One Year!!!

It's been one year since an incompetent 911 operator influenced me to start a blog. If you've read any of my entries, thank you. To celebrate, a young child devouring a mound of poop...

Mystery Job

Another Craigslist finding. It was in the TV/Film/Radio section.

Seeking Motivated Individuals (National - USA)

Seeking persons with strong mechanical and creative aptitude, with good upbeat attitude and the willingness to learn, follow direction and function in a team environment,
likes to work with your hands a must , plumbing and/or electrical and/ or mechanical background a plus, willing to travel ,must have text message and email skills,
no drinking or drug use, ex-military or law enforcement a plus, should be relatively fit, must be a US citizen , have a valid drivers license and a clean driving record.

Any guesses?

Get Baked

New York City schools apparently have no bake sales because the nutritional value and ingredients of homemade goods cannot be defined. So a city panel is voting tomorrow on new rules that would allow students to sell fruits, vegetables, and the 27 packaged items approved for vending machine sale. When's the last time you knew how many calories or grams of sugar were in a banana? And correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't the level fluctuate depending upon factors such as ripeness? Granted, bananas are probably better for you than chocolate chip cookies, but who would want to buy Spicy Sweet Chili Doritos for a fundraiser? Aren't you more tempted to buy things from bake sales because the treats are homemade? I guess they made this rule like nine months ago, and now they need to bring some fundraising back due to the poor economy. Want my opinion? Bring back the cookies, cupcakes, and brownies too. There's a New York Times' article about this, which can be read here. The most ridiculous thing is the photo they ran with it:

Bacon chocolate chip cookies? S'mores brownies? Seven layer cookie bars? What kind of yuppie bake sale is this? Certainly not one taking place in a New York City public school.

Kumquat Virgin

I went food shopping today and noticed Trader Joe's had kumquats. $2.99 for 12 oz. seemed like a good deal, but what would I know, being a kumquat virgin? My curiosity had been piqued by watching Muppet Babies as a child, but I'd always assumed they were just something invented by Jim Henson, like the weirdo species. Advertised as being entirely edible with sweet skin and tart flesh, that was a definite selling point, as opposed to pomegranates, which I love, but am always surprised when the waste seems to have more mass than the original fruit. Kumquats are about the size of cherry tomatoes, so just looking at them quickly in the store, I imagined them tasting something like a sweet tomato. When I got home and opened the plastic container, I gave the fruits a sniff. They smelled like oranges and examining them closer, appeared to have a similar texture. After popping off the green caps, I washed a few and decided to feast. I hesitantly bit into the skin, which sort of tasted like oranges, but sweeter, a decent first taste. I bit into the fruit flesh to find it orange-like, but sort of like if you dipped an orange in something even more acidic, like I don't know, maybe HCl. It wasn't gag-inducing, but it wasn't super-pleasant either. As I took my second fleshy bite, I hit something hard. A fucking seed. Two actually. And that's where kumquats seem like a waste; their seeds are the same size as orange seeds. Having said all this, I think I ate seven in one sitting.

Pros: Fun name. Fun size. Entirely edible minus the seeds.

Cons: Big seeds. Sour as a mother. Fairly expensive now knowing the taste.

Verdict: Try them for the experience if you must. Otherwise, best used in Scrabble: Kumquat will get you 72 points with no premium squares!

The Return of Dr. Tyrone McLouvrengradstein

I wrote an absurd short story for my blog last year one time when my computer was broken. My computer's fine, but after struggling with my screenplay today, I decided on a sequel to the aforementioned story. It probably won't make any sense without first reading the original story here, but then again, it probably won't make sense either way.

A Curious Case

I pull up to the house around one. It rained this morning, but lucky for me, it stopped just as I was leaving my apartment an hour ago. Ahead on the pavement, a dry spot, larger car-sized. Possibly a Cadillac?

"Shit, I must've missed him," I say out loud. I've gotten into the habit. It helps with my decision-making. And my anger.

"Ah, might as well have a look around." A bird bath. Overgrown. Would've been perfect after this morning's little shower. "What a cruel fucking joke!" I spit onto the greying asphalt.

The upkeep of the exterior is shoddy at best. Crumbling brick, peeling paint. Queer enough, the hedgerow skirting the façade is impeccably trimmed. Like a girl who's trying to impress you. With razor skills? "I shave my face everyday, honey," I say to no one. I rub my fingertips along my jaw line. Bristles. I am impressed.

"I'm gonna check around back," I say. "Who am I talking to?"

No one answers. They never do. I suppose it's better that way. I ate a whole half-gallon of black cherry ice cream once. It took me a week. I've never been prouder.

The tidy row of hedges continues against the side wall, at least the side I'm on. Windows are shuttered. I can't see in.

"Why didn't you just knock?"

Not me this time. I turn to my left to see a male, 6'1", Caucasian. Flower-print dress. Sunbonnet. Metal watering can in right hand.

"Oh, excuse me," I apologize. "I didn't see a car so I thought you might not be here so I thought I'd just check around back and see if you were there and now I see you are but I feel I may have interrupted you and in the first place I should've knocked." He never interjects, and I have to stew with my mishmash of subjects and predicates.

"What is your name?" he finally says.

I race through my mental Rolodex of aliases and decide on the most realistic-sounding option. "John Doe," I reply, smirking at my cunning.

"I'm Dr. Tyrone McLouvrengradstein. I would normally extend you the courtesy of a handshake, but as you can see, Mr. Doe, my right hand is currently occupied," he says, lifting the half-full watering can.

"I've shaken hands before. I know what it feels like." Dummy. Real class act.

"Act what? Do you want me to perform?"

Blast! I'm saying the last word of my thoughts out loud again.

"Again?"

I thought Dr. Scrimshaw had cured this.

The doctor looks at me quizzically. I pause. When he doesn't question me with "This?" I assume the quirk has stopped or he's being unnecessarily polite after I've just trespassed.

"You have."

"What?"

"Trespassed."

Damn it! When will it end? Ah, that's it. End is the keyword. End.

"So, please, Mr. Doe, will you be so informative as to tell me why you have trespassed?"

"As soon as you tell me why you're watering plants when it just stopped raining an hour ago." Great. Back on top.

"I must look positively ridiculous," he says. "I was collecting rainwater with this pitcher, not administering it."

"Oh," I say, feeling stupid. Although he does look ridiculous in the dress and bonnet combo. "Collecting it for what?" I probe.

"Would you like to come inside and I'll show you?" An invitation. Just what I needed without the painstaking ordeal of a warrant.

"Yes, I would."

"Don't hesitate to come into my back door," he says as he steals away around the corner. This could be a trap. He could be waiting on the other side, ready to bludgeon me with his watering can. Cautious, I grip my sidearm tightly.

"Are you coming?" he calls, sounding halfway around the house and not sneakily waiting to give me my deathblow. Clenching my sidearm, I quickly round the corner to see the doctor twenty feet away at the back door. With a sigh of relief, I release the tiny arm that protrudes from my ribcage. Having absorbed most of my brother in the womb, my sidearm is all that remains of him. Perhaps he is the no one I'm always talking to.

The door leads into a laundry room. I look for clues, but see none that interest me, only shredded bloody clothes, a driver's license, and keys to a Cadillac. I need a body. The laundry room opens into the kitchen, where the doctor leans against a countertop. On the tile floor, I notice a small placard: LAB. "What's lab?"

"It's a breed of dog." The doctor seems okay with my snooping, so I have a look around.

A door with a sign on it. The lettering matches the LAB. "Where's this door lead?"

"It's where I practice my speeches. There's a mini-auditorium and I've created a crowd entirely composed of wax figures of celebrities. Would you care to see? There's a spare seat at H6. I never anticipate a full house."

"No, thank you," I say, being nice. That actually sounds a little too weird for me.

To my right, a refrigerator. Freezer on bottom. Two postcards held up by googly-eye magnets. One is titled Yellowstone at Night over matte black. I chuckle. The other is from Myrtle Beach and depicts several men in neon-colored thongs. "Have a good time in Myrtle Beach?" I ask over my shoulder.

"Never been," replies the doctor.

"You stinking liar!" I yell, pointing to the butts.

"That postcard was sent to me. Do you often purchase postcards for yourself?"

"No," I lie. I always opt to buy postcards of the places I've traveled. My photography skills have never been that amazing, at least one of my three thumbs always finding its way into the frame.

"That postcard was sent to me by a man named Jonathan Kreplark."

Bingo! "Dr. McLouvrengradstein, I'm a private investigator. This is my card," I say, offering one from my alligator-skin case. I watch the doctor struggle to read it, as everyone does. "Hold it up to the light," I suggest with a smile.

The words appear. "Invisible ink," I boast.

"Cute trick," he says, handing it back.

"I'm shocked at your refusal," I say, pocketing the card and case, secretly counting my blessings, as I have to make more and I'm running low on lemon juice.

"I'm shocked your name is Walter Ditmas and not John Doe."

"An alias."

"You had me fooled," says the doctor genuinely.

"I'm sorry."

"It's quite alright. But I also must say I haven't been entirely honest with you," he plays skillfully.

"Oh, really?" I egg on.

Gesturing behind me, he says, "Behind that door does not lie an audience of waxen stars of the stage and screen. It's just my basement."

"I figured as much. That seemed a little odd to me."

"I know. You told me."

How much have I been saying?

"Less than you think," he says.

"I just said that?" I demand.

"You did. But aside from your comments outside and just now, nothing else."

"Whew," I say.

"You just said that."

"I know." I'm getting testy. End. "Doctor, Jonathan Kreplark has been missing for two weeks. Do you have any idea of his whereabouts?"

"I wish I could help you, Mr. Ditmas, but that postcard was our last correspondence, and that was easily a month ago. You can check the cancellation date on the back."

"That won't be necessary," I say, immediately regretting my decision. How to recover? "May I see your hands?" I can tell so much about a person just by looking at their hands. Not anywhere on the level of palmistry, but type of work, hygienic habits, how many fingers they have.

"But of course," he says, proffering them.

Some left-handed writing required, washes after peeing, eleven. Damn. "Thank you. I'll be off," I say, defeated.

"It's an absolute shame you came all this way for nothing. Would you like to see my boudoir?"

Boudoir. Ladies dressing room. The photos. Karen was saving herself for marriage. She handed me a perfume-scented envelope the night before our wedding. "Don't open this until tomorrow morning," she whispered. I honored her request, and broke the seal over my morning granola. Karen nude on a bed. I had literally never seen such sexy curves. Ten photos, different poses, each one more suggestive. But who took them? I flipped one over to find a backprinting. Fred Biffman's Boudoir Photography. Fred Biffman laid his eyes upon Karen's naked body before I did. I waited until the reception to do it. Inserting the photos into the Power Point slideshow was easy; explaining that I had said, "I due," so therefore the marriage was void, was not. God, I hope he didn't hear any of that. End. "I would love to."

I follow the man and his swaying watering can up a spiral staircase. Noticing he's not wearing underwear, I avert my eyes to a rather strange-looking chandelier.

We enter the eighteenth door on our right. As suspected, a ladies dressing room. Even one of those folding dividers that I've only seen in the talkies. "Buffalo," I say, having never entirely understood the meaning of the word.

"Thank you. But behind this curtain is something even more buffalo."

Through with his games, I order, "Just tell me what it is."

"It's a true mirror. When you view your reflection in a normal mirror, it is reversed. This mirror does not reverse the image, and shows you how others regard you. Fancy a look?"

"No," I refuse, expecting some cruel parlor trick where I'd see the skinless, bleeding demon that resides within me.

"Why not? You're quite the handsome fellow."

Fearing he's coming onto me, I ask the question that's been on my mind. "Have you ever made love to a man?"

"No," he says, "but I have fucked a man."

To borrow a phrase from the French-Canadian, "Touché."

"Parlez-vous français?" he asks.

"Non, je parle canadien-français." I respond. "But..."

"That was before, of course," he explains.

"I noticed you were a eunuch on the stairs."

"Not just the stairs," he jokes.

We share a good rib-tickling laugh. I feel like I am halfway into my fifth drink at a comedy club, too sloshed to remember I only had to order two. Why am I here?

"The rainwater," he says. "You did that thing again."

End. "Yes, the rainwater," I echo.

"This way." There are two star-shaped doors on the wall. He takes the second and I follow him into darkness.

The stench is unbearable. I hear the door shut behind me. Another door opens and closes. I try the knobs. Locked. A spotlight shines down in the center of the room. A claw-foot bathtub containing a decaying corpse covered in cat fur. But where is that awful smell coming from?

A loudspeaker clicks on. "Walter Ditmas, P.I., your case is closed. Jonathan Kreplark is in the basin before you. I'm using the rainwater to dissolve his body."

I can barely hear his words. What is that fucking smell?

"Years of pollution have caused the rainwater here to go from a normal pH of 5.6 to a more acidic 4.2."

"That's only the acidity of tomato juice!" I blurt hurriedly, trying not to swallow any more of the putrid air.

"Very good," says the doctor, surprised by my chemistry knowledge.

They did call me Litmus Ditmas in high school.

"Litmus Ditmas, eh?"

"Shit, I'm doing it again."

"No, I already knew that. And if you haven't figured it out by now, there is another red fruit more acidic than that."

"You sick fucking scoundrel!" A strobe light flashes, illuminating the corners of the room in a macabre dance. Cherries.

"You felt you had bested your allergy when you ate that ice cream. But you should've read the list of ingredients more carefully. Artificial cherry flavor. You are locked in this room. The only way to survive is to eat the cherries or the deceased flesh of Jonathan Kreplark."

"Curses. Curses on you and your mother's grave!" I scream.

"You can tell her yourself. Her bones are at the bottom of that tub."

I vomit whatever's left of my lunch. Looks like half a burrito and a Daffy Duck Pez dispenser. I know I've been beaten. Grabbing a fistful of the wretched fruits, I shove them into my mouth, pits, stems, and all. As I go into anaphylactic shock, my sidearm sticks up its puny middle finger in a final act of defiance, and goes limp.

FAT Toddlers

This is no joke. This is copied straight from Craigslist.

FAT Toddlers (Hollywood)

A major production company is currently looking for Obese/Overweight Boys and Girls ages 3 years to 5 years for one afternoon of work.

We are seeking all ethnicities. However, the children MUST clearly be physically obese/fat.

There is a very short time commitment for this project- 1 to 3 hours if you are selected. Pay is $464. Selected talent will need to provide the necessary minor documents to work on set.

If you would like to be considered, please email the following information to jklcasting@sbcglobal.net:

1. Parent Name/Child's First Name
2. Contact Info - Phone number (s)
3. Your Child's age
4. Your location
5. Picture(s) of your Fat Toddler

Be Sure To Include “FAT TODDLER” in the subject line.

Apparently they did some study, and the magic number of cash required to totally admit to being a worthless parent and ruin your child's life is $464.

In Honor of Presidents' Day...

Happy Friday the 12th!

Hollywood Sign

There is a chance that Cahuenga Peak, the land surrounding the Hollywood sign, could become developed as was once its intent. If another $5 million isn't raised by April, this could become a reality. The issue is that the sign has become a symbol of Los Angeles, likened to New York's Statue of Liberty, Paris' Eiffel Tower, and San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge. While it is sad that essentially a billboard is equated to the previous structures, it is true. The sign is a protected landmark and will remain, but filling the hill around it with mansions will definitely hurt its iconic appearance. But am I concerned? No. In fact, I'm wondering why one rich fucking actor doesn't donate the remaining $5 million. Shit, get ten rich actors to split the cost. No doubt this money could be better served to assist Haiti or help with the national debt, but if that land is sold so rich motherfuckers can live in mansions on the hill, I will believe the rumors that this town has no soul... and leave.

Here's The New York Times article 'cause for some reason, the Los Angeles Times article sucked.

Here's an interesting site with the history of the Hollywood sign.

Noooooooooo!!!

Google just ran that absolutely classy Super Bowl ad and now they're gonna turn Gmail into Twitter? Please wake me up from this awful dream.

Google is getting ready to add social-networking features into Gmail as it attempts to jump-start its social Web strategy.

Gmail users can already set their status within the service, but Google plans to expand that into a stream of status updates found in services like Facebook and Twitter, according to sources familiar with the company's plans. Users will also be able to share photos and videos through the service, which is expected to launch shortly.

Read the rest of the bad news here.

Top 3 Super Bowl XLIV Ads

I found this year's crop of Super Bowl ads insanely disappointing. Could it be because every ad was for Doritos, Bud Light, or those stupid fucking Etrade babies? Maybe it was because several ads stole their plots from The Simpsons, and the one that actually had The Simpsons sucked. Perhaps it was because more than one ad featured that staring hamster from three years ago. Whatever the reason, I figured I'd narrow it down to the top three, which was pretty easy.

3. Bud Light - Auto-Tune

With about 20% of all Super Bowl ads for Bud Light, they had to get it right once. The end is really the only good part, but I like it.

2. Denny's - Birthday

The element of surprise.

1. Google

I can't even explain everything that is right with this. From the typing errors to the subtle soundtrack, everything works perfectly. My only beef would be that Wikipedia is used as a source. For me, this is one of the most brilliant commercials I have ever seen. It's right up there with what I consider my favorite commercial ever...

The Google one really proves that bigger is not always better. Tell a good story. Crazily enough, the milk ad was actually directed by Michael Bay. It would serve him well to watch his best work again.

Blogging for Dummies

I'm at the library, and a woman just pulled a copy of Blogging for Dummies off the shelf. Hmmn.

Blurt It!

The funniest thing I've read all day.

The whole website is hilarious. It's like they combined Yahoo! Answers with a bunch of retarded kids.