Allow Myself To Introduce...Myself

I swear, I don't know how all these bloggers manage to blog on a daily basis. They must all be trust fund babies or have jobs that only require them to work an hour or so a day (i.e., managers/executives) to be able to fit it in. Well, I am neither independently wealthy nor a bastard, so please forgive my cretinous tardiness in updating. Also, please forgive the brevity of this entry, but I'm running out of interesting letters to respond to, so I'm half-assing it here. Then again, what do I owe you people? Nothin', that's what.

Entertainment Weekly, Sex & The City Issue

Sadly, I'm filled with gloom about the summer movie season - predictably full of comic-book adaptations, teen sex comedies, and sequels (Summer Movie Preview). I wish more filmmakers would take a cue from Woody Allen and make more original summer fare, like his upcoming 'Vicky Cristina Barcelona'.
Tracey Maine
Parkersburg, W.Va.

Tracey,
I wish more filmmakers would take a cue from Allen and start fucking their adopted children, personally. That way they could film it (you know 99% of directors have to have cameras set up in their bedrooms - and half of those probably shout out directions during the act, too: "I'm sorry, that moaning's not working for me. Could you try it a little more in the style of Me Ryan in the diner scene from When Harry Met Sally? That's it. Perfect. And, CUT!") and post it on the internet and we'd finally have some porn with real production values and a sense of vision. Not to mention the fact that, were Woody to sell his sex tape over the internet, he'd probably make more than the grosses of his last 30 films combined. Who's with me? Come on!

Speaking of screwing Woody Allen, I'm not convinced you aren't doing it yourself. Or possibly you're just his publicist posing as a lowly EW reader, since you went out of your way to badmouth teen sex comedies - which I will not stand for - and followed it up with some praise for a film of his that hasn't even been released yet. You're not exactly putting the "b" in "subtle". Still, if you are indeed a member of Mr. Allen's inner circle, do you think you could show him this screenplay I wrote? I figure he might have someone in his Rolodex who could direct it without making it suck.

Please don't call me Reg, it's not my name,
John

Entertainment Weekly, May 30, 2008

Ellen Pompeo's Meredith isn't just the namesake of 'Grey's Anatomy' - she's its heart and soul.
Sam Kuntz
Cleveland

"Don't I look sultry and sexy? My secret: I was just hit by a car!"

Sam,
Guess that would explain why the show's so vapid and unappealing, then, wouldn't it? Now run along, afore I be forced to pee on you.

p.s. I was going to mock you for writing in about such an obvious chick show, but after noting your last name, I figured you've probably been mocked enough in your life.

Giving out their word 'cause it's all that they won't keep,
John

People, June 2, 2008

Heidi Montag must have been dreaming! She can't possibly think that we'd believe she looks like that when she wakes up in the morning. Heidi may want to take a cue from the other cast members who were confident enough to show their true selves.
Donna Alves
San Jose, Calif.

Heidi Montag: She can annex my pole-land any day

Oh, Donna,
Who did what, now? Heidi Montag - is she the chancellor of Germany? Because if she is, I can tell you from personal experience, the bitch looks absolutely ravishing when she wakes up in the morning. Also, though she once played the role of Danny Zuko in an off-Broadway production of Grease, she no longer has any other "cast members", so I haven't the muh'fuckin' foggiest what you're on about. Perhaps you meant to say "members of her cabinet". Maybe you should try studying history some time, so you don't end up sounding like such a total fucking donkey. People like you are the reason we're losing the lucrative plastic chew-toy industry to the Chinese.

I went to the chair and I sat in it,
John

Entertainment Weekly, Summer TV Preview '08

As a Oliver Stone fan, I expect 'W' will be like his other films: wildly inaccurate yet fascinating.
Jeff Littleton
Dallas

Jeff,
I think you misspelled "irrelevant" and "boring as a pair of thumbs".

I'm sure that everybody knows how much my body hates me,
John

Not A Real Update...

...Though I'd planned an entry; suffice to say, things didn't work out (I didn't even update my other blog tonight, and most of that shit's already written), but maybe I'll be able to finish the post tomorrow morning (if the fuckers at work will get off my back about doing my "job"). So let me do just a couple shout-outs:

1. News flash!: Not all Entertainment Weekly letter writers are stupid monkeys!
Finally, one of them responds to an entry of mine without coming off like a whiny loser. She posted her comment here, and proved conclusively that even people who read trashy magazines are capable of possessing a sense of humor about themselves and using their brains for purposes other than watching TV. See, the difference between most of these correspondents and me (and no, it's not that I'm so much smarter than they) is that if some random blogger I didn't know personally attacked me in (cyber-)print, I wouldn't give a shit. I might even find it funny. In fact, anybody who wants to start a website dedicated to how much I suck and write scathing pieces about my proclivity for raping kittens or whatever, be my guest. Frankly, strangers' opinions of my worth as a human being stopped mattering to me in 9th grade. Kimberly would appear to be made of similar stuff, and it's heartening to see she didn't take my attack personally and got the (admittedly caustic) joke. So I thank you, madam, for responding in a witty fashion, and to answer your question (Who should play me in the biopic of your life), I think you'll agree there is but one clear-cut choice: Jeremy Piven.

2. Moo!
I'm sure I'm the last one in this hemisphere to become aware of this, but on the off chance you haven't seen it yet, this is quite possibly the funniest thing on all the internets. Oh, in theory, it sounds like it should be the lamest, most uninspired pile of worthlessness ever, but I was literally crying from laughing so hard at the absurdity of it all. Trust me, if you like this here blog, the humor's right up your alley.

And now, I am spent.

Believe It Or Not, George Isn't At Home...

As I mentioned, I'm doing a second blog now, so I won't be updating this one on a daily basis anymore (not that I really have been anyway), but I'll keep it up at least a few times a week. If you know what I mean. And if you do, please pass it along to me. I'm totally lost.

People, June 2, 2008

Like Julianne Moore, I too have spent my life wishing for a new hair color. Not anymore! Thank you for letting the world know redheads are unique and beautiful and for making me feel special.
Amy Hartman
Grove City, Ohio

Amy,
I hate to take a dump in your oatmeal, but not all redheads are beautiful (much less unique - a good rule of thumb when using this term: if there's more than one of something, it's not unique in any sense of the word). Maybe you're unfamiliar with that annoying kid who always called Phillip Drummond "Mr. D." and sang fucked-up country songs on Diff'rent Strokes? You know, the little butt-ass who went on to star in that sub-Saved By The Bell-level atrocity Salute Your Shorts? Well, take my word for it, he was about as fugly as they come. There are, of course, also many attractive redheads (as there are of any friggin' hair color [except white - albinos and the elderly will always be hideous]), as pretty much anyone with even an IQ in the low teens would suspect. Furthermore, I'm pretty sure "the world" already knew this without having to be reminded by People. Why it's news to you is puzzling, but I'm glad a single article about Julianne Moore was able to reverse a lifetime of low self-esteem. Just think, pretty soon people won't need therapists at all - they'll just go into the therapists' waiting rooms and read their magazines to gain a whole new perspective! And with all the money they end up saving, I'm sure they'll start a foundation to end the persecution of you poor, oppressed gingy freaks. If you can dream it, you can do it!

I wanna destroy you,
John

I do not understand how Jennifer Aniston can be interested in John "love 'em and leave 'em" Mayer. He has blown through so many sweet girls; I hope Jen wises up.
Margaret Loper via e-mail

"Were this 50 years ago, I might actually look like a rebel, rather
than a poseur douche sitting for a high school yearbook picture."

Loper,
To be honest, if I was Ms. Aniston I'd be less worried about whether he was going to dump me than I would about whether I was in fact a mouth-breathing moron, given that he'd previously dated Jessica Simpson and Jennifer Love Hewitt, both of whom would appear to possess roughly the same level of sentience as a Holstein. The man's (and I use that term loosely) obviously got a type, and suffice it to say, there's a reason he never wrote a song called "Your Mind Is A Wonderland".

In any case, I'm sorry to report that I don't think she's going to "wise up" any time soon. I mean, wasn't she dating that singer from Counting Crows for a while? She's apparently learned nothing about moving up on the horrible Adult Alternative Musician dating ladder. I'm not sure if John Mayer is a step up or a step down - I've misplaced my Annoying Pop Fool conversion chart - so let's just call it a lateral move and be done with the whole sorry subject.

I'm the all-night drug-prowling wolf who looks so sick in the sun,
John

Entertainment Weekly, May 30, 2008
Between the tousled hair and the bare back, the photo of Miley Cyrus in Vanity Fair is an adult, erotic image (News & Notes). Disney needs to make a decision. If they want "a billion-dollar empire based on one girl's goodness," as you put it in your article, they need to stop giving their teenage TV stars recording contracts and making them into goddesses. Get the hint already, Disney: If you don't want these teens to act like adults, stop TREATING them like adults!
JoAnna Yoder
Newport, Ore.

Verily, I have a hankerin' for some PEZ!

Yoda,
Tousled hair and a bare back, you say? Thank goodness she didn't show any exposed ankle, or there'd be a national panic. A run on the banks! Blackouts and looting! Pigeons flying into office windows! It'd be bedlam, I tell you! And, as usual, all because some damn teenager decided on an "adult, erotic" pose for their photo shoot. What's it going to take for this country to wake up and realize that mussing your hair and exposing your back is the first step down a road that ends in a degrading three-way with a couple of undesirable minorities in some fleabag motel off the Jersey Turnpike? It's a story as old as time, and nearly as inevitable. Miley should be grateful there are such arbiters of morality as you to keep her in check.

Your business acumen is questionable, though. If they want to build the chick into a billion-dollar empire, shouldn't they give her a recording contract? Admittedly, I don't have an MBA - I'm not yet a big enough asshole to qualify for the program - but it seems to me that if you want to exploit somebody for your own financial gain, it's wise to force them into as many possible money-making ventures as you can think of. If they can wrangle it - and if any entity can, it's Disney - they ought to get her recognized as a sovereign nation, mint Republic of Miley Cyrus currency, and open up trade with China. Then, if they're lucky, maybe she can become a nuclear power, which will give her even more bargaining power. Nothing commands respect like the ability to destroy every living thing on the planet except the cockroaches (which unfortunately means the world still wouldn't be rid of Jeremy Piven). If Disney knew shit about shit (which they don't), they'd get to work on this plan before Miley does something to destroy the public goodwill she's built up, like wearing a skirt cut above the knee or flaring her nostrils in a suggestive manner or somesuch. Do no corporations even care about Total Global Domination anymore? This is no longer the country I grew up believing in.

I fell into a burning ring of fire,
John

Hey, yo! I finally did the first post for my new Blog, The 1,001 Worst Songs Of All Time. I may post again to it tonight, since, unlike this blog, I'm not making it up on the spot, but actually have quite a lot of entries already written. Please go check it out, and feel free to make suggestions (though I've most likely already thought of them). Also, if anybody feels like contributing, shoot me an e-mail - if it fits stylistically and it's a song I don't already have an entry written for, I'll be happy to post it. Later, fools!

You're Such A Super Lady

People, Most Recent Issue (Can't read the date on this copy, sorry)

What I find most disturbing about polygamists is that they promote a lifestyle with the same problems that have plagued much of America for decades: parents switching between multiple sexual partners, uneducated women in near-constant states of pregnancy and girls growing up with little self-esteem. This just demonstrates that when practices are cloaked in the sacred veil (or, in this case, dowdy pioneer frock) of religion, they are often just the same old sins.
Robyn Keyster
DeKalb, Ill.

Robyn,
Things must be pretty bad in DeKalb if you consider swinging parents and stupid, habitually pregnant women perpetual problems in American society. In fact, it's a good thing you didn't throw in a line about the crack epidemic, or I'd be inclined to regard the litany of social woes you describe as "plaguing" us as somewhat racist rantings. Luckily, you didn't, so I'm sure you're just concerned about the social injustice inherent in a free and democratic society.

You're correct in your assertion that religion tends to promote low self-esteem in girls, too. I wonder why that would be? When I read most holy books, women seem to be so highly regarded! Why, in the Christian Bible itself, Shirley the most compassionate and loving of all major religious texts, I defy you to find women represented as anything less than The Divine Master's most perfect creation. I believe history has borne this interpretation out. I mean, who can forget the beloved Pope Mary Catherine, or the Church's many suffrage movements throughout the centuries? It's a conundrum, to be sure. Thankfully, this is a secular country, and we're not about to start dispensing special benefits to people just because they claim to have fuzzy, non-falsifiable "spiritual" beliefs, so I'm sure this whole cult thing was just a fluke.

Nevertheless, I'd appreciate if you'd refrain from casting aspersions on dowdy pioneer frocks, if you please. My first wife was a dowdy pioneer frock, and she bore me three beautiful frumpy table napkins (all named Jeremy Piven), and I don't think it would help their self-esteem to hear their mother mocked in print. Thank you.

Elementary penguin singing Hare Krishna,
John

Sorry, Hoda, I like you but I can no longer watch the fourth hour of the Today show since Kathie Lee has joined you. She was annoying with Regis and she is annoying now. When she is gone, I'll come back.
Cynthia Nostrant
Saline, Mich.

Chupacabra!

Cyn,
Your letter, much like the contents of a Jack in The Box taco, raises more questions than it answers. Who is Hoda? Some little green Jedi prostitute? And when you say you can no longer watch the fourth hour of the Today Show, are we to infer that you actually can watch the first three hours? Because I've got to tell you, that's still about 5 more hours than I can stand. Also, why does Kathie Lee only appear in the fourth hour of the broadcast? Did Regis somehow write into her contract that she would only be allowed to do an hour's worth of TV work per day for the rest of her life? If so, he should win the Nobel Peace Price, in my opinion! And another thing: What is Kathie Lee - like, in her 70s? Have you ever known people to become less annoying as they grew into senior citizens? I sure haven't. So there's really no reason for you to have included that sentence. And then there's the fact that you think some huge media conglomerate gives a rat's ass whether one lone viewer shuts the program off after three goddamn hours in the first place. It's all so baffling. You should write a mystery novel, or a screenplay for David Lynch! Don't hide your light under a bushel (whatever that means - I assume it has something to do with shaving your pubic region).

You're making out with schoolkids, winos and heads of state,
John

Entertainment Weekly, "Sex And The City" Issue '08 (That's what it says, for reals)

After reading your Where in the World Is Osama bin Laden? review (Movies), I found it pleasantly ironic to turn the page and see a review of Helen Hunt's Then She Found Me. Just recently I'd asked myself, "Where in the world is Helen Hunt?" Thanks for the update.
Barry Leibowitz
Cheshire, Conn.

"Does this mean I now have to star opposite that bland Paul Reiser
in a horrible sitcom and endure constant comparisons to Leelee Sobieski?
Fine. You may kill me now, Western devils."

Barry,
You don't honestly expect me to believe you asked yourself that, do you? I hope not, because that would make you pretty damned retarded. I mean, I suspect that if I was teaching a special ed class and one of the students piped up, apropos of nothing, "Mr. John, why haven't we heard from Dick Van Patten for so long?" I probably wouldn't be all that shocked, but if my girlfriend left me a note that she'd be out late at her sister's and then added "By the way, do you know what Esther Rolle's been doing with herself lately?", it'd be time for counseling, or at least a trip to the NSA fuck-buddy section on Craigslist. I gather you see my point. If not, hopefully there's an authority figure around that makes sure you only use the baby scissors.

Also, I'm not sure you understand the meaning of "ironic". But you still get a gold star from me!

Look me in the eye and tell me that I'm satisfied,
John

Entertainment Weekly, Dec. 14, 2007

When Alicia Keys returned from her Egyptian vacation, was she actually worried about how many breaks she'd get between interviews? With all of the resources she has, I'd rather have read about her setting up a foundation in memory of the family member she lost to cancer.
R.M. Sheridan
Keyport, N.J.

"For my next number, I'd like to do a cover of one of my
favorite songs. This one's called 'Meat Hook Sodomy'.
C'mon, give it up for Cannibal Corpse, y'all!"

R.,
Me too! That sounds like it would be a super fun read! Though if the family member's already dead, I don't see what good a foundation's going to do at this point. I mean, I'm sure she's wealthy, but it's not like the medical research community is going to be able to cure the disease if they could just raise a couple more mil or anything. I'm sure she recognizes what a great humanitarian you are by bringing up her personal tragedy to shame her about her success, though. I know I'm always hearing the wealthy express their appreciation for people with no money telling them how they should spend theirs. Just more proof that there's no animosity between classes in this country.

It is bizarre that she'd be worried about the breaks between interviews, though, isn't it? It's not like we regular schlubs ever get worked up over such trivial things, like having to wait in line at the drive-thru or forgetting to set the TiVo to record The Hills. No, we have the proper perspective, and therefore don't care if we have to spend every minute of our lives engaged in mundane routine, because we realize that merely being alive is the most precious gift of all. If I've said it once, I've said it 100 times: celebrities are the urinary tract infection coursing through the genitalia of modern society (except for Jeremy Piven, who is the gonorrhea). Thank God our culture doesn't put them on a pedestal. Nobody'd survive The Rapture if we all followed their example. And that would be a damn shame, because I know I, personally, can't wait to party with the Left Behind crowd. Those chicks are so proper and repressed you just know they're wildcats in the sack! Either that or really, deadly boring. Much like your letter.

The body of Christ is a cracker,
John

Spotted: Me n luv w/the EW spot on S&B of The CW's GG. OMG: The Gossip Girl feature ("Psst...Did You Hear?") was exactly what we 2.6 million viewers wanted.
John Quertermous
Murray, Ky.

John,
Did you eat a pound of fucking asbestos or something before writing this? Your entire first sentence nearly gave me a grand mal seizure, you ass. I assume you're a male over the age of twelve (though you are a fan of Gossip Girl, so nothing is as readily apparent as I'd wish), and so you should never use chat-room/text message speak in mixed company ("mixed company" used here to mean "every non-plant form of life in existence"). Although I suspect your little instance of asininity is what got your letter published, because overall it's entirely lacking in content. I should also point out that 2.6 million viewers adds up to less than 1% of the population in this country, so you might not want to be advertising to the network execs just how poorly the show is doing if you're such a fan. Then again, it is on the CW, so they're probably happy to have anybody other than maximum security inmates and dogs who've learned how to turn turn on the TV watching. In any case, I haven't heard the term "Murray, KY!" since I worked as a male prostitute in a Jewish ghetto. So thanks for dredging up the painful (yet paradoxically wonderful) memories, as well. You are a dummy.

L'chaim!,
John

People, May 12, 2008

I found that the celebrity excerpts from the book Healthy Child Healthy World informative and inspiring. I'm happy to know that people are now focusing on eco-friendly living. By the way, my family loved Gwyneth Paltrow's recipe for organic roast veggie sticks.
Meg Leidy
Los Angeles, Calif.

"Excuse me? Has anyone seen my contact lens?
It's blue, and round, and - oh, wait, it's in my eye."

Meg,
You know, it's amazing what people will tell you they "love" when you're providing them with shelter and clothing and allowance money and sex and tax breaks. Plus, I notice you live in Los Angeles, where even the air is full of shit, so you should take anything anybody ever says to you with a grain of salt, and then disregard it entirely. No kid who wasn't raised in a cult is gonna be excited about anything called "organic roast veggie sticks". And I thought it was common knowledge that anything even tangentially associated with Coldplay is to be avoided like Jeremy Piven after a burrito binge. Do try to keep up, darling.

I'm with you on the eco-friendly living, though. Last time I was in L.A., residents only used their Hummers if they were going to travel 4 blocks away or more, and refused to buy any marijuana that wasn't grown locally. I'm just glad that the environmental practices used by countries like China and India are in no way going to counteract our efforts here, since it's an established fact that their pollution will be unable to break through the lines of longitude that separate their continent from ours. Good thing we started the Green movement after they invented maps, or we'd all be doomed. Doomed, I say!

Southern girls, you got nothing to lose,
John

Who Are Parents?

Some quick clarifications/unnecessary utterances:

Regarding the closing sections of my responses: There's no great mystique to it - I pretty much just use lyrics from whatever song's playing on my mp3 player at the time - or, if it's too embarrassing a selection, I just try to come up with a song that has lyrics somewhat suitable to the topic.

I mentioned my upcoming music-related blog yesterday, but I forgot to link to my friend Paul's (the guy I'm working on the book project with) own music blog. Read it. The man knows his shit.

'Nother thing I was asked about (for some reason I find it easier to deal with all this stuff here, rather than e-mail the person back - maybe I'm an exhibitionist. Or maybe I just don't want to get caught in a never-ending correspondence): Is any of this political? It seems like a strange question, but I actually do consider the concept and content of my blog political. If I were to make it overtly so, however, it probably wouldn't be funny, and I already have enough trouble not going over the top with righteous indignation just responding to these sub-moronic letters as it is. So, at the risk of ruining something by explaining it too much, I'll simply state that if you think I'm in any way right wing, you're not only missing the point of this blog but probably also fail to see the humor in it at all.

Shameless self-promotion: Please click on the "Humor Blogs" link to the right - it gives me "points" with that site when people navigate there from my page, which in turn allows me to...get a half-price Slurpee or something. I don't know. I can't be expected to read the text of every form I agree to the terms & conditions of. So, click on it. Or don't. To be honest, it's not a big priority for me.

Finally, I'd like to apologize for the caption of John Krasinski in this entry, because I actually like him (on TV, I mean; I haven't been stalking him or anything) (yet), but the other letters I picked didn't lend themselves to pictures. If somebody ever writes a letter about Jeremy Piven, however (fat chance!), be assured I'll mean every word of my mean-spirited caption. Now...To the Batcave!

Entertainment Weekly, April 11, 2008

What were you thinking, giving Funny Games - which made Hostel: Part II look ingenious - a B+ (Movies)? It had not a shred of intelligence, from its ridiculous plot to its bad music to its overly long scenes. Please tell me that your review is an April Fools' joke come early.
Damion J. Rowan
Montreal

Damion,
I always shout out "April Fools!" when I come early. It masks the shame and diverts my partner's attention long enough for me to run into the shower and cry. Man, that was way funnier in my head.

As for the rest of your letter, I can't claim to know the reviewer's motives, but I could point out that most of the folks who write for EW have all the brains and aesthetic sense of a honey-cured ham, or that they, like honey-cured hams, tend to buy into the fallacy that anything made by a European director automatically has more depth than similar American product, or even that reactions to art are subjective even to those trained in critical analysis. But most likely the guy just enjoyed looking at Naomi Watts' tits for two hours. Occam's razor saves the day once again!

Beautiful love where have you gone?,
John

Entertainment Weekly, May 9, 2008

Wow! After scoring so poorly on your "Ultimate TV Quiz," I was amazed at how little television I actually watch. Good for me.
David Kaufman
Frederick, Colo.

David,
Unfortunately, that good is nullified by the fact that you read Entertainment Weekly and waste your time taking its quizzes. And also by the fact that you write a letter for publication that basically consists of patting yourself on the back while simultaneously implying the majority of said publication's readers are inferior to you. Other than that, though, you're awesome!

She was a winner who became a doggie's dinner,
John

I love your magazine. Thanks for featuring the clever, handsome, smart, and humble John Krasinski in Spotlight. If he were an English teacher in an alternate universe, then I'd love to be the quiet art teacher down the hall, trying to build up the courage to steal him away from the biology teacher (who'd be none other than Rashida Jones!).
J.K. Robinson
San Diego

More exciting: The wallpaper or John Krasinski?

J.K. (I wouldn't use my full name, either),
Wow. Sounds like you've got a fantasy world to rival that of your fellow J.K., Ms. Rowling. And while both your fantasy worlds result in some vaguely disturbing work, at least she's found a way to make some cash off the deal. You, on the other hand, seem to have invested an obscene amount of time in concocting this elaborate "alternate universe" based entirely around someone you will, in all likelihood, never even come into contact with (unless you end up playing out some creepy Travis Bickle-type scenario), and you've even cast, as your rival for his affections, the actress who played his girlfriend on TV. As we in the psychiatric profession tend to say when presented with such cases, you're out of your liver-snap mind, bitch (though I admit that whole teacher triangle idea might make for some fun threesome role-playing, if you're so inclined [and something tells me you are]). First off, nobody's going to date an art teacher - they're one step up on the pathetic ladder from singers in up-and-coming indie rock bands. Trust me, no matter what people might say, they're not really happy to have you sleep on their couch for months at a time and listen to you whine about how the mainstream doesn't "get" you. Secondly, I'm thinking I could make a mint starting a support group for those who confuse TV characters with the actors who portray them, 'cause it sure seems there are way more of you walking the streets than I would have imagined. So thanks for the inspiration. Third, it's my professional opinion that you should maybe buy a goldfish or something. You need to start small. After becoming acclimated to the fish, you could work your way up to a turtle, and if you're lucky, in another decade or two, you'll be ready to interact with normal human beings. Good luck with that. Freak.

I'd be willing to wager that it don't matter much if we keep in touch,
John

Mooooooo

I do apologize for the absence, but last week was my birthday, and the way I understand it, that means I get to do whatever the fuck I want for seven days straight, including ignoring all my responsibilities (blogging, personal hygiene, obeying the bitch-ass "law") and making out with anyone I choose, consequence-free (I'm looking at you, Justin Timberlake! We could make a beautiful man-baby and name him Blanket!). In other words, I lied when I said "I apologize".

Also, I've been working on re-vamping an older music-related blog I used to do, which I'll unveil shortly. Hopefully I'll divide my time between writing that one and this one, which will no doubt satisfy my extreme ADD personality type. Now, if you'll shut up for a minute, I'll get to the feature presentation.

Entertainment Weekly, May 16, 2008

A woman as stunning and talented as Tina Fey shouldn't be allowed to be married to just one man.
John Hardin
Los Angeles

L. to R.: Rachel Dratch (Photoshopped out), Tina Fey

Dear John,
It's a sad state of affairs, to be sure. Next thing you know they'll allow intelligent, attractive women to vote, or earn as much as men in the workplace! Then they'll be ovulating all over important documents (I'm not quite sure what "ovulation" means) and turning the water cooler into a den of gossip! Oh, I can just hear the constant hen clucking now, like a drill boring directly into my head-meat. Why did we ever decide to come out of the Middle Ages?

On the other hand, rather than the draconian solution you propose, maybe we could just let her marry one man and sleep around on the side. That arrangement's seemed to work in the past (and is, in fact, precisely how the entire country of France has been populated). Don't fret, son - I'm sure you'll be right on the top of her list. Now run along, before I feel the urge to vomit on you. Metaphorically, I mean. Also literally. I've driven farther than L.A. to puke on someone, believe me.

Gordon is a moron,
John

Although I enjoyed your tribute to Charlton Heston ("An Epic Life"), I was disappointed he wasn't on the cover. Every Easter I watch Ben-Hur, and Soylent Green and Planet of the Apes are uncompromised in their uniqueness.
Liz Fajardo
South San Francisco

What's wrong with this picture? (Hint: Everything.)

Liz,
I was also shocked - shocked, I say! - that they didn't put Heston on the cover. Who does EW think its readers are that they wouldn't want a cover pic of some thousand-year-old fossil to tape onto the inside of their lockers? Especially a thousand-year-old fossil who's done so much iconic film work in the past couple decades? Who will soon forget his stirring role as the voice of "The Mastiff" in 2001's "Cats & Dogs", or the Oscar-worthy performance he turned in as "Eugenie's Father" in 2001's (the man was on fire that year!) "Town & Country"? And as the baby Jesus is my witness, I can't even speak of his work as "Narrator" in "Bagpipe: Instrument of War" without choking up like a gay.

I should point out, though, that it's somewhat difficult for a film to be "uncompromised" in its uniqueness (whatever the hell that means) when said film is basically high camp even when not seen only in retrospect. In other words, cheesy lowbrow sci-fi with O. Henry endings have made so many compromises by the time they're committed to celluloid that only a damn dirty ape could claim any integrity for them whatsoever. But I'm sure I'm not telling you anything you didn't already know.

It's a nightmare, it's all negative, nothing matters and what if it did?,
John

p.s. South San Francisco? Jeez, Liz, do you live in a carpet warehouse or an oil refinery or something?

Your article "Going To Pot" asked the question "How DO you get stoners to leave the house?" Well, that's easy: offer a free small popcorn with the movie ticket.
Michele Holley
Sanford, Fla.

Michele,
Shut yer ovulating yap, woman! I already have to deal with the goddamned elderly loudly pointing out every single plot point to each other and dumb-asses text messaging throughout the movie; now you want to add some potheads giggling at inappropriate moments and not being able to discern whether they're whispering or shouting to the mix? Why not just open the theater to friggin' pigeons so they can fly around and crap on my head, while you're at it? Does nobody have compassion anymore?

Luckily, your plan would never work, for a couple reasons:
First, have you ever seen the small popcorn? That wouldn't lure a starving midget to a movie (Well, maybe Jeremy Piven). The small is basically a thimble, and if you add any fake butter, it's going to push your popcorn right out onto your ugly lap. No way is that going to attract a mob of hopped-up slackers with the munchies. The theaters would have to offer at least a free medium popcorn (which inexplicably comes in a container 20 times larger than the small), and the chains will never fork out for that as long as Jack Valenti's alive. Or dead and running Hell, which is his current occupation, I believe.

Second, I, like most great Americans, have driven stoned as a youth, so I know for a fact that by the time the stoners tooled into the parking lot after engaging in interminable digressive arguments about which film to see and then driving 5 MPH for the next hour to get there, the movie would already be halfway over and they'd just decide to go to Baskin-Robbins instead. Thankfully, the predictability of people on drugs will always work to foil your nefarious plan. If only we could legalize medical marijuana, maybe I'd be free of the old people and their conversations, too. Everybody has a dream, and this is mine. Well, this and the one where I'm back at my high school graduation and it turns out I don't have enough credits to graduate for some reason, but that one hardly seems relevant here, so I'll refrain from bringing it up.

Brassneck! - I've just decided I don't trust you anymore,
John

Wake Me When It's Over

People, May 12, 2008

These two (Jay-Z and Beyonce) were meant for each other. And because they are very private people, they're going to have something you rarely see in Hollywood: a marriage that lasts. Best wishes, Jay-Z and Beyonce.
Erica Howe
Norristown, Pa.

"These people behind us? We own them!"

Erica,
I know, right? Man, I really wish they weren't such private people, too, because it's so hard to find any information on them and their highly intriguing Lives of Mystery. If only they'd hire PR reps or something, maybe they could land some Pepsi or Budweiser commercials, or start their own clothing lines, or buy shares in basketball teams, or produce a string of number one albums, or perform to sold-out crowds in huge fucking arenas, or star in films, or own sports bars set to expand to international locations, or start buying up half the real estate on the Eastern Seaboard, or get saturation media coverage every time one of them makes lip-fart noises or something, but their refusal to engage in the usual "star trip" behavior means we'll have to try to fill in the blanks as best we can. Near as I can tell, Jay-Z likes to spend his time perfecting his own blend of herbal tea and tending to his modest tomato garden, while Beyonce enjoys quiet evenings at home in their cottage knitting and playing Second Life. But this is all hearsay and peyote ramblings. Maybe one day they'll decide to break their Garboesque silence and allow us mere mortals a glimpse into the human beings behind the mystique, but I wouldn't count on it - they don't seem the types to crave attention.

I think you hit the nail on the head about the prospects for their marriage, as well. I'm no certified psychologist - though I do maintain a thriving practice - but it seems to me these two have what it takes to go the distance. And I don't just mean unlimited access to high-grade amphetamines. No, what brings most committed relationships to a bitter, murderously vengeful denouement is the inability of one or both parties to compromise. But neither Jay-Z or Beyonce, from what I can see, possesses a huge ego, so they should have no trouble in that department. In fact, I'm certain it will be nothing at all like the Whitney and Bobby Brown debacle. Unless you're some kind of racist, the parallels just don't exist - I mean, Jay-Z can't even sing! Anyone who'd even make such a prediction can feel free to eat the poo currently percolating in my lower intestine. Lord knows I hate to bust out the scatological insults, but I'm just so darn tired of this generation's cynicism and unwillingness to believe in the power of love. So I repeat: Help yourself to a heaping serving of my ordure, naysayers! Do not be jealous because the two greatest musical geniuses of our age have formed a blessed union, even if it appears to have more in common with a corporate merger than an actual romantic partnership. That is the hallmark of the Marriage of the Future, and the future is now. And, as always, the great artists are leading the way.

Now, if you'll graciously excuse me, I believe my Pop-Tarts are burning again. Motherfuck!

She came from Greece, she had a thirst for knowledge,
John

People, April 14, 2008

Regarding former New York Governor Spitzer: An old adage reworked is appropriate; time wounds all heels.
Lucia Capton
Oakland, Calif.

Lucia,
Gosh, what a funny reworking of an old adage! You know what was even funnier? When Nick Lowe reworked the adage the exact same way 25 years ago for his song - wait for it - "Time Wounds All Heels". It appeared on his album The Abominable Showman, a term you could probably use in your next letter to People to describe the work of Dane Cook, say - I bet all your friends will compliment you on your wit when you drop that little bon mot and pass it off as your own! Maybe you'll even get lucky and land a job writing sketch comedy - I happen to know this great "Dead Parrot" skit that's guaranteed to get you declared a genius! And if you're still worried about your place in history, be sure to ask me about the "Who's on first?" routine. Hint: "Who" is somebody's name. Get it?

p.s. Keep it real in Oaktown! Maybe I'll see you jogging around Lake Merritt! Through my binoculars, I mean. Jogging's for assholes, if you ask me.

There are no answers - only reasons to be strong,
John

He Was Gone Before Autumn Came

So, as I've mentioned, I've had some dental nightmares lately. In fact, my dentist - I guess because he was tired of me destroying his exam chair by digging my fingers into the armrests and leaving a pool of sweat in the seat every time I came in for a checkup - referred me to what I can only call a Dentist For Pussies, where they actually offer you a general anesthetic for basic dental work. This brand of insanity is just the thing I'd been looking for in a dentist (and, really, in any kind of intra-species contact), so I made an appointment. How bad could it be, right? Turns out it could be $17,000 worth of bad, because that's what they wanted to charge me for the dental work I needed. Oh, and they only accept money up front, so it's not like I could just go in and tell them to bill my insurance. I tell you, I don't know who's got 17 grand to throw away on their teeth, but if I was going to spend that kind of bank on my mouth, it would be to surgically attach a breast to it. So I look forward to a long life filled with pain and unnecessary suffering (which is pretty much how I'd pictured it going since I was 12 anyway) unless I can con somebody in one of those European nations with socialized medicine into marrying me. Not France, though - I see no point in having perfect teeth if I have to spend my time using them to argue about post-structuralism at every meal. Not to mention the fact that they have the worst TV programs in the industrialized world - which is saying something, as anyone who's ever spent time in Mexico can attest. Also, they seem incapable of producing a decent rock band. But then, so does everybody else at this point. Who cares? I don't even know what the hell I'm talking about at this point.

People, May 5, 2008

While I understand that celebrities work hard for their cash, I find it obscene what they spend their money on: million-dollar cars, $100,000 weekend-long birthday parties, shopping sprees and mansions - the list is endless. Bravo to Brad and Angelina for donating their time as well as millions of dollars to charitable organizations. They are what's right in Hollywood.
Sandra F. Schillfarth
Nottingham, Md.

"Do I hear $5,000 for this mint-condition Cambodian baby?
$5,000 to the lovely woman in the yellow dress!"

Yo Schillfarth,
When you say "They're what's right in Hollywood", I assume you're excluding the Tomb Raider films, as well as Alexander and Ocean's Thirteen and Mr. and Mrs. Smith and the rest of the unbelievably shitty movies they've made. On the other hand, those very shitty movies are what's allowed them to continue their philanthropic work, so maybe we should all go buy them on DVD - our suffering at having to watch them is nothing compared to the suffering Brad and Angelina can alleviate as the world's first real-life superhero couple. It's not like they're going to spend the money on mansions or shopping sprees! Oh, no. Why, these two are so unprepossessing that Brad comes over to my place to play poker every Wednesday, which is when we drink PBR and discuss the most effective methods for ending poverty within two generations. It's amazing - he treats you just like he's on the same level as you, even though he obviously doesn't suffer from halitosis or bouts of crippling depression! And you're right - he works hard for his cash, unlike us lazy assholes who don't have jobs in the entertainment industry, yet he still finds the reserves of inner strength to adopt babies at the rate of 1.887 a day and smell like a bouquet of roses at all times! I don't really know Angelina (I only fucked her once), but to hear Brad talk about her, she's an even more stupendous specimen. For instance, did you know she once froze time just to save a pigeon from flying into a window? And she can shoot lasers from her eyes. But she only does it to perform eye surgery on the myopic - she never uses her power as a weapon. She could, though. We're all here only through her grace. Remember that the next time you start talking shit about the animation in Beowulf. You are insignificant, and if you can't show the proper respect, the rich and famous are well within their rights to eat you and your family in a decadent cannibalistic orgy. It's called survival of the fittest. Read up on it (it's in the Bible, I think).

Interrupting my train of thought - lines of longitude and latitude,
John

No wonder Berlin Zoo bear Knut is having the blues. Wild animals belong in the wild, not in an unnatural environment where thousands of screaming fans stand around gawking and applauding. Animals have their own agendas. Knut isn't addicted to fame, he just wants a life free of human interference.
Timothy J. Verret
Austin, Texas

Timothy,
Sounds like we'd better keep Knut away from Courtney Love, then. Tell you what: You alert the proper authorities, and I'll sit here and pretend to give half a shit about some fucking bear.

World shut your mouth,
John

Entertainment Weekly, April 4, 2008

Bless you for featuring Stephen Malkmus, one of the most talented musicians out there ("Slanted and Enchanted"). America, go buy the first three Pavement records: You'll thank me later.
Luke Wienecke
Annapolis, Md.

Yes, thanks, EW! A Stephen Malkmus article in 2008! I can't wait for your Sleater-Kinney feature in 2047. I suggest you name the piece "Call The Doctor" ('cause it's one of their album titles, dicks!), and then underneath the headline, you can add: "...Because these ladies are on fire!". But, being Entertainment Weekly, I probably don't need to give you writing advice. Not for free, anyway.

p.s. America, don't prove your stupidity by buying the first three Pavement records. This is the '90s - you can download them for nothing! Just type "Pavement Bittorrent" into Google or go over to Isohunt. We're in a recession, you know.

Secret decoder ring codes, arteries, shopping nodes!,
John

Literature For Assholes

Mein freunds,

Looks like I'm going to have a hard time updating until I get these book projects into some kind of shape I'll be happy with. So expect updates every other day or so until I'm satisfied with my other work. I'll keep posting, but it may be kinda free-form for a short spell. Which is code for "I'll be posting random shit totally unrelated to this blog's actual purpose because I've got files and files of insane bullshit on my computer that's never going to get published anyway so I'll use this blog as a dumping ground for it". You're welcome! Today, I give you a short story I wrote a couple years or so ago (and also posted on an old blog). And, contrary to what you might think, I was totally sober at the time. I think I'll title this one "Sheep Bleatin' At The Town Meetin'" because it fits as well as anything else. Enjoy.

Chapter the First: Cuba Gooding, Jr. vs. the Low-Fat Milk Lobby

My father was a stupid and corpulent man. This is in no way germane to the rest of the story, but it seems like a Dickensian opening line, or what I imagine would qualify as Dickensian, seeing as how I've never read any of his worthless pap. But I digress. Let's begin anew:

Chapter the First: But Daddy, That's My Rectum!

I'd gotten his name from my sister, who'd used his services in the past - in fact, shortly before the panicked phone call I’d just received from her in which she confided, among other things, that her left ventricle had evolved into a miniature rendering plant and her belief that Paul Newman had begun substituting hydrocyanic acid for his salad dressing.

"You know - to kill us. It's tasteless and odorless, see."

"No it isn't", I belched (hamburger). "It tastes like almonds."

"Sure, that's what he wants you to think," she whispered ominously. It was my fondest memory of her (which only illustrates how much I loathed her), and also the last time I'd ever speak to her alive.

She'd told me his name was Crazy-Ass Hat Man, which I'd assumed to be the feverish imaginings of her drug-addled brain until I arrived at the door to his office and noted the inscription:

Crazy-Ass Hat Man
Private Investigator
Please Refrain from Staring at the Aforementioned Crazy-Ass Hat

I turned the knob. While I was at it, I grabbed his door handle and twisted it, too. Ahahaha! See what I did there? It's called "poetic license", fuckers.

I entered and approached the secretary, who sat like a lump of shit behind her worm-eaten desk. She introduced herself telepathically as Mrs. Aureola Plopbottom, then motioned for me to head toward her boss’s inner office, a task which I accomplished chiefly by using my feet. When I walked in, he was on the phone, in the middle of a conversation.

“…Because sometimes daddy’s balls hurt, Jimmy!”, he wheezed. He noticed me and hung up without saying goodbye.

I stood there for a moment, allowing my enzymes to catalyze whatever bullshit chemical reactions they needed to catalyze, when I noticed it: On his head sat a large hat in the shape of a flaccid penis. I can't be sure, because the door had admonished me not to stare, but it seemed the hat was made of actual flesh - the wrinkles, the foreskin - all were far too detailed to be the work of a mere craftsman, even a Filipino.

As I intentionally looked him in the eye, the penis hat spit out, from the pee-hole in its head, an ornately wrapped toffee - which I would later discover, in the privacy of my own tool shed, was an exquisite confectionery delight.

"What the fuck do you want, bitch?", he purred, and I knew from that moment forward that I would end up falling in love with him.

"Well, sir," I cooed, "I'd like to retain your services. I need you to investigate something for me."

"No shit, Sherlock," he growled, then grew somber, then giddy, then obstreperous, then noisome.

"Well, what is it?" He clucked. "I'm due for my morning urinalysis, boy."

"I need you to..to..." Dare I say it out loud? Dare I even dream it? I must have grappled with this quandary for seconds – nay, minutes – nay, seconds – before arriving at an emphatic (and mildly flamboyant) “Yes!” to both questions.

"I need you to find out why my wife is mad at me." Finally, I’d given voice to the inner demons that had been driving me half-mad for nearly eighteen excruciating minutes! A feeling of sweet release swept over me, which, I must confess, had rather undesirable consequences when it came to my bowels (which was true of most situations). Nevertheless, now I had made concrete my anguish; put my crippling fears out into the world; given birth to my dilemma through the metaphorical vaginal canal that was my mind.

"Well, dipshit, why don't you ask her?" He spewed.

Why didn’t I ask her? What, was I a detective now? How should I be expected to intuitively ascertain the arcane methods employed by licensed investigators? If I had thought to ask her, maybe I'd be the one sitting behind an affordable yet functional desk from IKEA with a huge cock on my head. He continued:

"I'm not a goddamn mind reader, son."

"And I'm not a moray eel", I retorted, secretly gleeful at my display of Wildean cleverness. Though, as I would discover on my deathbed years later in Borneo, I was part moray eel, on my maternal grandfather's side.

"Then fuck you, boy", he shot back - literally; he'd pulled a revolver from his desk drawer and fired it straight at my chimp-like nostrils.

Chapter Deux: A Sale of Two Titties

Thanks to my debilitating harelip, I was prone to occasional (every 36.8 seconds) sneezing fits; as it happened, I suffered from one of these precisely at the moment Crazy-Ass Hat Man fired his gun, and I discharged my nasal contents with such force - and yet goodwill - that the bullet was diverted from its target (my chimp-like nostrils) and was instead sent rocketing out the open window, from which point it eventually ended up striking a Saab mechanic in Lexington, KY, killing him instantly (or, more accurately, killing him a second time, as it is a firmly established fact that residents of Kentucky already exist in a state of walking death).

Of course, I didn't actually see this happen; when he pulled the trigger, I instinctively thrust my hands up to cover my life-giving eyebrows. But I was able to deduce what had happened with the aid of a $1.98 slide rule and a box of Extra-Moldy Cracker Jacks. And really, it was the only logical explanation. Especially for that hick mechanic dying.

When I removed my hands from my face, I was titillated to see that we were no longer in his office; we now sat across from each other in the booth of a late 19th century ice cream parlor, decorated in the style of which Mary J. Blige was so fond. Also, his hat had now taken the form of a visual representation of ennui (or perhaps it was malaise; the whole thing was a bit impressionistic, if you ask me).

This was the picture that came up when I typed "ennui" into the Google Image search.

Somewhere in the distance, a lone seagull farted.

A waiter - who was, from all available evidence, either on drugs or Haitian (as if there’s a difference) – roller-skated up to our table, a method of locomotion I found somewhat peculiar as the floor was covered in thick shag carpeting.

"So, what can I get you two buck-toothed dingleberries?", he asked, adding, "Our special today is giant turtle face, which is $395 a plate."

"Hm", Crazy-Ass pondered. "How is that served?"

"Well," the waiter replied, visibly annoyed, "first the staff takes turns peeing on it, then we throw it into a kiln and incinerate it, after which we scrape the ashes into a bowl of apple cider, which we leave outside for the neighborhood rats."

"I'll take it!" Hat Man ejaculated.

"Well," I piped up, "I guess I'll have the sloppy puppet, please."

”Fucking homo," the waiter hissed. It was apparent to anybody with a functioning liver that he hadn’t been breastfed as an infant. I attempted to mollify him by steering the conversation to a more neutral topic.

"You know, I was thinking of moving to Laos," I opened.

"Yeah, I'm sure you'll really fit in there, you vomitous pig", he parried, and then dropped to all fours and rooted around the plush carpet, oinking and grunting and occasionally surfacing with a truffle poised on his upper lip. After two hours of this behavior, he rose to his rollerskates and calmly glided to the kitchen to give the chef our order.

Ass Hat regarded me as one would regard a testicle sandwich (which is to say: with tender longing), then blurted, "Who are you again?"

I found I had no answer for this query. It was such a complex issue, who a person is: was it personality that defined the self, or level of consciousness/self-awareness, or genetic makeup, or body odor? It was indeed a question that had stumped philosophers and theologians for decades. Also, I couldn't remember my name.

"It doesn't matter", he opined, and then reached up and pulled the zipper located on his forehead, the rubber mask that I’d taken for his face falling amongst the truffles, his true identity revealed in a most shocking and yet hackneyed fashion.

Chapter Four – Fuck Chapter Three!

To my surprise and tumescence, Crazy-Ass Hat Man was, in reality, my wife, who we'll call Keith, both to shield her against identity theft and as an homage to David Cassidy, whom most of us remember for his portrayal of Keith Richards, guitar player for the Bay City Rollers. I quite understandably shat myself when confronted with this alarming new twist (figuratively, of course; and also, to a greater extent, literally). Then, unable to think of anything better to do, I fainted.

When I awoke, I was on a farm - or, more accurately, lying on my back in a pasture on a farm, right underneath a donkey who had chosen that moment to empty its bladder (or whatever bladder-like organ it is that the hybrid freaks possess). Ah, but that’s fate for you, O Best Beloved - so whimsical, and yet, in other respects, such a shrewish whore. I thought it had been reasonable to assume that the days of donkeys urinating on my face had ended after that glorious summer at camp in ‘84, but I should have remembered the old witticism: never assume, because it makes a stupid fucking dick out of you and me.

I arose and took in my surroundings: basically a whole lot of jack shit punctuated here and there by a rickety old house or a cow or a particularly unpoetic blade of grass. On the dirt driveway leading to the manservants' quarters I spotted Keith in a Laura Ingalls Wilder bonnet and leopard-skin leotard. She was waving frantically to me, which I immediately recognized as the universal signal to amble up to her as leisurely as possible. When I got within earshot, she screeched:

"Goliath, come a-quick, for I hath been tainted and befouled!"

"My poor, dear pork rind! Rest assured I shall move heaven and earth to ease your undeserved suffering!" I emoted. Well, what I really said was, "What the fuck are you babbling about?" But I'm sure she was able to read the tender concern that was lurking between the lines.

She thrust her hands at me, thumbs upraised, and bawled, "What are these?"

"Those are your thumbs, you dumb bitch," I mewed. I made sure to modulate the tone of my voice on the last word so that it would be obvious I used the term as a gender-neutral insult, lest she accuse me of misogyny when we appeared on Montel next week.

"They're monstrous, simply monstrous!", she wailed; then, abruptly, her retarded tears ceased flowing, and she gazed at me with a mix of wonderment and horror and bulimia. "Goliath, right beneath thine lower lip, I do spy a hornet's nest a-brewin'!"

I glanced down and noted that, indeed, a hornet's nest had burst through my skin; hornets buzzed about my face, the wind from their incessant flapping wings tickling my sensitive nose hairs in a not unpleasant manner.

"Don't worry", I admonished, "I'll just go out to the barn. I've got a collection of spare chins in there."

I turned to walk away, the hornets dancing a sublime ballet in front of me, grouping together to form symbols such as exclamation points and direction arrows - just like in old Warner Bros. Cartoons from the 1700s - when I heard a pitiful squeak arising from the ground behind me. I turned sharply like a fat man in need of a toilet and saw there in the dirt a baked potato (no chives) wearing Keith’s bonnet and leotard. One of its pores gaped open and it spoke to me in a high-pitched nasal whine not unlike Michael Stipe's during the excruciating verses of "Everybody Hurts".

"Goliath, I beseech thee, don't go into the barn! Look what it's doing to me! My hips have swollen; and furthermore, I done been transmogrified into a tater!"

I could only pucker my body’s numerous sphincters in disgust at this development. How could we hope to appear on the distinguished Mr. Williams's talk show with her in such a state? And how would she share the driving duties on our road trips to Bogota? I stared down blankly at her while the hornets erupting from my chin made a giant question mark before flying off en masse towards the barn. Like the lone, forlorn pickle left in the briny jar, I wearily followed them.

"You fool!" I heard from behind me; I twirled around and was confronted with Hat Man once again. This time his hat was in the form of a leprechaun-sized Karl Marx sitting on a toadstool and obsessively licking his fingers. The mini-Marx lifted his head to glare at me, then removed his hands from his mouth and held them up for me to see: no thumbs.

"You won't find what you're looking for in the barn, I'm afraid", Hat Man proclaimed triumphantly.

"And why is that?" I bleated. I caught a whiff of something that reminded me of my childhood, but I couldn't summon the specific memory to which it was attached.

"Because there is no barn", he cackled; I turned to look, and fuck me in the ear with a fish stick if he wasn't right.

"And furthermore", he continued with jovial hostility, "None of this is actually happening."

"And why is that?" I bleated yet again (for I had run out of alternate descriptive forms of speech at this point). It was as if a highly accelerated version of Nietzsche's concept of the Eternal Return was playing itself out in my speech patterns, except for the fact that there were actually no similarities between the two whatsoever.

"Because you don't exist, and you never have", he beamed.

I had to think about it for a moment, and I was forced to admit it sure did explain a lot.

And Here It Is...Again...And It's Called...

Entertainment Weekly, March 7, 2008

Diablo Cody voiced the opinion of all twenty- and thirtysomethings who squealed when news of a possible New Kids on the Block reunion broke out (Binge Thinking). People can mock all they want, but the five boys from Beantown still have a place in many hearts.
Jennifer Santos
San Francisco

Constipation: It's not just for poor people anymore

Jen,
I don't know exactly what opinion Ms. Cody voiced, but if it spoke for grown-ass adults who squealed at the mention of a washed-up boy band reunion, I imagine it was something along the lines of, "Please forcibly sterilize us, for we are far too lame and hollow to be allowed to propagate our genes". I ask you: WTF happened to the generation who sneered at the Baby Boomers' pathetic attempts to relive their youths by paying ridiculous amounts of cash to attend concerts by irrelevant old bores like The Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan 30 years after they should have rightfully been banned from coming within 50 feet of recording equipment? Oh, right - they ended up paying ridiculous amounts of cash to see the Pixies reunion tour. Have you ever heard the expression "Nostalgia is the sign of a dying culture"? Neither have I, but it sure would seem to explain the State of the Nation today. I only pray this isn't merely the tip of the iceberg - I don't think I could stomach a resurgence of "Frankie Say Relax!" t-shirts or Bono constantly spouting off about oppressive conditions in the Third World (oh, wait - that never actually stopped). In fact, I'm going to do my part to save our country by going home and tearing down all my Leif Garrett posters off the walls right now! I'm kidding, of course - I'll never get rid of those posters. He may be troubled, but he's beautiful (his fave color is blue! ♥ Sigh ♥).

In any event, people will indeed mock all they want. And trust me, they'll definitely want. Still, it will all be worth it when you've spent your $300 for a ticket and Jordan looks right at you when he sings "I'll Be Loving You (Forever)". So, you've got that to look forward to. Followed by years of increasingly painful decay and eventual death. So it all evens out.

They shifted the statues for harboring ghosts,
John


People, April 14, 2008

Patrick Swayze has love, support and prayers on his side.
Sandy Sailer
Crown Point, Ind.

On further reflection, perhaps I should have eaten that last taco.

Sandy,
Those are indeed great things to have on your side. It's just too bad that pancreatic cancer has a damn-near 100% mortality rate on its side. But hey, if Oprah and The Secret have taught us one thing, it's that by merely visualizing himself without cancer, Mr. Swayze can easily rid himself of the disease. And if he can't, why, that just means he wants to have pancreatic cancer, right? Because if he didn't want to suffer, surely a benevolent God would reward his Positive Mental Attitude and devotion by granting him a full remission, no? I mean, otherwise, praying wouldn't be worth a clump of damp shit, would it? Still, if it's all the same to you, I'll wait to see how this one plays out before running off to join the Christian Scientists. I'm kind of a Negative Nelly that way.

I might've fucked your missus but I never fucked your daughter,
John

I had the pleasure of meeting Patrick when my daughter performed in a recital at his mother's dance school. He was backstage telling all the little girls how pretty they looked in their costumes and wishing them luck. He is the quintessential gentleman and clearly a devoted husband. We are all praying for him to beat this disease.
Maureen Reider
Simi Valley, Calif.

Maureen,
See, whenever I go to dance recitals and tell little girls how pretty they look, I'm lucky to escape without a beating or a trip to the local jail. Fucking celebrities - the world is their oyster! Their supple, pre-teen oyster.

Anyway, I'm not quite sure, but are you implying that if he wasn't the quintessential gentleman and a devoted husband you wouldn't be praying for him to beat the disease? What if he committed a single indiscretion - say, while staying at a Holiday Inn in San Antonio while filming Father Hood? Because come on, he was lonely and he'd started out with the best intentions, just chatting by the pool, but there was an undeniable chemistry, and she was so genuinely interested in him, not like all the other starfuckers he'd met on location - it was a moment of weakness, a single crumbling of his resolve; we're all flawed, but you can't hold it against him forever, can you? He doesn't deserve to contract cancer because of it, for God's sake! Christ, Maureen, show a little compassion now and then. It will help to clear up your complexion. Your karmic complexion, I mean. Obviously, persons who have achieved Buddha Nature, such as ourselves, are unconcerned with temporal beauty. Speaking of which, can I get your daughter's cell phone number? You don't need to worry - I'm only concerned with her spiritual development. Thanks so much!

p.s. Sorry - when I wrote "spiritual", I actually meant to type "breast". That mistake always got me in trouble with the nuns at catechism, too. And I don't mean the sexual fantasy kind of nun trouble, either! OK, I do.

You are a vapor trail in a deep blue sky,
John

Ack Ack Ack

Wow, what a sorry sack of shit I've been after promising the resumption of daily updates. Well, it hasn't been a great few days for it - I had some Adventures In Dentistry (after a chunk of my tooth suddenly just fell out while I was walking from work to get some coffee), and this book (2 books, actually) that I'm working on isn't nearly as easy as I thought it would be. So, why bother keeping my promise now? Instead of a real post, I'll provide a link to my old comic strip blog, Chicken Shack, which I started a year or so ago and promptly gave up due to the fact that I was the only one on Earth who found it amusing. So now, because I'm such a giver, I'm sharing it with you! Please to enjoy.

I'll post a real entry tomorrow if it kills me (which it may very well do). Thanks for the comments and e-mails once again - I read them, really, but it's hard to respond when you're basically in agreement with me. It's the ones who write pissed-off diatribes and wish injury upon me that really inspire me - I guess hatred is what sustains me. Speaking of comments, the second comment on this entry made me laugh (follow the link). Who says I can't read people? Yet my Dr. Philesque self-help television program still eludes me. Fuck it all!

Thanks for being patient.

Mooooooo

Hi-de-ho, mes freres,

Sorry for the vacation - I'm working on a book with a friend (who's a bona fide published author, so it's not just some pipe dream like every other creative endeavor I've been involved in) and needed some time to devote to that, but for now I'm back to (hopefully) daily updates. Of course, if we end up getting published, you can kiss my sweet ass goodbye - I'm all for the free exchange of ideas, but I'm even more for the financially compensated exchange of ideas. Say what you will about my leftist ideals, but it's hard to build up a stockpile of Vicodin under Communism.

Shout-outs: After pissing myself laughing at some of the entries in this book, I found that one of my favorite diarists featured in it has her own blog. It actually functions as a pretty good yin to my yang, except it's really more like two versions of the same yin. Whatever. There may be two sides to every story, but one of them is usually full of shit anyway.

On to reader mail! I was all a-twitter when I received another e-mail from one of the People correspondents (from this post). Here it is in its entirety, copied and pasted directly as it came to me, with my bitch-slap response immediately following:

Reguarding a comment to People Magazine about Jacob Hanna

First off, I find it funny how you say we have no life writing a comment into People or any other magazine when you write on this website, and what you say is not even intellectual! Do you want your five minutes of fame, or are you so miserable that you have to pick apart other people? I suggest unless you have anything worth blogging about, something of INTELLECUTUAL interest, then I would save the rest of your brain cells.

Michelle Booe,

Michelle,
Hi! I'm glad you find my blog funny - that's why I write it! Personally, I don't see what's so humorous about me saying you have no life, but that kind of thing's subjective, so I'll file it under "reasonable people can disagree". I'm just happy to have brought you some joy. If any of the People letter writers could use it, it's you.

You're right that what I write "is not even intellectual", and fo' shizzle I'm deeply ashamed of it. Imagine writing a blog about tabloid letters and somehow failing to make it intellectual! Just like everything else I've ever attempted, it should have been a slam-dunk, yet I managed to fuck it up. Damn, I must be D-U-M stupid. Why, if the exploits of Fergie and Celine Dion's degenerate spawn don't lend themselves to discussions of Wittgenstein or Situationist analysis, I'll eat my own farts! Oops - there I go again with my lowest common denominator scatological jokes! Maybe if I cut out all the "fucks" and aimed for wit instead of essentially obvious insults I could be seen as an INTELLECTUAL like Perez Hilton or that site with the photos of the fucking baby animals or all the other really thoughtful blogs out there. I'll tell you what: just for you and your fellow geniuses, here's a joke that's sure to get a chuckle if not an outright guffaw:

So the police pulled over Werner Heisenberg for speeding. One of the officers went up to his car and had him roll down his window and said, "Sir, do you know how fast you were going?"

"Yes," Heisenberg replied, "but I don't know where I am."

Get it? That's gold, Jerry! Gold! Sadly, that's the extent of my non-fart-joke repertoire.

I must also ask, while I've got you here, why you're only allotting me 5 minutes of fame. That's only 33.333% of the fame Andy Warhol guaranteed in his Constitutional amendment. Has our culture accelerated so rapidly that our basic human rights have been abridged to such a degree? And let's face it, if you want to become famous, there's no better path to it than starting a blog. I should be bathing in $55 bills right now, but instead my time in the sun's already passed! If I wasn't so miserable I had to pick apart other people before, I sure am now.

Finally, I do indeed wish I could have something worth blogging about, but as you've now doubt guessed by now, I'm lazy and superficial and must ride the coattails of real writers such as yourself if I'm ever to achieve any kind of sense of self-worth. It's a sorry motherfucking state of affairs, but it beats sitting around drooling into my lap every hour of the day. Unfortunately, at my age it's pretty much impossible to save brain cells, since, as I'm sure a being of your mental stature is aware, those cells are going to die due to apoptosis anyway. Maybe if I'd started this when I was seven things could have been different. Alas, there's no future for me now but to slowly devolve into a shuddering mass of misfiring neurons and massive incontinence. Such is the way of all flesh.

p.s. I realize I'm not an intellectual, but I'm pretty sure there's no "u" in "regarding". Also, when you place a comma after your name, it usually denotes there's something to follow. I do hope you didn't slip out of your chair while trying to finish your e-mail and get a concussion or something.

Entertainment Weekly, March 7, 2008

How do sex talk and man baiting constitute a feminist movement? If that were the case, The Golden Girls paved the way long before the shallow women of Sex and the City trotted through New York.
Jesse Morrison
Memphis

Jesse,
First of all, never bring up The Golden Girls in any discussion of sex. I thought they covered that kind of thing in freshman psychology (or when the good lord handed out common sense). Fact: the elderly are physically repulsive and (mercifully) incapable of any activity more strenuous than opening a bottle of pills with their mottled, arthritic hands or napping in inappropriate locations, so nobody, including them, wants to entertain the notion of anybody over 50 engaging in any form of erotic revelry. To illustrate this (though why this should be necessary is a mystery worthy of Chandler) I'm going to give you an example from my own life: once, when I was a wee lad staying with my grandparents for the weekend, I heard this exchange while passing outside their bedroom door:

Grandma: But don't you like it when I fondle your balls?
Grandpa: You know I do, Hazel. It's just that right now you're fondling my sagging man-bosom.

It all went downhill from there (I stayed outside their room listening for the next hour-and-a-half), in every possible sense. So exercise some judgment and keep Rue McClanahan out of these matters. And all other matters, while you're at it. She was always such a bitch to poor, sweet Rose.

Secondly, if feminists want to talk about sex and bait men, who are you to question them? If it wasn't for such brave feminists, I probably wouldn't have been able to feel up half the chicks I did in my teens. If Sex and The City has taught us one thing, it's that being a modern woman means being able to be just as big a douchebag as any frat-boy, and you can take away that freedom when you pry it from my cold, dead hand. If you know what I mean.

Said there's no returning from this chartered trip away,
John

L. to R.: Vince Neil, Tommy Lee, Nikki Sixx, Some Whore

Lipstick Jungle and Cashmere Mafia stole everything from Sex and the City, except one must-have accessory: great writers.
David Belenky
West Hollywood

David,
I can't tell you how happy I am to see that you live in West Hollywood, because I always find it supremely satisfying when all the requirements for a stereotype are fulfilled. Now then: I'm willing to compromise on your point: The writers for SATC were "great" when compared to the writers for Lipstick Jungle and Cashmere Mafia. But then, I'm a great writer compared to those people - and for that matter, so are you. Kinda puts things in perspective, doesn't it? I guess what I'm saying is: You really watch a lot of shitty television.

I love you from the bottom of my pencil case,
John