EL HIATUSO DU FALSIUS MUSTACHIUM

To My Five Loyal Followers,
I am humbled a little bit and appreciative of your following of me and my blog. Please tell your friends and family to follow also, especially if they have connections and/or are literary agents. It is not in any way an exaggeration to state that I have been updating with absolute and utter regularity since this blog's inception decades upon decades upon tens of years ago, and so I felt I should inform you all five that I will be taking a brief hiatus for about three (that's the number 3) weeks. Please do not worry about me, it's not all that probable that I've died or worse. Yet I also implore you to not forget me while I'm out of your lives or stop following my blog. Take the time to familiarize yourself with the archives, re-read your favorite posts over and over, ignore the accidentally repeated jokes, et (and Peter) cetera. I am worth so much of your time you should be paying me to do this instead of the other way around. Rest assured and for at least eight hours that I will be back in three (3) weeks to continue to provide for you hilarity, or my name ain't MJ Hansen, which is exactly who I am.
Thanks!

PUDDIN’ POP

Well, I love ya baby, you’re my Puddin’ Pop.

You shop until you’re just about to drop.

If I were a farmer, I’d neglect my crop,

To spend more time with my Puddin’ Pop.

Puddin’ Pop, you’re the pick of the litter,

In any sport you could pitch a no-hitter.

Your boss would fire you and how he’d be bitter.

But my Puddin’ Pop she ain’t no quitter.

Now my Puddin’ Pop has gotta live wild and free.

I can’t chain her down or Indian wrestle her to me.

She flaps like a butterfly, pollinates like a bee.

I’m quite fond of her peaches, wanna intercourse her tree.

Puddin’ Pop you win the white carnation.

You’d totally kick ass on Face the Nation.

Your kisses heal cuts and minor abrasions.

Except they don’t heal cuts and minor abrasions.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah,

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

Puddin’ Pop, Puddin’ Pop. Puddin’ Pop, Puddin’ Pop,

Puddin’ Pop, Puddin’ Pop, Puddin’ Pop, Puddin’ Pop.

Puddin’ Pop, Puddin’ Pop, Puddin’ Pop, Puddin’ Pop,

Puddin’ Pop, Puddin’ Pop, Puddin’ Pop, Puddin’ Pop.

Puddin’ Pop, you’ve got a way about you,

I bet you think this song is all about you.

And now you know I cannot live without you,

And I’ll Green Giant you, I ain’t gonna Sprout you.

Hey Puddin’ Pop I ain’t no hallucination,

In case you needed some clarifification.

I’ll be the cup and you’ll be the libation.

I’ll be the master and you’ll be the bation.

YEAH!

(Super solo! Fade out- The End!)

BEES: NATURE'S DEADLIEST BEE

The Animal Kingdom has its king (lion), queen (angelfish) and court jester (Gallagher 2) but if any species qualifies as the evil sorcerer it is the bee. Yes, they provide honey and pollinate flowers, but they also buzz loudly and sting sharply. They look harmless, possibly even cute, if you're into that sort of thing, but like Veronica Lake in Double Indemnity they will murder you with their ass. Scoff if you must, but bees are deadly. They're the reason Macaulay Culkin died! They're cold-blooded child actor killers! The tyranny of the bee must stop. And we must rise up against them. If we all take a stand and say "No" to bees we can defeat them in their little winged tracks. And no more do we need to be afraid to picnic. No more do we need to be afraid to tireswing. No more do we need to afraid to stand in line at the swimming pool. Yes we can have a sting-free summer! Yes we can live without honey! Yes we can teach sex to our children with just the birds! If you can dream, it will be. Let's take back the skies, people! This message brought to you by The Committee to Spread the Blame Away From Wasps.

SUPER-QUICK MOVIE DIALOGUE IV: NIGHT TALK

(Terry is the host of Night Talk, a late night Charlie Rose-esque talk show. Ike is his guest.)

Terry: Good late, late evening and welcome to Night Talk, the latest talk show on your television. My guest this late, late evening is an author, a lecturer, a raconteur, and bespectacled. Have I left anything out?

Ike: Circumcised?

Terry: Ah, sorry about that.

Ike: No problem, it’s no skin off my back!

(Ike laughs uproariously at this, Terry stares gravely at him.)

Terry: You’ve written several books, essays, pamphlets and bumper stickers. Your latest work is an autobiographical autobiography entitled, “See Me, Wouldn’t Want to Be Me: How Backwards Reflection Led To Forward Thinking.” Tell us a bit about your life and hardscrabble tiles, I mean times.

Ike: I have led what you might call an awful, or suckwad life. Orphaned at the age of 40, forced to subsist on substandard oxygen when I was roommates with a cougher in college, survivor of the Holocaust… museum fire…drill of 1988, I’ve battled rare diseases like Unistache, my mustache was an unbroken strip of hair below my nose, and this weird rash I keep getting if I sleep on this arm. But it’s not all tears and fears; I’ve led a full life, too. Just one example, I was a roadie for the Temptations, way back in the day, when it was just four guys named for the four deadly temptations: chocolate, heroin, greeditude and butt sex.

Terry: They have called you a misunderstood genius. They also say you’re an understood moron. They also claim you are brilliant, a charlatan, a hack, a smacker, classy, broad-shouldered, blonde, dirty blonde, strawberry blonde, bottle blonde, a cheapskate, a handsome devil, a loose cannon, a sissy Muppet, and a retarded Jerry Lewis. How do you respond to these allegations?

Ike: Who are they?

Terry: They is the plural of me.

Ike: You? Why would you call me these hurtful things? Loose cannon? Strawberry blonde? I thought you were my friend, my pal, my buddy, my compadre, my platonic Jerry Lewis.

Terry: As a talk show host, it’s my job to give you that impression of our relationship, but it’s all untrue.

Ike: I… had no idea…

Terry: That was the point. But we’re getting off-topic. You’ve written a good number of self-help and philosophical tomes. What exactly drew you to that genre?

Ike: Yes, I dabbled in inspirational literature. I adapted The Purpose-Driven Life into a Choose Your Own Adventure, which was very popular. I just sometimes feel as though it’s important to nurture positivity, to encourage passion and drive in people who are looking for a little direction. You know, to teach, to preach, to speech, to breach.

Terry: And why’s that?

Ike: Fuck you, that’s why! I don’t need to explain myself to you!

Terry: And is this an example of your teaching, preaching or breaching?

Ike: I baked you a birthday cake! I wrote you into my will! I got us matching ATVs so we could be like those fat twins from the Guinness Book of World Records!

Terry: What can I say; it’s the nature of the biz. Just be professional.

Ike: I just feel so violated.

Terry: Let’s just get through the interview and we can discuss it later.

Ike: I’ll try.

Terry: Sigmund Freud once said, “Revenge is a dish best served to mother.” Let me ask you, do you believe he said that?

Ike: I don’t- no!

Terry: Let me rephrase the question: do you believe he said that?

Ike: You didn’t rephrase the question.

Terry: Let me rephrase your answer: yes.

Ike: That’s not what I said! That’s libel.

Terry: Libel?

Ike: Libel!

Terry: That’s not libel! You’re libel! You’re libel to get smacked upside the ugly face!

Ike: (Rising)Yeah?

Terry: (Rising) Yeah!

Ike: Yeah?

Terry: Yeah!

(They stare each other down.)

Terry: I’m afraid we’ve run out of time.

Ike: Yeah. Me too.

Too Tall: Join me next week when my guest will be Lewellyn Lewdegeneres, author of Seven Novels, Six of Them Best-Sellers: My Quest to Write Six Best-Selling Novels. Until then, goodnight.

Ike: Bye.

(Ike begins to leave.)

Terry: Wait!

Ike: No. It’s too late.

(Ike exits, Terry is despondent and regretful, heartbreakingly hilarious! End scene.)

MORTIFYING MOMENTS THROUGHOUT HISTORY

-“My mate Adam and I had just been created and were doing some gardening, when I decided to have an apple for a snack, and asked Adam if he wanted some. Big Mistake! Turned out the apple was from our landlord’s tree and we were promptly evicted. Paradise (and Pride) Lost!” Eve

-“I was hanging out with my hubby Menelaus, king of Sparta, when an ex-BF named Paris came along and abducted me! He made me go with him to Troy and royally pissed off my husband who declared a war which lasted a super-long time and ended the lives of untold millions. Was my face red?” Helen

-“I was minding my owns in Eastern France when I started getting these visions from God that the English would invade my homeland. It was worse than my period! I was sent into battle where I was initially victorious, but then kidnapped and burned at the stake. Talk about a buzzkill!” Joan

-“After being courted by the King, I finally gave in and got married, only to turn around and bear him a daughter and not a son. Understandably, he had my head chopped off. Thank God, because I just wanted to hide my face!” Anne

-“It was, at first, the greatest night of my life. I totes won the Academy Award for Best Actress, the first African-American woman to do so! But oops! I accidentally made Gothika and Catwoman after that. I couldn’t believe my mortifying mistake. What a boner indeed.” Halle

THE GUNNIST!

The Gunnist, Adam Donovan, adjusted his hat using his six-shooter. The sun was unusually yellow that day, like a camel with a tan. Miss McReedy, the schoolmarm, was bringing a basket of sandwiches, and Muto, the schoolmime, was trapped in an invisible box. Donovan and the teacher were having a picnic, which explained the sandwiches, if not the invisible box.

Suddenly, a dark and mysterious stranger with a big black beard rode up on a mean-looking horse with a big black beard. “Gunnist!” He shouted. “I come to call you out. They say you’re the best gunfighter from here to eternity, but I say different. I’m Beardy the Cowboy, and I’m the fastest draw in the Western Hemisphere.” The horse whinnied through his beard, as did the cowboy.

“Be careful, Adam,” Miss McReedy wailed, which was a tad melodramatic. She was on a first name basis with the Gunnist, as he was with her, though as she had no first name they simply called each other Adam.

“I reckon, Beardy,” Donovan said to Beardy, “that we best not draw our firearms in the presence of lady folk.”

“I knew it. Yer yella! Like a camel with a tan,” Beardy laughed, shaking his beard like tar-flavored cotton candy. “Let it be known throughout this land that I defeated the Gunnist by default. Har Har!

“Be careful, Adam,” Miss McReedy wailed, forgetting she had already done so. The basket of sandwiches quivered in her hands, because it was a scary moment and sandwiches are cowardly. Even heroes.

“I reckon, Beardy,” Donovan said to Beardy, “we best settle this. I cain’t be having my good name sullied in these parts. Not these parts.” He repeated the parts part for emphasis.

“Then I give you to the count of 3,” Beardy said, dismounting his horse, then his beard. “If’n you can count that high. Har Har!”

“You ain’t so clever by half,” Donovan snapped. “We’ll count down from 3, then draw on draw.”

“And it’ll be 3-2-1 draw, or 3-2-draw?”

“Surprise me, stranger,” the Gunnist quipped.

“Be careful, Adam,” Miss McReedy whaled. But the countdown had begun! 3-2-1… draw! As Beardy pulled his rifle from behind, Donovan whipped his six-shooter at Beardy’s midsection, beaning him in directly in the abdomen. A direct hit! Beardy was stunned, disarmed and hurt. There were tears in his eyes, too. The day was saved. Adam Donovan, the Gunnist, was still the best there ever was. And Miss McReedy was still his lady. Beardy had lost! And there were sandwiches to be eaten. But perhaps best of all, Muto had escaped the invisible box. And they were all friends forever. The End.

INTERIOR DESIGN FOR THE CHICKEN SOUP SOUL SECRET SENSATION

As I am not a successful interior designer, I have never been asked to provide tips for aspiring interior designers. This is what interior designers call a given, and what I call racist. Who are they that I am not good enough to have pointers on their profession, just because I’ve never done it professionally or otherwise? My first bit of advice would be not to bother entering the super secret sacred world of interior design to begin with, but if you feel overwhelmingly compelled to do so, here are at least a few tips you can borrow when embarking up this jerk-filled tree. But you have to give them back when you’re done.

1. Have a centerpiece that really draws the room-dweller’s attention, such as an ornate candelabra or representation of the female anatomy. Don’t be afraid to use clashing colors or no color at all. But use color. And try not to clash.

2. Speaking of color, try to have a color scheme, or at least a color scam. Bring some diversity to the room with a symphony of shades and poetry slam of pigmentation. Don’t simply stick to white. White is the color of an unimaginative mind and most of our Presidents and everyone hates these things passionately.

3. Walls and a ceiling are essential elements to any room. And probably a floor. Most rooms have at least one door, and in this age of equal opportunity, many doors lead outward as well as inward. This is very Zen, I think, but probably not.

4. While muted colors aren’t absolutely necessary, be careful not to make the room too loud. (NOTE: If your client is deaf, disregard this tip.) (ALSO NOTE: That joke was terrible, please disregard it.)

5. Taxidermied animals scare the befuckingjesus out of anyone who isn’t mentally unstable, a serial killer, or both, but not neither. If your client insists on using taxidermy, call 911 immediately; lock yourself in the bathroom and pray for your client to die or another job, whichever comes first.

6. A truly underrated movie: Robocop. Though-provoking and pulse-pounding. And fun!

7. Above all, never forget the Four F’s on Interior Design: Fun, Fashion, Furniture and The Fourth F.

SEXING THE CITY

(At a table in a bar sit four female friends. Claudia, the narrator/writer; Renee, the prudish art gallery owner; Donna, the no-nonsense lawyer; and Karen, the sex-crazed businesswoman. They are all laughing and drinking Cosmotinis. Claudia addresses the audience.)

Claudia: Four female friends, just like you. Meeting for Cosmotinis at an exclusive New York club, just like you do. Talking and joking and crying and angry-facing about all the things you as a modern lady care passionately at and about and of: guys, shoes and sexing, and how and why and where and when they intersect, or intersex! But suddenly I realized that I couldn’t help but wonder what we’re talking about right now.

Donna: Joe, my slacker boyfriend tells me he wants to try to be a pro basketball player and quit his lucrative busboy career.

Renee: Oh, you should let him! It’s important to follow your dreams and embrace the impossible and chastely kiss the fairytales, like true love with a rich blue-blood American and four-inch heels.

Donna: Renee, you can be so naïve. I work hard throwing law around in courtrooms all day and some nights and I expect my mate to bring home his share of the bacon along with me.

Karen: If by bacon you mean penis and by bring home you mean place inside your vagina I concur wholeheartedly. And by concur wholeheartedly I mean I’m a slut.

Renee: Ew! You always find a way to make everything dirty.

Karen: If by make things dirty you mean 69 with my male secretary, I concur wholeheartedly.

Claudia: Guys, guys, we’re getting off topic here. Should Donna let Joe pursue his basketball fantasy?

Karen: I let a Joe pursue his basketball fantasy once and let me tell you it was a slam dunk. Between my legs!

Donna: That’s what I call a personal foul.

Claudia: Swish!

Karen: Beer and hot dogs euphemism!

Renee: That’s just wrong, making sports about sex. You guys are grossburgers.

Donna: Aaaanyway, I think I have to leave Joe. I’m sure my workaholic success as a lawyer-at-law is a big turn-off.

Claudia: I don’t know. My boyfriend, Mr. Massive and I have come to terms with it.

Renee: How? He’s the richest man in the universe and you’re struggling sex columnist with an incredible apartment. How, how are you two, the two of you, able to reconcile your differences?

Karen: I reconcile my differences with men all the time.

Donna: Let me guess- in the bedroom.

Karen: No, silly, in the butt!

Claudia: To get back to me, me, me, the way we’ve worked around it is I keep him satisfied in the Johnsonian region and he keeps me satisfied in the closet.

Karen: If by in the closet you mean in the butt, I concur wholeheartedly.

Renee: Ew, my dainty demeanor! You’re going to shatter it like a glass menagerie of missionary positions!

Claudia: By in the closet, I mean shoes.

Renee: Shoes! Shoes!

Donna: Shoes, shoes.

Claudia: Shoes, shoes, shoes!

Donna: Shoes. Shoes shoes shoes.

Renee: Shoes! Shoes! Shoes!

Claudia: Shoesy shoesy shoo shoo shoes.

Karen: Shoes shoes shoes shoes shoes… in the butt.

Donna: You mean thongs?

Renee: You guys, be serious for more than one-halfth of a second. What Claudia has is precious and pure like a sweet, well-bred virgin pony, and Donna you should aspire to that preciosity and purification.

Claudia: It’s not that pure. Mr. Massive makes me wear a Michael Myer’s mask and call him grandson when we do it and likes to videotape me pooping.

Donna: Wow! That’s not okay.

Karen: I do not concur wholeheartedly with that, and I’ll concur wholeheartedly to anything.

Renee: I think you just made me go blind.

Claudia: (To audience.) And then I suddenly realized that no one should go through that humiliation, no matter how rich their boyfriend is.

Renee: Cute shoes!

Claudia: Guys, I’m back together with Massive!

Karen: If by back together with Massive, you mean-

Donna: I’m gonna stop you right there, Karen. She doesn’t mean that.

Claudia: God, you guys, we sound like all women, don’t we?

LISTS THAT HAVE NO REASON TO EXIST

MOVIES ABOUT SANTA CLAUS

Miracle on 34^th Street

Santa Claus: The Movie

Santa Claus Conquers the Martians

The Santa Clause

The Santa Clause 2

The Santa Clause 3: The Escape Clause

MOVIES NOT ABOUT SANTA CLAUS

Jingle All the Way

Toys

White Christmas

The Magic Christian

Fat Man and Little Boy

Lovers of the Arctic Circle

MOVIES POTENTIALLY SUBTEXTUALLY ABOUT SANTA CLAUS

Little Big Man

The Passion of the Christ

Pay It Forward

Highlander

McLintock!

Crocodile Dundee 2

THE RUSHMORE FOUR IN: LADY LIBERTY @ LARGE!

Whenever a memorial or monument is desecrated, theftorated or otherwise endangered, you can rely on four fine friendly fellows to make that wrong arighted. Washington! Jefferson! Lincoln! Roosevelt! From their secret hideout somewhere in South Dakota, they keep a watchful eye on their beloved country, ready to spring into action when least expected and most needed, or vice versa. They are: The Rushmore Four!

(R4 HQ. Roosevelt is cleaning his muskets, Lincoln is doing a crossword, Jefferson is rocking out in his oversized headphones, and Washington is writing in his blog.)

Washington: Washington’s Post, May the Fifth, Two Thousand and Nine, AD. There has been little activity as of late- too little. Our last adventure was almost two months ago, when the gravestone of President Garfield was replaced by a cookie jar emblazoned with an obese cat and the epitaph, “I Hate Mondays.” Though James did prefer his weekends, we felt this wasn’t a fitting tribute for such a 20^th President, and had it replaced forthwith. But not only had we not solved the mystery of whodundat, we hadn't seen nor heard of anything curious since. My Georgie senses are tingling, however, which means something is brewing upon the horizon. Also, it means that I skipped lunch.

(A loud beeping! An alarm!)

Lincoln: Great Caesar's Snowpants!

Roosevelt: Bully!

Jefferson: Daaaaamn, yo!

Washington: I knew it! A case! Rushmorers, rushsemble!

Jefferson: Dude, s'aight, we right here, yo.

Lincoln: Yes, George, don't get your dander in a bunch. It's probably nothing. Shoplifter at the Truman Library or some such thingy.

Roosevelt: Bully.

Washington: Nevertheless, it may be a serious situation. It's been quiet too long, boys.

Lincoln: Great Caesar's Skinned Knee! The Statue of Liberty, it's-

Roosevelt: Bully?

Lincoln: It's gone!

Roosevelt: Bully!

Jefferson: Ah, hell nizzo!

Washington: He's right. There's no trace of her anywhere. It's almost as if she... walked away.

Jefferson: You mean swam, homie. Snap to the dap!

Roosevelt: Bully!

Lincoln: Obviously, she didn't walk or swim away. She's been stolen. But by who, or what?

Washington: Or who? Abe, Tommy, Ted-Ted, to the Rushmorebile!

Jefferson: Yup yup!

Roosevelt: Bully!

(They run to the Rushmorebile, a flying van with propellered wings. Roosevelt carries a musket, Washington a sword, Lincoln a railsplitter, and Jefferson a boombox. The van zooms out a secret doorway in Lincoln's nose at Mt. Rushmore. Inside the van, Lincoln is driving, Washington looking through a periscope, Roosevelt has his musket placed out a window ready to take aim and fire, and Jefferson is at the computers.)

Washington: Coming up on Liberty Statue Island, still no signs of any activity. Aside from the missing statue.

Jefferson: Yee-ah and nuthin' on the radar, yo!

Roosevelt: Bully!

Lincoln: Well said.

Washington: Gentlemen, I'm at a loss. This is a complete conundrum. Completely! What could have possibly could have happened? What?

Lincoln: I'm just as stymied as- Great Caesar Sweetback's Badass Song!

(The van is rocking, yet there is also a knocking! It's the Statue of Liberty, kicking the flying van with her large feet!)

Roosevelt: Bully!

Lincoln: Isn't she just?

Jefferson: Fat shit, yo!

Washington: Battle stations! But be careful, we don't want to harm Lady Liberty.

(The four Presidents leap out of the van, and combine into each other to form a giant robot in the shape of a Rushmore-style totem pole, with Washington's head at the top and Lincoln's feet at the bottom, Roosevelt's arms and torso in the middle. Also, Jefferson's in there too! They fight and hit and kick and argue until Lady Liberty is knocked down. The Presidentbot land on Liberty Statue Island and disassembles back into the foursome. From the crown of the statue appears Benjamin Franklin.)

R4: Benjamin Franklin!

Franklin: I admit it, I've been behind it all!

Washington: But why?

Roosevelt: Bully!

Lincoln: Great Caesar's Caesar!

Jefferson: The fuck, dude?

Franklin: You all think you're the tits, politically speaking, because you've held the highest office in the country! But you never think of old Ben Franklin, do you? No, you never ever do. But the world will have the last laugh-on you- because of me! Ha! Ha!

(He removes a kite with a key tied around the string and flies away in bifocals, thinking of stoves.)

Washington: We haven't seen the last of him. Ben Franklin will continue to wreak havoc on our country's most precious memorials. But he won't beat us! We are the Rushmore Four! Unbeatable! Unstoppable! And very old!

R4: Rushmore Four!

The End!

SIX PLUS TWO EASY STEPS TO CONQUERING PUBLIC SPEAKING FEAR

1. Try surprising your audience with an unusual speaking style. Perhaps removing all punctuation, adding unnecessary punctuation, or ending each sentence with a home-spun colloquialism such as, “Heebie-Jeebies,” “Jesus Wept,” or “Jammin’ On The One!”

2. Give your audience a nickname so they seem more familiar, something like, The Crowd, Da Boyeez, or Los Subordinate Mofos. Give them a common back story, like they all survived a plane crash, or they’re all conspiring to murder you.

3. Do not be self-conscious, but seriously, speak up! And tuck in your shirt; this isn’t a Third Grade Recital. This is the Big Leagues, The Show, The Shmoopy, The Parent’s Table, The Adult G.I. Joes. You cock this up it could be curtains, and I don’t mean drapes! So stop being self-conscious.

4. Imagine everyone in the audience in their underwear. Now you can feel confident no one is paying attention to you, as they’ll be transfixed by your enormous erection.

5. Open with a joke, especially a knock-knock joke, as it involves the audience. However, if your audience consists of homeless people, avoid the knock-knock joke, as it just reminds them they are homeless. Tell a racist joke instead. Or just get them drunk.

6. If you feel as if you’re going to faint, make sure your knees aren’t locked. Do five or six deep knee-bends to get the circulation going. It can also help to put your head betwixt your knees, or betwixt the knees of the nearest audience member. Take deep, noisy, phlegmatic inhalations and exhale profoundly, swooning as if the Pope gave you his Promise Ring. Most importantly, Do Not stop speaking while doing this. Most people will think it’s part of the presentation, and the rest won’t be paying attention anyway.

7. Be succinct, don’t suck ink. I’m not sure what that means yet, but I’m sure it’s wise.

8. Above all, remember that public speaking is nothing to fear. Your peers will have already judged you before you open your mouth, and nothing you say or do is going to change their opinion. So have fun! Or just get drunk.

A NOTE ON THE TYPE

The typeface used in the interwebical publication is an obscure font known as Calpracia Newish Roman. Not commonly seen these days outside of garment care instruction tags and back issues of Obscure Fonts Quarterly, Calpracia Newish Roman, or Cal to his close friends and associates, has led a long and tumultuous life on the page.

Born in a log printing press to Alexander and Christina’s Hand (nee Manos de Christina), Cal was an only font whose parents were used sparingly (in diaries, grocery lists and the occasional sympathy card) and as such were very liberal, doting on their child, and encouraging artistic passion, open and honest emotion, and the freedom to express himself via run-on sentences. As Cal grew older, he began to resent and rebel against his parents. In fact, his first two jobs were in the advertising industry. The first was for Generic Seaman Spiced Rum-Flavored Liquor (“We Put the Arrr in Rum-Flavarrred!”), the second for Generic Semen Sperm Bank (“A Commitment to Ambiguity… Kind Of.) These were mere stepping stones, a literal ladder up to the top rung of success which was his next gig, the liner notes for seminal rock duo Baby Swipes debut album, “Sounds Like My Honeymoon.” Readers were enthralled by Cal’s relaying of pertinent information such as song titles, copyright info, shout-outs to homies, and who played such exotic instruments as the Pipe Organ, Mouth Harp, Jew’s Harp, Jew Mouth, and Drums. It was an exhilarating time for Cal, but the ride would be short-lived, as kidnappers began using words cut from the album in their pasted together ransom notes, and infants from wealthy families such as Jew Mouth, Junior began to disappear. Cal was eventually convicted as being an accessory to baby swiping, and served five years in the State Pen, until all the ink had run out.

Slowly, but surely, Calpracia Newish Roman has worked his way back into the world of the printed word, using the Spanish he learned in the Pen to subtitle cartoons and the thoughts of bilingual dreamers, found work on the occasional cereal box, until applying at our imaginary offices. False Moustache, an equal opportunity employer, is proud to employ Calpracia Newish Roman equally and at opportune moments. But read at your own risk, and keep an extra eye your babies. YOU HAVE BEEN WAAAAARNED!!!!