cakemunch!”

-“It was the best of times, “When you sit around the house,
It was the worst of times.” The house, like, breaks apart!”

-“Out! Out! Damned, cursed “You’re so gay!”
Fouleth spot! Outeth, thee!”

NOTES FOR MY MEMOIR: THE LIVES AND LOVES IN THE LOVELIVES OF M.J. HANSEN

These are just a few conceptual ideas and remembrances for my planned tome on my love life. If anyone reading this thinks of anything I left out, by all means, let me know! I love being corrected on the details of my life!
The book shouldn’t be just a big bragfest, it should also be inspiring to millions of hundreds of a few people. I’m thinking about 70% bragfest, 10% inspiration, and 20% pictorial. I believe that’s the same ratio Stephen Hawking uses. For it to be truly inspirational, it would help if I had some sort of physical handicap, like the truck driver who has no arms but delivers bibles cross-country by using his feet, or the female super-spy who succeeds despite her enormous breasts. Maybe if I gave myself a cleft chin, or an embarrassing middle initial?
My first conquest was Maria, an exchange student from Paraguay who had an earthy sexuality, like a peasant girl, or a mud wrestler. We used to steal kisses between classes and refuse to return them, unless the ransom was paid. She was quite possibly my first true love, though it would not be, as I spoke Spanish at a third grade level, and she spoke no Spanish whatsoever. She moved the next day.
I also recall my English teacher, whose affair with the school nurse scandalized the class and faculty of Super Grover Cleveland High. When she revealed she was leaving him for one of the cafeteria women, he had a nervous breakdown in a class on punctuation, referring to periods as menses and confessing of the night in college he wrote a novella composed entirely of semi-colons.
To add humanity, I’ll include the details of the ill-fated Swingers Party I threw in 1981. I thought my friends were more open-minded, and would be into putting their keys into a fishbowl, but no! Most of them groused about how wet their keys got, and in the process I smothered my goldfish to death. Hoist by my own petard (which didn’t even end up happening that night!)
To avoid legal action and to respect the privacy of my many partners, I shall not refer to them by name, only by their measurements, where they are ticklish and the Senators to whom they are married. The only exception would be Christina Ricci, because she would be offended if I didn’t mention her, and also because we’ve never done it. Nor have we ever met (maybe just put her in the index or acknowledgements?)
Lastly, I should be aware of my audience and keep my language from getting too coarse. For example, the act of intercourse, regardless of position, time span and inclusion of AV equipment will only be referred to as making love. Any particularly involved or graphic forms of foreplay will be referred to by the code word, “Prep Time.” And for the true puritans, anytime I have to describe just sitting and holding interlocked hands with my partner, this act will be referred to as, “finger-banging.” I think this should cover all my bases, which, as this book shall reveal, I have done severally. And separately, if you know what I mean.

STRANGER DANGER SAFETYNESS

Hey kids! Are you ready for the summer? Can you hardly keep yourselves from counting down the minutes until that final bell rings and you can finally be afforded your sweet, glorious freedom? I know the feeling, and it’s a beaut. But be aware, be a very ware, that with great freedom comes spooktacular stranger dangerousness! And yes, you too are just a heartbeat away from becoming a statistic on the side of the road. But hey, this shouldn’t stop you from having fun! Just so long as you follow these five rules of Stranger Danger Safetyness to the letter.
1. If you’re home alone and a stranger calls, don’t worry! You needn’t lie. If he asks for your mother, tell them she can’t come to the phone right now. She can’t come to the phone, since she is at work. If he asks for your father, just say he’s jerking off in the neighbor’s garden. Again, you’re not required to lie. If he asks for your address to deliver candy, DO NOT lie and tell him you’re diabetic. Strangers can see through lies, and you may think this little lie can pass undetected thanks to HIPAA laws, but there’s no HIPAA law governing your conscience.
2. If you feel threatened after a stranger calls, contact a familiar grown-up, such as a grandparent, great-grandparent, aunt, uncle, older cousin, policeman, fireman, mailman, milkman, meter maid, cable guy, pizza guy, grocers, butchers, or next-door neighbors. In no circumstance should you call your parents, if they cared about you, they’d be there.
3. If the calls are coming from inside the house, you’re screwed.
4. If a stranger comes to the door asking you to sign for a package, you have three options: A. Run up to your room and lock the door until night falls. B. Lure the stranger into the backyard, where all the grown-ups are waiting for him, so they can trap him with their proton packs and take him back to Strangerbuster HQ. C. Open the door, sign for the package, and save it for Mother’s Day, to avoid having to buy anything.
5. If you are abducted by the stranger, don’t fight it. He may be wealthy or magic, and he certainly loves you more than your parents. And that’s one to grow on.

THE AMAZING SUPER QUIET VACUUMATIC 6000!!!

Thank you for your purchase of the Amazing Super Quiet Vacuumatic 6000!!! The three exclamation points mean triple the excitement! We’re positive you have made a terrific purchase, and will never need to purchase a new vacuum again, especially if you know what’s good for you (see below)! What makes this cleaning product so much better than all the rest? We’d let the product speak for itself, but we had to destroy all of those prototypes (NOTE: If, on the off chance your Amazing Super Quiet Vacuumatic 6000!!! Can speak for itself, leave the house and contact your local authorities immediately. DO NOT contact the authorities while in the house, as the Amazing Super Quiet Vacuumatic 6000!!! Will know what you’re up to, and will not allow you to complete the call.)
Your old vacuum may have been able to pick up specks of dirt, dust, and miniature food particles, but what of all the infinite other foreign objects strewn about your house? This is why your new Amazing Super Quiet Vacuumatic 6000!!! is head and shoulders above the competition. It can pick up all of these things and much, much, much, much, much more, including:
-Nuts, screws and bolts
-Severed limbs
-Small mammals and reptiles
-Flatware
-Owl scat
-Human hair, fingernails and teeth
-Books (except the Bible)
-Money (except pesos and yen)
-Clothing
-Orphans
-Carpeting and hardwood floors
-Godzilla!
-Woodwind instruments
-Sinfulness
-Disease
And there’s so much more! In fact, there may be nothing the Amazing Super Quiet Vacuumatic 6000!!! cannot pick up. And if we were you, we wouldn’t express any doubts about this, especially around the machine. But what are you waiting for? See for yourself! Sign the waiver, have it notarized, Express mail it in and try for yourself. We guarantee we will never hear you complain about this product!
(WARNING: Before introducing this product into your home, follow these six (6) Safety Steps. 1. Remove any and all cleaning implements from the house, including other vacuums, brooms, mops and cleaning staff. The Amazing Super Vacuumatic 6000!!! will show dominance if you do not do so, and this company and its parent companies will not be held liable for the consequences if you do not. 2. Prepare a proper living space for the Amazing Super Vacuumatic 6000!!! This should a room at least 20 x 20, with an eastern exposure and no pictures on the walls. The room itself should be bare, save for a small stool and two bowls, one for water and one for “bones.” 3. If you have not been baptized in the Catholic Church, do so immediately. Also, if you are living unwed with anyone or anything, marry them forthwith. 4. The Amazing Super Quiet Vacuumatic 6000!!! is, as the name suggests, super quiet, so we would advise rigging some sort of alarm system, such as motion detectors and/or tripwire to inform you of when it is running. 5. If you are a musician, you will want to remove any and all evidence of this from your home, and never sing or play your instrument within 500 feet of the Amazing Super Quiet Vacuumatic 6000!!! This is an issue our engineers are working to rectify. 6. If, in fact, all the issues are rectified, we will contact you for a recall. However, this must be done delicately so as not to enrage the machine, so we will send you a postcard from Cheyenne, which will say on the back, “Wish you were here!” in half-cursive. Two weeks from the receipt of said postcard, you are to vacate your home and not return for 48 hours, after which it will be safe to reenter. We apologize for the inconvenience, and also because we may have said too much.)

SCRIPT DOCTOR: THE INFAMOUS YOGURT COMMERCIAL!

Sad news, comrades and comrettes! I've now officially been rejected from the lucrative world of commercials. Which is extra sad because my ideas were terrific, forward-thinking, innovative, edgy and terrific. I was specifically writing for the yogurt campaign in which two women eating the most delicious yogurt ever compare it to other pleasures of life to illustrate its yumminess. For some reason, the company did not care for suggestions, which for your pleasure I have compiled here. You're welcome!

-This is like drinking an entire bottle of Scotch good.
-This is like taking a dump in your backyard good.
-This is like Robocop good- and that's my favorite movie ever!
-This is like drowning a puppy good- a sackful of puppies!
-This is like making racist comments and not caring who hears you good.
-This is like calling in sick and then contracting a nasty virus and going in to work the next day anyway good.
-This is like baking a dead mouse in your three-year-old's birthday cake good.
-This is like penis in my vagina good.
-This is like getting married in a little Parisian villa and taking his name and evading tax fraud good.
-This is like setting fire to a hobo village by urinating on it and rubbing two sticks together until they ignite good.
-This is like exchanging all your wedding presents for Ecstasy good.
-This is like Hall and Oates making out with each other while Seals and Crofts watch, and then they switch partners good.
-This is like telling your kids their invisible friends are prettier than them good.
-This is like stalking a married co-worker and half the time pretending like it's a joke and sending threatening letters in pregnancy test boxes good.
-This is like the other brand of yogurt I really like good.

THE WORLD’S LEAST SUCCESSFUL SIMILES… IN THE WORLD!

-Her heart went out to him, like a removable heart.
-The horse was stunning, like a really good picture of a horse.
-His laugh was deep and menacing, like that guy you know, Troy something.
-The days of her summer vacation seemed to fly by like a raisin in the sun.
-Gerry’s hopes were dashed, like the long part of Morse Code.
-The couch sat in the center of the room like a sofa.
-The racecar turned the corner like the jawbone of an ass.
-Jessie had burnt the cake until it was unrecognizable, like her favorite color.
-Peter was a force of nature, like a birthday or a pretty view.
-The police officer’s handshake was firm and professional, like a mailman’s handshake.
-The moment was nothing short of auspicious, like Fred Savage.
-When he heard of his great-aunt’s death, Charlie wept openly, tears flowing from his face like a wet and runny oasis.

MY VERY OWN PASSION PLAY

This year, to celebrate MY birthday, I’ve decided to commission myself to write and direct and co-star in a passion play based on my birth and formative years. BYOB (Bring Your Own Birthday!) I’ve compiled an outline of what is to transpire, which is rough, as were my formative years.
1. Everyone will assemble at the house my parents lived in when I was born. Attendance is mandatory, but not required. If you do not know the address of the house my parents lived in when I was born, you’re uninvited. We’ll skip my conception, since there may be children present and also because icky. The first 500 guests will lie on the kitchen floor, writhing and squiggling and making jazz hands, symbolizing my mother’s water breaking. The rest will represent my father, and chain-smoke and freak out. They will repeat the incantation, “Oh God Oh God Oh God,” until the Amniotic Fluid Players rise up and, in the voice of God intone, “Chill out, for real, Dad.” I will then make my grand entrance, walking through the back door, symbolizing my grand entrance.
2. I will next be “baptized” in “Holy Water” (i.e. consume six shots of tequila) and thus become “Catholic” (i.e. drunk.)
3. 200 of the guests will then present me with various gifts, such as argyle sweaters, Apple computers, and an El Camino. This will symbolize my righteousness, as well as the bodaciousness of my being.
4. Everyone shall give me a pat on my back, and intone the phrase, “Good game,” reminding everyone of what a good liver I am, and how I’ve caught the long fly ball in the left field that is this rocky road called life, by which I mean to say that I’ve triumphed in the home stretch where others did not possess the wings with which to fly, and I’ve done so without fear of failure or without fear of mixing metaphors.
5. There shall then be dancing, and it shall be to Girl Group music, symbolic of how Girl Group music is the best music. There will also be a performance of my emo-funk band, Qualified to Saddify You, the most depressing lyrics and the hippest dance beats in a perfect marriage of sweat and tears, like saltwater taffy.
6. My father (portrayed by a celebrity look-alike of my father) will show me how to throw a football through a tire swing, a perfect illustration of my hatred of footballs and tire swings.
7. My cake will be wheeled out, a life-size replica of me, which I shall serve in a reproduction of the Last Supper, presenting my body, my blood, my nose and my brains (which will actually be cold spaghetti!)
8. Finally, as the sun rises, most likely in the east, we shall conclude our festivities, a little richer in spirit (you) and a lot richer in stuff (me.)

OLD POSSUM’S CALAMITOUS COLLECTION OF CRAZY NAMES FOR CATS AND OTHER PETS, TOO!

Anyone who’s as cccccccccrazy about musical theatre as I may someday be has just gots to be familiar with the long-running show of ever-times, CATS. To paraphrase someone, that show must have about nine lifetimes or something! If you’re not familiar with the show, it’s actually based on a book of poetry by the happiest of cuddly-poets ever, T.S. Eliot. Eliot had an unusual procedure for naming cats, which always resulted in cuckoo-nutso names, and has now been declared illegal in 28 states (including yours!) What you may not know is that he also named other pets, and here now I will share with you just a smattering of those equally cuckoo-nutso names (including some cat ones!)
-Platypus Jack (dog)
-Bubblypants McMillan (beta fish)
-Dog (cat)
-Number Johnny Five (mouse)
-Penis Breath (Eliot’s brother)
-Sweet Potato (manatee)
-Carmen San Diego (wolf spider)
-Use Your Illusion II (rock)
-Fleblee McGooGoo (daughter)
-Stupid-Ass Bird (canary)
-Untitled (boa constrictor)
-Yes, I Can (Sammy Davis, Jr.’s autobiography)
-Ali No Gator (crocodile)
-Super Bowl Shuffle (horse)
-Mickey (mouse)

MY TEEN-AGED PAIN AS WRITTEN BY ME AT AGE SIXTEEN

No-one understand$ me
(Man!)
I’m like a forgotten scarf
Or
I’m like a forgotten pair of mittens
(Minus one!)
No-one with which to shareth mine life, and
Worse no finger-
holes.

I am so far away .
Like a far away place

(such as Hawaii or Alaska.)
Call me non-contiguous, that is, if you call me.
At
All.

My Teen-Aged Pain is a visceral sensation, like the gnashing of teeth or the aching of head. No-body cares if I am alive or I’m dead. And only a loser (such as like Me) would rhyme, anytime. I’m a free-verse poem
On the wall
Of now-here.

You don’t get me and your name is Every-
One.
My Teen-Aged Pain is better (worse) than yours (mine.) It fills me up like a cat is filled up
With catgut. And so I ask myself (self?), why is it that
That I feel
I feel so
Emptiness?

THE SUPER-BLOG OF KATIE BREEN, SUPER-TEMP!

OMG, you guys! I just got back from the sweetest temp gig ever! The Radicool Pizza Temp Agency texted me yester-to the-day for a two-day job as a lion tamer. ROFL over and over and over and over again, right? Totally!
So yeah I headed over to the Fingerling Bros. Circus and was sent to the head lion tamer Mike Bodega. He gave me this badass whip and woody-smelling chair. He also gave me this pith helmet I had to wear- on my head! Gross! Mike was hot and he was 45 and had a salt-and-pepper beard with I think a hint of cumin. There were like all these wood chips around like someone had like puked and then like I almost puked from thinking about like puking. LMAO!
The first day Mike pretended to be a lion and I whipped him and chaired him. It was pretty hot IMHO, but YMMV. The next day he had me actually taming out the lions. I had to get all up in the grill of this jungle king and get a mad whiff of his NSFW breath. P to the U! But I used all the skillz Mike showed me like giving what he called bedroom eyes and showing my midriff and the lion totally rolled over, just like Mike. I then got my $$$.
So yeah lion taming totally PWNs and all that, but I don’t think I’d wanna do it for realz full-timez yo. I’m just so not a cat person. Or a wearer of yuckified pith helmets! C-Ya!

DEATH OF A SALESMAN: THE LOST SCENE

(Linda, Biff and Happy are in the Loman Family Kitchen. Linda is drinking coffee through a silly straw, Biff is eating wedding cake out of his fist, and Happy is dribbling a basketball between his legs.)

LINDA: Boys, I’m terribly worried about your father, the salesman. I spoke to your cousins Kapow and Contented to see if they had any advice, as you might recall your aunt Willymina was a despondent saleswoman.
HAPPY: Ah, there’s nothing wrong with Pop, boy! He’s 23 Skidoo, the cat’s footie pajamas, the bee’s knees and elbows and hip-joints! Check this out, this should snap the Old Man out of any funk.

(He spins the ball on his fingertip.)

LINDA: That’s super-impressive, son. But I fail to see how it will help your father. You know how disoriented he gets when you spin him on your forefinger.
BIFF: You got anymore of this hitched cake, Ma?
LINDA: Biffy, light of my loins, we were saving that for our anniversary. Besides, it won’t do to have your children eat your wedding cake; it’s considered culinary incest in the kitchens of decent churchgoers.
BIFF: Yeah right, Ma, like Dad would ever eat cake. He’s not a Cake Eater like you!

(He grabs the rest of the cake from the fridge, a root beer and a sensible meal for dinner and exits within a huff.)

HAPPY: Biff, you douchetard! Mom, he totally killed my b-ball buzz!
LINDA: Try being a long-suffering wife, fruit of my loomgina.

(Mickey Moses Kaminsky enters, he’s totally a handyman.)

MICKEY: Helloooo, Loman family!
LINDA: Howdy, etranger. That’s French for, “Howdy, stranger.”
MICKEY: I’m Mickey Moses Kaminsky, your local handyman, which is English for l’homme du hande.
HAPPY: That’s alright Jack and boxcar Betty, but why have you came to our house?
MICKEY: Well, as I stated in English, I’m your local handyman, and I just couldn’t help but notice that somebody, or somethingy has completely broken out your fourth wall here.
LINDA: Bull honky!
MICKEY: Truth honky! It’s almost completely eviscerated. The frame is still here, but the wall, she’s-a totally gone. Gone like Vince Vaughn.
HAPPY: That explains why the electric bill has been so freaking freakishly large.
MICKEY: Where’s Poppa, anyway?
LINDA: He’s away. On business. Death business.
MICKEY: Well well well well well you just have him call me when gets back. You hear?
HAPPY: Shall do, kind sir.
MICKEY: This old house. I pity the fool.
LINDA: Don’t. Don’t do it. This house is like a view from the bridge, ‘tisn’t a crucible. You can ask all my sons, and the misfits, and after the fall they too arise and will tell you the price, which is not broken glass and also there’s a play about a clock.
MICKEY: My humblest of apologies m’a’a’am. Attention must be paid, as someone will no doubt later say, to this man and his family of familiars. Attention paid like David Spade.
BIFF: (From upstairs window.) Sweet Joseph Christmas, can’t a Biff eat in peace?

(End of lost scene.)

POSTCARDS FROM A SUBMARINE

Ted,
You’ll never guess where I am! I finally took the plunge (literally!) and am taking my dream vacation: 2 months on a nuclear-powered submarine! It took some convincing to get the captain and crew to allow me to tag along with them (A fistful of Lincolns and a dozen peanut butter cookies did the trick) but now, here I am! I’ll see you soon, in 2 months!
Chuck

Ted,
A couple of fun facts about submarines. Fun Fact #1: submarines are small. Like teeny tiny. Sure, they look huge on Hi-Def but the inside is the definition of “cramped.” Fun Fact #2: There are no single rooms in submarines. Everybody is crammed into these little rooms with teeny tiny lockers and a miniscule bunk bed. Except me. Since I’m not one of the crew, I get to sleep in the kitchen. Fun!
Chuck

Ted,
You may have noticed the Fun Facts in my last postcard were not exactly fun. This is because a submarine trip is not nearly as fun as it looks. The brochures and commercials make it look glamorous and exciting. They leave out the dark, monotonous and smelly. Yes, you can smell the ocean, and you really get to know the smell of the crew, too. Sometimes their smells battle it out to see which is stronger, and you know who wins? Nobody.
Chuck

Ted,
I am no longer bored; I can say that at least. You can be the first to tell the rest of the world that giant squids A: actually exist, and B: would make terrible pets. I’ve heard that squid are supposed to be intelligent, and while I couldn’t gauge that, I can say that they are excellent at shaking submarines and making you spill coffee all over your last clean shirt. Also, the captain screams like a girl and does spazzy jumping jacks when he’s upset. I’m sure I’d make a better captain than him.
Chuck

Ted,
They say nothing is truly fun unless you’re breaking the law. This is especially true in terms of a mutiny. Sure, there was some resistance, you’re gonna run into that, but there’s also lots of drinking, and most importantly, I’m in command now. I convinced some of the other sailors to side with me, and now we’re taking the submarine back. And I think I get to keep it, so even though I don’t want it, I have a terrific Father’s Day gift. See you real soon!
Chuck

Ted,
It occurs to me that you have not been receiving any of my postcards, since we’re on a submarine and there’s no mail service. I realized this today as I insisted that we get newer magazines, and became embarrassed when I realized my screaming and beating had been all for naught. Was my face red! The trip back is taking much longer than anticipated, since our navigator is a captain loyalist. I’m pretty sure I can feel my way back.
Chuck

Ted,
More submarine Fun Facts! A submarine cannot go in reverse, or magically turn around once it has been lodged in an underwater cave. Also, the underwater caves are not clearly marked AT ALL so they seem to pop up without warning, no matter what the sonar officer claims. So yeah, we’re stuck here pretty permanently, you probably won’t be seeing me again, but at least I’m captain and so by nautical rules I am Emperor of the Submarine and all shall bow down before me. Unless they decide to mutiny, which I guess I wouldn’t blame them, it would just be, let’s say, disappointing. Anyhow, be sure to keep feeding my fish and Tivo the big game, just in case!
Lord Chuck

THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL SON

On the fortnight the prodigal son returned, Ma was knitting a fire in the stove and Pa was building a Trojan horse out of used horse parts and Trojans. Ma’s famous smackleberry pie was cooling on the windowsill and the warmth wafted through the backyard like the ghost of memories wafting in the backyard, smelling of pie. Neither Ma nor Pa were anticipating anything unusual this fine July fortnight, and yet they were screening their calls just the same.
It was a quarter past half when Ma let out a shrill sob. Pa looked up from his workbench, momentarily distracted by the shrill sob just let out by Ma. “The hell was that?” he inquired?
“A thousand and one Arabian pardons, Pa, I was just sobbing shrilly,” Ma lamented. “I was just reminded of little Tad again. Why it seems like only yesterday he left us behind for a big career in the big city.”
“Well, it wasn’t only yesterday; it was twelve years and six minutes ago,” Pa spat, moistening the davenport.
“Don’t moisten the davenport with your grudges, Pa. We’ll get mold in the folds of the couch.” Ma was nervously pacing back and forth, a habit she had picked up as an infant, and for which she was known county-wide, lettering in pacing back and forth in high school.
As Pa was preparing a raspberry retort, there came a knocking upon the door, and the air became still and tense, like a crouching tiger or a crossword you know is wrong. At first, Ma and Pa pretended not to be home by pantomiming being other places, such as the grocery store and the bowling alley. But after a pause pregnant with little baby pauses, the knocking commenced to continue to start up again. Pa started for the door and Ma finished for the door for him, as was custom in the region. At first she didn’t answer the door, intimidated by the inquisitive nature of this rectangle. Finally, she turned the knob and thrust open the door, in an effort to discern exactly who-or what- but really who was the source of the inknockulation.
Tad had barely changed in the twelve years and fifteen minutes since he’d pulled up stakes and headed east to find fame, fortune and his contact lens. His hands appeared rough, like a carpenter’s or and Osmond’s, and he had the world-weary expression of someone twice his age and half his cap size. Bangs congregated on his forehead like nuns in a calendar of nuns, and his chest was sunken like a prize at the very, very, very bottom of a cereal box. There were great bags under his eyes and adequate shoes over his socks. His overall demeanor was that of a scarecrow, complete with floppy hat and total lack of blackbirds. “Ma, Pa, I’ve returned,” he announced vocally.
Upon the arrival of Tad’s announcement, Ma erupted into sobs and Pa erupted into nonchalance. Tad waited for a sign to be invited in, like a polite vampire, and nearly three hours passed before Pa came back to ask why in the name of Jesus Christ Bananas he hadn’t come in yet.
The family now a whole, they sat at the kitchen table, dining on crusty bread and crusty yogurt, speaking of their crusty past. When talk turned to Tad’s departure, he explained what had transpired. “I found fame, but not fortune. I was named Happiest Boy Alive in St. Angeles County Fair. I was called upon to fight fires, return library books and kiss attractive women on the cheek. I ran for mayor, but lost to a science-fiction author who promised to write everyone in the district into his next novel. It was all downhill from there. I subsisted on school lunches and free grocery samples until I was discovered by a talent agent.
“For a couple of years I danced in a ballet company until I was just too tired. Penniless and loaferless, I lived underneath a minivan until it was re-parked. I now return home, in the hopes that you’ll forgive me and accept me back into your arms and into my room.”
After much hemming and hawing, Ma and Pa had three new pairs of slacks. They sold them and were able to raise enough money to either cure cancer or allow Tad to move back. As cancer still murders people and sundry animals to this very absolute second, you can guess the decision they made. But you must ask yourself, knowing what you now know, would you have done then what they did, or not knowing then what they didn’t know, would you in the past do what was ultimately done in the future, or would you presently do what was done, and how, knowing what was known and will be known now and before and to be known at a later time?
Show your work.

PRESIDENTIAL EPITAPHS

The Official President of the U.S. States of America is the highest office one can hold at any given time. You have powers that no other citizen in the free world has, not even the Pope! Powers like veto, checks, balances, pardons, planes, who goes on what dollar, and when and where to see whatever movie you like, no backtalk. Most importantly, the President gets to choose his own epitaph, the words that will ring throughout this nation’s cemeteries for their entire life, immortalizing them in the most literal sense imaginable. Here are the Top 20 Most Memorable Presidential Epitaphs. Read them and weep openly for those bygone Commanders in Chiefs.
GEORGE WASHINGTON: Your First Is Always the Most Memorable
JOHN ADAMS: George Washington Deflowered Me
THOMAS JEFFERSON: I Like My Afterlife Like I Like My Women, if You Get My Meaning
JOHN QUINCY ADAMS: My Only Regret is Not Being Doinked By George Washington
ANDREW JACKSON: Call me Stonewall to my Face- My Stone Wallface!
MARTIN VAN BUREN: I Seem to Have Abolitioned Myself
WILLIAM HENRY HARRISON: That Went Really Really Really Really Fast
ZACHARY TYLER: C-Ya Livies! Luvs Ya, K? ;)
ABRAHAM LINCOLN: You Can Fool Some of the People Some of the Time, You Can Fool All of the People Some of the Time, But You Can’t Stop a Bullet with a Stovepipe Hat. Anytime.
ANDREW JOHNSON: Stop Calling me Stonewall!
RUTHERFORD B. HAYES: Is Now Rutherford B. Deceased
JAMES A. GARFIELD: I’m Not Overweight, I’m Undertall
GROVER CLEVELAND: We Hardly Knewer Cleveland
WILLIAM HOWARD TAFT: Three Names was Not Enough
WOODROW WILSON: The President So Nice They Named Him Twice
CALVIN COOLIDGE: Was Radicoolidge
HERBERT HOOVER: Is This Heaven? Iowa
JOHN F. KENNEDY: This Tawch Will Buhn Forevah.
GERALD FORD: I Just Kept Falling Down Until I Was Dead
RONALD REAGAN: Do I Sound Like a Musical Robot?

DR. WIZARD’S SURPRISE TWIST ENDINGS FOR EVERYDAY USEAGE!

Thank you, thank you, it’s great to be back on the internet. Now, I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention the way I’ve been paying it, but the big thing in Hollywoodville and Book Central is the Surprise Twist Ending. I know you’ve seen them too, the It Was Her Brother All Along, or It Was All a Dream, or the ever-popular They Were Actually the Same Person Somehow But One Died. It sure takes a so-so scenario and gooses it up a gosling, doesn’t it? In fact, it’s so effective; I’ve decided it should be put to everyday use. So the next time you find yourself sharing that boring anecdote about Cousin Shirley’s dog running away or composing an e-mail about your night of cooking pork roast and watching America’s Got Models, spice it up a little with these Surprise Twist Endings. Spoiler Alert: You’ll love ‘em!
-She was actually the ghost of her mother the whole time!
-I wasn’t actually wearing the striped shirt!
-The calls were coming from the other end of the phone!
-She’s my dog and my cat!
-The house was built on an Indian Pet Cemetery!
-The beard was more of a goatee!
-I never actually told her where I was going!
-I didn’t wash my hands!
-I did wash my hands, but I didn’t actually go to the bathroom… nothing came out!
-Halfway through dinner I morphed from myself to a woman named Alice Munroe!
-Also, my husband was faking his death for the insurance!
-The mums were really lilies!

PRO-CHOICE OF YOUR OWN ADVENTURES PRESENTS: THE SCOOP!

You are ace reporter Flap Satchel. With over a bunch of Pulitzer Trophies to your name, you’ve seen and heard and smelt and dealt all of it. All every bit of it. You’re the most sought after reporter for dignitaries, celebrities, kittens, aspiring reporters and grandparents. To stay prepared, you never leave anywheres minus your press badge, microscopic cassette recording machine, community-college ruled notebook and more pens than the Commish combined. You are a veritable one man. As you amble down Ackbar Avenue in your Pontiac Chevrolet, a telephone rings distractedly in an empty telephone booth. You pull over, swiftly parking your prized Pontiac in a parallel fashion. Up is how you pick the phone’s receiver, yet up is also how the other line has hung.

1. DO YOU DIAL *69 TO RETRACE THE CALL?
2. DO YOU WAIT TO SEE IF THE MYSTERY CALLER RINGS BACK?
3. DO YOU TAKE YOUR LEAVE OF THE PHONE AND PHONE BOOTH AND CONTINUE ON YOUR MERRY?

1. As you dial the star, followed by the 6, you pause briefly before dialing the nine, suddenly realizing that 69 is also an oral sexuality position. Feeling a little dirty and smidge aroused, you stroll toward the nearest alleyway in which to rub one out whilst imagining the act.

2. Within 5 minutes and a sackful of seconds the phone rings once more. You pick it up, but to your dismay, there is just a periodic beeping coming from the other line. After transcribing this for 6 minutes, you hang up. Scoop!

3. The car was towed! The car was towed! You head back to the phone booth to call the impound lot, but it has mysteriously vanished. In its place is a tall woman in a red dress, a cigar between her lips and a tattoo of the phone booth on her forearm. She winks at you, then turns to leave, and then you wake up at your desk, where you’ve been sleeping for the last 7 hours. Scoop!

MORE PRE-X-MAS LITERARY LIST FUN TIME HAPPY SMELLY SMELL!

In my daydreams, I'm a writer of the kind of fiction you find at grocery stores and airport bookstores. I don't daydream that often. Anyhow, these are some of the titles I've come up with if my dreams were ever to come true, and I specialized in holiday themed murder mysteries.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Murder
Deck the Halls with Blood and Entrails (Fa La La La La La La La La)
I'll Be Dead For Christmas
Murder! The Herald Angels Sing
Yes, Virginia, There is Enough Evidence to Convict You
Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel, I Made It Out of Fatal Poison
It Killed Upon a Midnight Clear
Slay Ride
Grandma Got Run Over By a Murderer
I Saw Mommy Killing Santa Claus
Hung By the Chimney With Piano Wire
Hanukill (or Chanukill)
Kwanzaa-Related Homicide
Little Drummer Boy... of Death
Do They Know It's a 187?

TWO AND ONE-HALFTH OF A MAN

Hey hey! I wrote an episode of Charlie “Charlie Sheen” Sheen’s hit situation com. My deepest hope is that you’ll think it’s kinda cool. Read it!

(The Harper house. Charlie is laying on the couch, really lazy-like. Jake is mopping the floors. Alan enters from the kitchen, carrying a pie. The floors are wet from the mop, and he slips, getting pied in the face by himself, and indirectly, his son.)

ALAN: Hey! Ouch! This pie is really hot!
CHARLIE: (Sarcastically.) Then I guess the best place for you to store it is on your face, Alan.
ALAN: No it isn’t! That’s the last place in the universe I should slap it onto. You’re just being your usual unhelpful self.
CHARLIE: Unhelpful? I am happening to be mopping the floors, brother.
ALAN: Except you’re not! My son, named Jake, is doing all the work.
JAKE: It’s okay, Dad. Uncle Charlie promised to pay me for it.
ALAN: Oh. That’s okay then. It’s good to teach him about a hard day’s work. How much is Uncle Charlie paying you, son Jake?
JAKE: Videogames.
ALAN: What? Curse you, Charlie Harper, you’ve spoiled your own lesson. How dare you?
CHARLIE: Well, I couldn’t pay him in sex, could I? He’s too young for that, even with a skank.

(Rose enters from sliding door.)

ROSE: Did you call me, lover?
CHARLIE: No!!!!!! Rose, you are not skank enough for me.
ROSE: Then let’s get married. Tonight.
CHARLIE: What???? There’s not enough beer in my mouth to even begin to agree with you. The answer is resounding and it’s a no.

(Berta walks through with laundry.)

BERTA: I’d comment but y’allz so ain’t worth it.

(She exits.)

JAKE: Dad, can I go to the library?
ALAN: Jake, I’m surprised, of course. What do you need from the library?
JAKE: Videogames.
ALAN: Okay, well, I’ll just- what?? Don’t you ever try and trick me like that again.
ROSE: Are you sad, cherry face?
ALAN: No, Jesus, Rose, my tears are cooling off my face.
CHARLIE: I wish I could cry into his uptight-ness.
JAKE: Then I’d play videogames.
ALAN: Am I the only one who sees logic here?
ROSE: No, I see logic here as also.
ALAN: Oh terrific, just what I need. I’m in agreement with a psycho crazy-faced woman-neighbor.

(Mom enters, drinking.)

MOM: Alan, your face bled off.
CHARLIE: Good one Mom, next you’ll tell the one about Dad’s nutsack.
JAKE: What’s a nut ack?
CHARLIE: It’s a scrotum, kidtard!
ALAN: Charlie, stop being anatomically on-target!
ROSE: Mother of Charlie, will you marry me?
MOM: Are you rich?
ROSE: As the Caspian Sea.
MOM: All right.
CHARLIE: No! Mom! Stop! Word!

(Vanilla Ice enters.)

VANILLA ICE: You rang yo?
ALAN: Vanilla Ice? Get your ludicrous badness out of this house!
MOM: Boys, he’s your long-lost brother or something.
JAKE: Sweet! Were you in Star Wars?
VANILLA ICE: Yup yup. I played Starbuck’s sister Bones McCoy.
CHARLIE: I wish that was an ad-lib.
ALAN: So say we all.

(Rose burns down the house.)

CHARLIE: Rose! Your mentality officially has no hinges! How could you do this to me?
ROSE: Maybe you should have accepted my proposal to propose to me, you!
MOM: She’s got a point, Charleston.
VANILLA ICE: Word toward your matriarch.
ALAN: But the question still remains, super baby geniuses. Where do we live now and forever?
VANILLA ICE: I gots an RV, jeah!
ALAN: Hook us up homie!
JAKE: It better have videogames.
MOM: And booze.
CHARLIE: And sexy.
ALAN: And nerdy and practical.

(They exit the burned-down house. Curtain. On your TV!)

LITERAL LITERATE LITERARY LISTS!!

GREAT AUTHORS AND THE PRODUCTS NAMED AFTER THEM
O. Henry Candy Bar
Norman Mailer Cream Soda
William Carlos Williams Liquid Paper
Ken Follett Car Alarm
Michael Ondaatje Herbal Conditioner
Philip Roth IRA
Anne Rice Pilaf
Gertrude Stein Stein


NOT QUITE LITERARY CLASSICS
Appropriate Expectations
The Second to Last of the Mohicans
Heart of Navy Blueness
Relief Pitcher in the Rye
Their Eyes Were Watching the Place Right Next to God
A Portrait of the Artist as Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman
Flowers in the Attic
A Farewell to Armbands
The Sun Also Sets, Too
The Adequate Gatsby

MORE MOVIE TAG LINES… OF THE DAMNED!(?)

THE SECRET LIFE OF BEES: Not that Jerry Seinfeld Movie
QUANTUM OF SOLACE: We’d tell you what the movie’s about, but then we’d have to tell you.
CHICAGO: All the great music of Chicago with little to no Peter Cetera!
MILLION DOLLAR BABY: You’d think she was the richest baby ever, but she’s actually poor. Er, spoiler alert.
GET RICH OR DIE TRYING: The most dangerous how-to ever.
THE HOURS: The film that answers the age-old question, “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” Answer: all of them.
AMERICAN DREAMZ: The Z is for irony, I betcha.
IRON WILL: The chemists call it Fe Will!
DÉJÀ VU: Trust me, you haven’t seen this movie.
THE GOOD GERMAN: The shocking true story of the only good German in history!
CAPE FEAR: Superman and Batman don’t have it… Do you?
CINDERELLA MAN: It’s not gay, it’s boxing!

SPORTS! SPORTS! SPORTS! SPORTS! SPORTS! BY BANANAS FOSTER

Welcome all you lovers of sports-playing! Bananas Foster, ex-athlete here, to bring you a little commentary on my favorite topic, the playing of sports. You may wonder what exactly I’m famous for; well I’ve excelled at a variety of specialty sports. I’m an MVP of Flag Foosball, I hold the World Champion title in couple’s Dig Dug, and totally won the Stanley Cup single-handedly from the Mighty Ducks after a particularly gruesome battle of Bloody Knuckles. These are just 3 of my many 4 accomplishments in the wide, wide world of sports-playing. So today, I’m here to discuss the Big Game from last night.
Full disclosure: my TV gets terrible reception so I wasn’t able to follow most of the game, but I could tell it was exciting by the cheers of the crowd. Unless that was the snow. At any rate, here are the highlights: One of the players caught the ball. And totally threw it to another player! It appeared they were on the same team, but sources vary. I can say with some degree of certainty that the other player caught the ball. The ball itself looked more like a tennis ball than a baseball, which is odd because the newspaper swears it was the Masters. But that’s part of the excitement of the sports world; you never know what you see! And that’s it for me, folks, I’m Bananas Foster, and remember- play sports!

SCRIPT DOCTOR'S SUPER-EARLY CHRISTMAS GIFT: IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE!

What a special surprising treat of a surprise I have for you! My rejected touch-ups for It's a Wonderful Life! A delectable doggy-bag of leftover dialogue, love them like their were your favorite kid!

Clarence: Remember, George: no man is a failure who has friends. Unless they aren't cool friends. Then, you're pretty much a failure.

Zuzu: Look, Daddy, Teacher says every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.
George: They're teaching religion at your school? See, Mary, this is why I'm so opposed to public education. "Angel gets his wings..." what, are you taking special ed classes? Jesus.

George: What is it you want, Mary? You want the moon? I'll get you the moon. One of these days, bang zoom!

Mr. Potter: You once called me a warped, frustrated old man. Then I got my Glamour shots!

George: I'm shaking the dust of this crummy little town off my feet and I'm gonna see the world. Italy, Greece, Clive, Windsor Heights, Wells Fargo Arena, Jordan Creek Town Center, Buzzard Billy's.

Clarence: Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around, he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he? I know Kevin Bacon knows what I'm talking about. Am I right?

Mary: Is this the ear you can't hear on? (Whispers) George Bailey, I'll love you til the day I die. And at that point, I'll stop loving you, and focus my affection on my true love- Nascar!

George: This is terrible! No one knows who I am.
Harvey: You think that's bad, try not being seen.

Mr. Potter: Why, the whole town knows you've been giving money to Violet Bick. And by money, I mean sweet, sweet lovin'. And by Violet Bick, I mean me. So, really, I'm telling you, in an extremely convoluted code, that the whole town knows of our affair. Well, that's Capraporn.

EUPHEMISMS! USE AT YOUR OWN RISK!

SUNGLASSES
Shades
Rad Specs
Corey Hart Eveningwear
Joe Cools (For Dogs)
Shiner Hiders
My Own Private Eclipse

COFFEE
Joe
Java
Liquid Gasoline
Beans 'n Water
Caffeine Juice
The Big Sipper

HOMER
The Great Poet
Iliadiac
Ol' No Eyes
Greektacular
Homer Sapien
Joe Cool (To Dogs)

THE BOY WHO WAS IN A COMA FOR 8 YEARS, THE BONUS FEATURES!!!!!

DELETED SCENES
1: "If you won't drink this Pepsi, I will," his mom erupted, covering the hospital in molten lava.
"I'm not thirsty," the boy replied, drinking the Pepsi anyway.
2: "What size shoe do you wear," the salesman whispered, trying a different tactic in a desperate attempt at a sale.
"What?" the boy asked, his hearing affected by the fact that he hadn't listened to anyone in almost 8 years.
3: The boy was swimming toward the pirate ship, when suddenly an octopus appeared. Thinking quickly, he shoved a Walkman into the mouth of the octopus, who boogied his way back underwater.
AUDIO COMMENTARY
For audio commentary, speak your opinions of the pieces as you read them.
ALTERNATE ENDING: The boy never wakes up from his coma.

THE BOY WHO WAS IN A COMA FOR 8 YEARS, PART III OF III

When we last left our hero, he was bartering for a pair of shoes. The salesman agreed to supply the shoes in exchange for a fez. Since the boy had no idea how to provide a new fez, he took a job at the shoe store to pay off his shoes. And as we join the boy, already in progress, he is approached by a prospective customer in fancy customer prospecting gear.
"Buy shoes," the boy stated, thrusting a shoe box in the abdomen of the prospective customer. Having recently awoken from an 8-year coma had rendered him very forward-thinking, and nothing was more forward at that moment than the prospective customer’s abdomen.
"You are a very forward young man," exhaled the prospective customer, adjusting the monocle on his right eye. He also had a monocle on his left eye, and three on his chin.
"I have recently awoken from an 8 year coma," the boy asked, realizing too late it wasn't an interrogative statement. The prospective customer did not seem to notice, as he placed an arm around the boy's shoulder. The fact that the arm did not belong to him didn't bother any of the parties involved.
"I like the cut of your jib. Yes, sir, that is the most well-cut jib I've seen through the monocle of my right eye in 8 years," the prospective customer proclaimed, signing the proclamation with an X rather than his name.
"Thank you," the boy remarked, looking the prospective customer up and down, then side to side, then inside-out. He discovered nothing interest, aside from the fact that the prospective customer’s stomach was filled with used monocles.
"Why don't you come work for me. I could use someone like you on my team, a recently de-comatized shoe salesman. We are equal-opportunity, after all," the prospective customer offered, switching the monocle from his right eye to his left, and placing the monocle on his left eye under his tongue.
"That sounds good, but I have to work here to pay for my shoes," the boy lamented, tears streaming down his cheek and up his mother's nose.
"Shoes? You don't need shoes where we're going, lad," the prospective customer laughed, spitting saliva throughout the shoe store and beyond, to the backroom.
And with that, the boy left the shoe store, and joined the prospective customer on his Olympic fire walking team, and joined such luminaries as his teammates and competitors, who were quite luminous, being around all that fire. And even though he never won a gold medal, or a silver medal, or actually even a bronze medal, and really only competed one year and didn’t make it past the time trials, his experiences would shape him into the boy who was in a coma for 8 years that he is today.
For you see, that boy was none other than Dave.
I don’t remember his last name, but you remember the Dave I mean. Big Dave, Blonde Dave. D-Day Dave. The Dave who was in a coma for 8 years, Dave?
That Dave.
THE
END
OF THE STORY

THE BOY WHO WAS IN A COMA FOR 8 YEARS, PART II OF III

As our harrowing saga continues, the boy who was in a coma for 8 years has left the hospital, through the magic of patient release, and is now walking down the street.
"It feels strange to walk down the street for the first time in 8 years," the boy observed. "I think I'll buy some shoes."
Indeed, the boy had forgotten his shoes, possibly a side effect of being in a coma for 8 years. Also, he was still in his hospital gown, and, inexplicably, a fez.
As luck would have it, there was a shoe store right around the corner. The boy entered the shoe store with all the panache of a boy who just awoke from an 8 year coma and needed a pair of shoes to go with his hospital smock and fez. The store was called TGI Shoe Store, and had once been a famous chain restaurant with a similar name, Shoe Store Fridays. It had been established 8 years ago, which was a coincidence, and specialized in shoes for the recently conscious, which was not. The boy couldn’t help but notice the intermingling scents of patent leather and onion rings, no matter how hard he tried. Fortunately, he was approached quickly by a shoe salesman in a shirt and tie, but not in that order.
"Can I help you?" screamed the shoe salesman. He worked on commission, and was under the impression that the loudest salespeople scored the most sales. This was for the most part untrue.
"I would like shoes. They would go on my feet," the boy stated, chewing on the rim of his fez.
"Where did you ever get that fez?" asked the salesman, with a look of longing in his eyes, longing for a fez of his own on whose rim he could potentially chew.
"A fez dispenser," the boy answered, lying through his teeth, yet telling the truth through the part in his hair.
"I will sell you shoes, if you will provide for me a fez like yours. It will go a long ways toward making me a hit with the ladies." The salesman was not wrong, the fez would in fact go a long ways toward making him a hit with the ladies, but not long enough.
"Could I use your bathroom? I've been in a coma for 8 years," the boy revealed. This gave the shoe salesman an idea and he, too, went to the bathroom. It would be one of the decisions he would make that day, but not the last. Not the last.
WILL THE BOY GET A PAIR OF SHOES? WILL THE SALESMAN GET A NEW FEZ? WILL YOU STILL LOVE ME TOMORROW?

THE BOY WHO WAS IN A COMA FOR 8 YEARS, PART I OF III

When the boy who was in a coma for 8 years woke up in the Medical Memorial Hospital, he had a beard. This is because when you're in a coma, you can't shave. The boy knew this, but it still surprised him because he didn't know he'd been in coma for 8 years. This is another side effect of being in a coma for 8 years.
His mom was there, too, at the Medical Memorial Hospital, with a Pepsi. Before the coma, which had lasted now for 8 years, the boy didn't like Pepsi, which upset his mom. She thought that perhaps being in a coma for 8 years may have changed his tastes a little bit. She specifically thought that being in a coma for 8 years may alter your carbonated beverage taste-buds, a theory which modern medical medicine has yet to disprove, due to lack of interest. When the boy awoke from his 8 year coma, the first words he said were mama and Pepsi. This looked good for the mom's theory, but in actuality, the boy was just speaking out loud the first things he saw after waking up from his coma, that had now lasted for 8 years.
"You've been in a coma for 8 years," the boy's mom informed him, holding the Pepsi can label forward.
"That must be why I have a beard." the boy observed, with a short laugh.
"That was a short laugh for someone who's been in a coma for 8 years," his mom smiled judgmentally.
"I must have missed a vast number of current events while in my 8 year coma, I'd be surprised to discover if Tom Cruise is no longer with Nicole Kidman, the Russians have launched a satellite, Mr. Sulu is gay, or Kate and Allie is off the air," the boy said, shaving his beard.
"You are in luck, my son, none of those events are current," his mom cried. Her tears fell down her cheek and up her nose, in defiance of physics. Goddamn tears.
"Don't cry mom, it's really gross." the boy shouted, releasing 8 years worth of anger on the second closest person in the room, if you count the can of Pepsi as a person.
Just then a third person entered the room, who was neither the boy nor his mother. It was the boy’s doctor, who had been following the boy’s coma for 8 years, which, coincidentally was the length of the boy’s coma.
“I’m sorry, I must be in the wrong room, this is the room of the boy, you know, the one in the coma?” The doctor sneered with a sarcastic sneer of sarcasm.
“No, this is the right room,” the boy averred, if I am using that word right.
“Sorry, your coma has made you impervious to sarcasm, which is why I added the sneer. This room is for patients only, if you are no longer comatose, you must vamoose the hospital,” the doctor ordered, sarcasm dripping from his sneer and onto the bib he had worn for just such an occasion.
“But, but, but, but,” the mother stammered, quoting the second verse of her favorite Big Bopper song.
“I must insist you leave,” the doctor repeated. “We need this bed, anyhow. There’s a party in the next room and the guests need a place to put their overcoats.”
And with that, the boy who was in a coma for 8 years was cast out into the cold, hard, smelly smelly world to begin his harrowing journey. And his mother went home, to try and find a place for the sixteen cases of Pepsi she had purchased for her now-conscious, ever-ungrateful boy.
WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT? WHO WILL CARE? HOW DO YOU TURN OFF CAPS LOCK?

DR. WIZARD'S FIELD GUIDE TO FAMILIAR PILLOWS

How do? Dr. Wizard here again, with more funtastic educationing! One of the more exciting (and soon to be legal!) pastimes to crop up recently is Pillow Peeping, a terrific hobby combining some of my favorite activities: bird-watching, interior design, domestic espionage and in some cases, Tex-Mex cuisine. Since Pillow Peeping is still fairly new, there has yet to be a definitive guide to the various class and specie of pillow one might come across. This will hopefully fill the heinous hole and, while it is by no means a definitive text, it is the first and therefore best.
-THROW PILLOW: This is by far the most common pillow out there. Characterized mainly by its shortness, it comes in a wide variety of shapes (square and round) and is normally adorned with tassels or obnoxious patterns. Found mainly in dens, parlors and living rooms, the Throw Pillow is ironic in that it is rarely if ever thrown. It is in fact most often laid down and left alone.
-LAID DOWN AND LEFT ALONE PILLOW: In another bit of irony, the Laid Down and Left Alone Pillows are almost always thrown. Also, they are always white, rectangular and exceedingly comfy. Usually spotted at slumber parties and sororities.
-MAKE-OUT PILLOWS: These pillows are almost always made out with, as opposed to instigating said make-out sessions. Though not as rare as one might think, they are very difficult to peep, as they most commonly preside in closets or under beds, and only come out behind closed doors. It should also be noted that Make-Out Pillows should only be utilized as human-substitutes by adolescents and/or complete losers.
-CORDUROY PILLOWS: One of the most popular pillows known to man, found exclusively in newsrooms. If you haven’t heard of Corduroy Pillows, I’d be surprised. They’re making headlines.
-HOLLYWOOD SQUARES PILLOW: Takes Shadoe Stevens for the block.
-MARK PILLOW: By far the rarest pillow in existence, the Mark Pillow has only been seen once, as Nuclear Man in Superman IV: The Quest For Peace.

WATCH THE 'TUDE, MISTER! TV PILOT

The following is an excerpt for a situation comedy set in high school called, Watch the ‘Tude, Mister! The scene is a school assembly on the first day. Lenny is among those attending, but he arrives tardy. On purpose! He takes a back row seat, as Vice Principal Vice begins his Address to the Freshmen.

VPV: Good morning, freshmen students of Candy Corn High School. My name is Vice Principal Vice-

Lenny: Vice Principal Vice? What’s your first name, Miami?

VPV: (removing his glasses and squinting at the students.) Whoever you are, you’re on your way to a detention, mister! Or miss!

Lenny: (to audience.) Sometimes an androgynous voice is your greatest weapon.

VPV: No more outbursts. Now I’m here to welcome you to some of the most exciting and challenging years of your lives.

Lenny: Show us your boobs!

VPV: I most certainly will not, young man or lesbian, and what’s more I have no bosoms to speak of.

Lenny: That’s not what your mom said last night.

VPV: That’s it! You are the straw, rapscallion, and I am the proverbial camel’s back.

Lenny: I knew you had boobs!

VPV: Camels do not contain breasts, they contain humps. You should have learned that before freshman year.

Lenny: Touché, Dad. I mean, oops.

VPV: (slow burn, like super-slow eternal flame burn.) Lenny! I’ll see you in my office after the assembly.

Lenny: (to audience.) Yeah, my Dad’s the Vice-Principal. Some people would kill or steal arson for that privilege, but not me, Lenny Vice, class Clownster.

Bleep: I say, Lenny, old bean, you would be advised to pay rapt attention to your patriarchal unit, I should think.

Lenny: (to audience.) That’s my friend, Bleep. He’s not British, he’s a nerd. Bleep, I live with the man. In the same exact household! I’ve memorized this speech.

VPV/Lenny: (unison.) Your heads will grow big, your hearts will grow strong, your feet will grow two inches exactly, it has to do with a by-product in the cafeteria food. But your hair will-not-grow! Or we will ship you off to the Academy for life. By and large, you will leave this school four years from now older than you are now, by and large. I thank you, and I thank you.

Bleep: By Jove! Spot on, Chaplin, spot on!

Lenny: Mimicry is just one of my cut-up gifts. And as you’ll find out, I’m sure, it’ll come in handy more than one time. Because, see, I got nothin’ to learn! (Lenny winks at the camera as he spouts his famous catchphrase.)

THE MR. HENSHAW LETTERS

Dear Leigh,
Thank you so very much for your letter of encouragement. It’s so thoughtful of you to send an incredibly brief notelet explaining how much you appreciate my work. However, I do have one minor request for you. If you could put a bug in your parents’ collective ear (not literally, like Wrath of Khan) to buy you the book, preferably in hardcover. As delightful as it is to receive fan letters, it’s much, much more fulfilling to receive royalty checks.
Sincerely,
Mr. Henshaw

Dear Leigh,
It’s amusing you should continue to write me after I thought I had sent the message loud and effing clear that I’m disinterested in what you have to say. Seriously, kid, do you have nothing better to do than write letters to a stranger all day? Have you considered the Boy Scouts or little league, maybe taken an interest in girls or comic books? Also, your parents might want to invest in a penmanship class, unless you’re going for the hieroglyphic thing? Seriously, I need a Rosetta Stone to figure out what you’ve written, and half a bottle of bourbon to care about it. Bottom line: stop writing me!
M. Henshaw
P.S. I don’t mean to suggest that you and any friends you may have should stop reading and buying my books. Seriously, I have a Miata to pay off.

Dear Leigh,
I’m not really sure why I’m writing to tell you this, but I feel I need to confess to someone. I knocked off a bakery last night. I’m not even sure why I did it, I don’t really care for baked goods. I’m allergic to yeast, for the Chrissakes! I happened to wander in, with an unsheathed Bowie knife, and the owner just lost it, started throwing all the pastries at me, which seemed so antagonistic so I stabbed him. A lot. Till he died from it. He was screaming, “I have a wife and kids, I have a wife and kids!” And I can’t stand a braggart, Leigh, my instinct is to kill braggarts. This is why I hunt bear and also why I’m never allowed at spelling bees. So now I’ve been sleeping in the not-so-spacious trunk of my Miata. I’m not sure what to do next, but I’ve got a great idea for a new book.
Help!
Henshaw

Leigh,
So, did you end up joining the Boy Scouts? I’ve been sleeping in this ditch the last few nights and I could really use a Boy’s sleeping bag. This really nice family stopped by looking for the Methodist Church and they gave me half their egg salad sandwich! I have no idea where I sent them, I think to a wasp’s nest. Same dif, right? Last night I played charades with a beautiful woman, who turned out to be a muskrat. We’re getting married in July. Do you know what month it is? I’ve totally forgotten how to tell time.
Henslaw

Leigh,
I received your last letter, I think, though it may have just been the side of a cereal box. Do you have a sister named Fructose? You know, I never thought of myself as a hat person, but now that I have a fancy hat I feel naked and dirty without it. It’s nothing special, just a hawk feather stuck in a crown of locust skins. Also, I have a phone number. You can reach me at area code four one two, seven eight seven. Don’t be surprised if I sound a lot like a dial tone, my voice has changed considerably these past months. I think I’ve begun to slur my speech a bit, which is from all the alcohol. And loss of teeth, probably.
Toothless in a tree,
Hensh

L-word,
I am currently writing you from the surface of the sun! It’s not quite as hot as I imagined it would be. But still, I’m wearing sunscreen! I’m here with my new best friends Rainbow and Chad. They’re writers, too. They’re written all sorts of poems about dragons and unicorns and celebrities genitalia. We’re going to start a new society here, one that doesn’t fight all the time, one that doesn’t see race or anything at all! The sun makes you go blind but the good kind of blind. I’m sorry if there are any spelling misspellings. I kissed a man last night. I’m almost pretty totally certain he wasn’t my daddy, though he tried to convince me otherwise. Anyhow, that’s neither here nor there, here of course still being the sun. I’m having the time of my life and if you don’t hear from me soon, we’ve all burned up! Sweet Christmas, it’s hotter than a sauna full of saunas up here! This might have been a very very very very very bad idea. Not as utopia-esque as I had imagined. But I bet it’ll make a great book someday!
Salutations in reverse,
Henshawmeter.
P.S. You’ve totally got to come visit the sun someday. You’ll lick it.

FIRE SAFETYNESS

“Safety first, then women, and, time permitting, children,” is the Official Motto of all firemen, with the exception of volunteer firemen, who know nothing of safety and are essentially wannabe daredevils. Real firemen are always prepared for an emergency, get to drive big red trucks and wield hatchets. Most of all, real firemen respect safety above all else, even their 45 collections. For them, and for pretty much everybody else, we present the Five Rules of Fire Safetyness.
1. Don’t panic. If you panic, you’ll wet your pants, and just become more flammable and then die in the most horrific and painful way you could possibly ever imagine. So chill out, dawg, ‘kay?
2. Seriously, don’t panic. That fire is just as afraid of you as you are of her. It’s one of Mother Nature’s most perplexing paradoxes, like super models dating fatties or reverse racism.
3. When exiting the enflamed structure, form a single line and exit in a calm and orderly fashion. Only tornado warnings are every man for himself.
4. If a fire breaks out at a basketball game, find shelter immediately and the team with the most points wins by default. If the score is tied, continue playing until the end of the quarter, or until enough players pass out from smoke inhalation. If you are the Harlem Globetrotters, you automatically win regardless of the score.
5. If you find yourself aflame, remember to drop, roll and stop, but not necessarily in that order. Dousing yourself with water might help, but a more helpful tactic might be to reason with the fire. Ask probing questions, such as why have you chosen to burn me, and was your mother unkind? Above all, try not to think of fire as your enemy, but as a friend, and an improver of marshmallows. Only you can strengthen the human-flame relations, and together we can learn to embrace fire and focus on the real threat to humanity, monster trucks.

LIST-TIME: LISTS FOR WOMEN!

PROPOSED SEQUELS TO THE TORI SPELLING TV MOVIE, "MOTHER MAY I SLEEP WITH DANGER?"

Are You Going to Eat That Rat Poison, Mother?
Danger and I Are Hanging Out, I'll Be Back Late, Okay Mother?
Isn't That Rabid Dog the Cutest?
Mother, May I Adopt a Child Through CCF with Danger?
I've Been Cast Opposite Vic Morrow in Twilight Zone: the Movie!

MY REJECTED LIFETIME MOVIE CONCEPTS

A Womb of One's Own: A complacent housewife is inspired by the works of Virginia Woolf to fight for her Pro-Choice rights. Starring Joanna Kerns, Patrick Duffy and Dom DeLuise as the womb.
Not Without My Kotter: A woman struggles to escape a brutish husband in Iran, but must battle for the custody of her precious Gabe Kaplan. Starring Ron Palillo as Gabe Kaplan, Dustin Diamond as Ron Palillo and Gabe Kaplan as Sall Field.
Sleeping with the Enemy's Best Friend: An abused housewife confides in her husband's best friend, who in turn confides in her, and they both end up boring each other into slumber. But will the husband believe them? Starring Valerie Bertinelli, Michael Gross, and either Nick Nolte or Gary Busey.
I Know My First Name Has a Silent E In It: Louise is kidnapped by her gym teacher, and returns to her family 75 years later, only to find that they are really really old. Starring Kellie Martin, Tom Wopat, and Bea Arthur as the old people.
Encloaked in a Quiet Quilt of Silence: In war-torn Omaha, Nebraska, a young girl is adopted by her aunt and uncle when her parents die of boredom. She is raised to believe that they are her parents, until she turns sixteen, when it is revealed she is Amy Fisher. Confused, she turns to drugs and alcohol, and joins a cult that worships 70's rock band Electric Light Orchestra and all sport Magnum, P.I. moustaches. In the end, they burn down Ak-Sar-Ben as Lionel Richie's "Three Times a Lady" plays on the soundtrack. Starring Alyssa Milano as Amy Fisher and vice versa.

BONUS LIST: LITTLE-KNOWN PATRON SAINTS

Adrian- Patron Saint of magnetic poetry
Bea- Patron Saint of school lunches
Chisolm- Patron Saint of dirty-sounding first names
Deanna- Patron Saint of captions on reality television
Elias- Patron Saint of lost board game pieces
Felicia- Patron Saint of people who cheat at crossword puzzles
Gregor- Patron Saint of patronizing saints

DISPATCHES FROM THE REPUBLIC OF TEA

Greetings! We hope this little missive finds you someplace safe and warm, such as a cozy cottage by a fire, a great, big bear hug (from an actual bear!) or an oversize mug of one of our many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many sumptuous teas. We have such exciting news- 3 new exciting, yet sedating teas are being added to our extensive, extensive, extensive, extensive, extensive catalog! Our tea-sketeers have really outdone themselves and are all taking a well-deserved holiday in our neighboring Republic of Beanbag Chair. We cannot wait to share these new flavors with you, so we wont’! Here they are:
-SAPPHIRE STORMCLOUD: Capturing the essence of both precipitous weather and precious sapphire, this tea will bring all the deliciousness of an overcast day to your taste-bud’s subconscious.
-VANILLA ARMREST SURPRISE: Give your esophagus a liquid propping place, with a hint of vanilla, and another hint of vanilla, and more than a hint of vanilla, and a surprise! (Hint: not vanilla.)
-FRENCH KISS MINT TONGUE EXPLOSION: Imagine being kissed by a mint leaf. Now imagine that same mint leaf French (or open-mouth) kissing you. Now, imagine that exact same mint leaf’s tongue exploding mid-French kiss (the act, not the Meg Ryan film.) Now imagine this whole scenario as a tea. Give up? Quitter!
We hope you look forward to these new teas as much as we look forward to you purchasing them. Enjoy!