Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Liar! Liar! Pants on Fire!

At the beginning of the summer, I announced the "Create an Eighty-Four Glyde" Contest. The deadline was Labor day and the prize was $100. I had many interesting entries and was very pleased. But there can be only one winner, and that winner is Brenda Armira, because I liked her topic. If you didn't know about the contest, or didn't have a chance to finish your entry, not to worry, there will be another one next summer. Until then, keep reading, keep writing and keep doing a third thing.

Here is Brenda's entry, unedited and presented as it was sent to me. Enjoy!

Liar! Liar! Pants on Fire!

Ever notice how telling a lie is easier than facing the truth? Is this because people are so afraid of confronting the truth about themselves? I’m not sure but I decided to do some research regarding the topic, beginning with what a lie is and how many different subtypes of lies there actually are. Wikipedia says- A lie is a type of deception in the form of an untruthful statement, especially with the intention to deceive others (Wikipedia, being such a reliable source). According to the Fringe Benefits by staff writer J.M. Lucci there are 5 types of lies, Little White Lies, Big Black Lies, Distraction Lies, Fucking Lie (Male version) and Fucking Lie (Female Version).

Little White Lies, we are all familiar with. We have all told them and usually the lie causes no damage or is told to be less hurtful to a person. An example is; “Your outfit is pretty” rather than, “Your outfit is pretty but not beautiful enough to distract from your ugly face… “ oh, and “it would look so much better on me”. Another example is, “I arrived late because there was traffic” rather than, “I arrived late because I decided to go out last night and engage in after hours activities (wink wink) therefore having me hit the snooze button several times…Oops”. In my opinion, these are completely necessary when dealing with your newly divorced mother. My mother asked if she was considered a cougar? A looked at her and asked, “Do you know what a cougar is” (hoping it was lost in translation), she looked at me and said, “Of course”. I answered, “Yes”, because I needed breakfast before work.

Big Black Lies, require thought process and usually are hard to believe, they contain extreme exaggerations. An example is, “I arrived late to work because there was an accident on the freeway. There was a 7 car pileup so I pulled over to help a lady stuck in the car. I pulled her out just in time because after we got away, the car caught on fire. I received a call from Governor Swarcenegar and am supposed to receive a trophy from Mayor Villaraigosa appreciating me for my heroic act.” Too much! Every Californian knows that the governor only has time to raise taxes and impregnate the working class and that the Los Angeles Mayor only has time to do his hair. I swear his hair must take at least 7 hours; leaving only 1 hour to do official government business. In my high school days, I became interested in black men believing, they all came with big junk, to my surprise, they weren’t all carrying big black phallus’. What a big black lie?

Distraction Lies are lies told to refocus a person’s attention on other topics. These lies are usually told to stupid people with low attention spans. Example; you’re hair looks so pretty today (even though it’s the same hair style she’s worn all her life) in the hope of distracting from the original topic of, “why haven’t you paid the rent this month?” These lies are extremely useful to me when being pulled over by a police officer. Lets just say, having DD’s comes in very helpful.

Fucking Lies both Male and Female are lies told to “get some”. These are sexually based lies in order to seem more appealing (sexually) to the opposite sex. An example is, “I swear, that doesn’t usually happen to me” (after finishing a long 3 minute session) rather than, “I just wanted to get mine, who cares if you finished”. Another example is, “You’re only my 2nd partner” rather than “I lost count after number 30”. Being a 29 year old virgin, I can’t really speak on this, except for that tying up someone while whipping them should really be done with furry cuffs rather than police cuffs…so I’ve heard.

During my research, I came across a wall post asking, “If you tell an ugly person they’re pretty, do they know you’re lying?” It’s people telling lies to protect people they care about, or is it? As a friend, it’s your responsibility to tell your friend when she looks “to’ up from the flo’ up.” Heck, if I went out looking like a “muffin top”, “un burrito mal envuelto” (a badly wrapped burrito), or I have 4 butt cheeks hanging out as well as 4 boobs, please, let me know. It’s not flattering in the least bit, in fact, it’s the only way to make DD’s look all bad.

A friend told me, he lies all the time when he is trying to get out of an engagement by saying, “he has to go to his brothers” or “something suddenly came up.” I asked why lie? He said, “It was mainly out of force of habit but also because his ex-girlfriend refused to go out and he did not want to sound like he was going against the “Bro’s before Hoe’s” manly code. I have to admit, I lie to get out of certain situations as well. Not a good trait. I should be able to say one of the following options;

· “I refuse to go to your party because your parties are boring and suck ass, “

· “ I refuse to go out with you because I don’t like you,”

· “I’m not going with you because you embarrass me with your table dancing in a mini skirt,”

· “because I married a man 10 years older than me and now his arthritis is catching up with me,”

· “I look like a muffin top today, catch up with me next week.”

All acceptable truths?

My favorite lie is, “It’s not you, it’s me.” What people really want to say is, “of course it’s you, your nasty breath, bad body odor, your disgusting habits, your poor communication skills, anti-social behavior and most importantly, you suck in the sac”. Just tell the truth! People will learn what they need to change and hopefully will be better partners in the next relationship. It wouldn’t be difficult, watch pornos, get more friends with benefits and if you have money, get the “relationship experience”. There is nothing like practice.

I think it would just be liberating to tell the truth, even if it comes with some repercussions. A lot of people will never get out of their homes, anti-anxiety pills will be provided to everyone and cyber communication will be the only means of communication. Sounds great!?!

I have come across many liars during my short 18 years on this earth and can honestly say that I’ve told some wild ones. Such as me being 18 years old. In fact, I would have considered myself a pathological liar as a kid.

When I was 8 years old I told a lie that got my sister in trouble. One night I peed in the bed, slept right through it and then pretended it wasn’t me. My parents questioned my sister and I (had they just done the sniff test the mystery would have been solved) but I denied and denied. Being the youngest and daddy’s little girl, my older sister ended up taking the blame, getting a beating and was also punished for 1 month.

Lies are told for many different reasons; the story told about me being 8 years old could also be a lie. I guess one, never really knows what can be believed…

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

The Shaky Falldown

Friday, August 19, 2011: 8:42 pm, U Street, Washington D.C.

It’d been a long week. I’ve never been a fan of 9–5 jobs, they seem like they rob the best part of the day from you and you have to be satisfied with the scraps of morning and evening. This had been a particularly annoying week; my boss had been riding my ass for some bullshit assignment that only made sense to him.

“Joshua?” He asked, taking two steps into my office. He never liked to walk entirely into my office and normally I wouldn’t mind, because I’m always quick to get annoyed by visitors when I work and the less time they spend in my designated work-space, the better. But his annoying ass grated on me any time he opened his mouth in my breathing area. “Hey, have you gotten around to pulling those numbers I asked for the other day?”

Have I gotten around to pulling the goddamn numbers he asked for? Of course not. I had actual work to do and he wanted me to pull the stats for each player on the retarded Dallas Cowboys for the last five seasons. It’s not my job to do his bitch work for his fantasy football team. As far as I was concerned, he could take his “numbers” and…

“Because I’m really trying to get that info before ‘C.O.B.’ today,” he said in that high, nasally voice of his that always reminded me of Pee-Wee Herman, for some reason. The worst part? The dick actually did air-quotes when saying C.O.B.

“Listen Mr. Loomis,” I said with a barely-contained sigh. “It’s 15 minutes until the day is over, do you really need the stats by then?

“To be honest, no. But I do need you to finish that task before you leave today. No matter how long it takes.” And with that he took two steps out of my office, without even looking backward, like he was on some sort of Evil Jerk conveyer belt.

God, I said to myself, I deserve every alcohol in the world for this bullshit.

Fast-forward to now. Sitting in one of those pretentious bars on U street, Northwest. They’re each about the size of a Japanese apartment, with drink prices that require you to take out a mortgage. I’ve been pounding down drinks for the last 90 minutes or so. Not entirely sure. You know how it goes when you’re three-sheets-to-the-wind on a Friday night: time is for other people, for people who cared and who had places to go. I was already where I was supposed to be, with my two friends, Marcus and Arthur. Marcus was my friend from college, Arthur was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle brand gin, it made me feel smart. We’d also been friends since college.

“Alright Josh, I’ve got to get going, I’m meeting Trish for a jumbo slice in Adams Morgan in about 20 minutes, and it’s gonna take all my focus to walk there in a straight line. I got to get going now or else I won’t get to enjoy a nice greasy slice…or any pizza!” he said with the guffaws that only an inebriated person has the ability to make. It sounds incredibly fake, but at the same time garners your pity, because you know it’s real.

“Yesh, shounds good. Lemme jhust crush one more quick gin an tonic and I’ll join yoush. I could totesh kill a shlishe of pizzzza the shize of my head,” I responded, sounded incredibly sober and functional. “Bartender, one more pleash?”

“Ummm, I’m sorry to say this sir, but that was the last bottle Of ACD gin. May I recommend something else? Howard, perhaps? Hemingway?”

“Whaaz? Arsh you trying to appeal to my shense of great writersh/drinkersh? How dare you shir!” I suddenly sprung from my barstool and reached over the bar to grab the bartender by his shirt, in an act that was strangely agile for a person in my present state. “Whush your namez?...Dick!”

“Yes sir, my name is Dick. How did you know?” he managed to stammer.

“Beacush if I were your parentsh, I woulda had that tattooed on your shtupid jerk facesh!” I bellowed an inch from his stupid jerk face. “ Are you telling me you’re outta my gin? Caush I don’t believe a word your…shtupid jerk facesh saysh!”

At that point Marcus reached over and liberated Dick from my grasp (a sentence I had hoped to never say). “Dude, relax. If’s he out of that label, he’s out of that label. Why would he lie?”

Why would he lie indeed, I asked myself. It seemed pretty innocuous, and perhaps I was blowing things out of proportion. This could just be the alcohol talking, and I wasn’t being rational.

But if that was the case, then why, when we were stumbling out of the bar, (making it down the flight of steps with only two trip ups) I was so sure I saw Dick winking and offering the crooked smile of a guy who enjoyed the fact that his name was also his personality characteristic? That guy was hiding something from me. And I vowed to come back the next day to find out what it was.

To be continued…

Wednesday, August 10, 2011


You do not exist. And for that, I am sorry, but accepting.

It’s nobody’s fault. Regardless of what Disney movies will tell you, happiness isn’t just hanging around, waiting for you to tap it on the shoulder and make yourself known.

I’ve been on this planet for 30 years, and I’ve seen a couple of things. I can’t say I’ve seen a lot, because who is the judge of that? An astronaut has seen everything the human eye could ever gaze upon. A biologist has seen things that most of us will never see. An artist sees things that only exist in the imagination. Doctors and priests have seen miracles.

I’ve seen a couple of things.

I like to think of myself as observant. I used to think of myself as an impartial observer, but that’s never the case. It’s impossible. The more you observe the world around you, the more it changes you. And the more it changes you, the more it changes the way you observe things. Some people choose to only see good, some, only the bad. But I think that most of us fall in the middle: we want to believe in good, but the world makes it a full time job to try and prove us wrong.

I say all that because there’s one area in which I’ve always tried to be a wide-eyed, naïve believer: soul mates and the fact that there’s somebody out there for everybody. It’s an easy and satisfying thing to believe in. No matter what you look like, no matter how you act, what you believe in, how you smell, the amount of body hair, religious beliefs or Angry Birds score, there’s something out there who will always say “yes” when it comes to you.

Of course, the easy counter to that, which I’ve always used to temper my optimism, is that while it’s possible for that perfect person to be out there for you, statistically, your chances of meeting them are about as likely as…well, your chance of meeting your soul mate. And how often does that happen?

And now, we come to You. You are an ideal. A hope and a dream. You are what people strive and yearn for. And that makes You powerful. Very powerful. So much so in fact, that people refuse to give You up, or even the idea of You. So instead of just being happy with the concept of You, they pervert it, subjugate it. They try to take pure happiness and turn it into something they can control and own. They warp their own thoughts and desires. They’d rather think that You aren’t metaphorical. They want You to be real, to be there to comfort them after a hard day, take care of them when they’re sick, suck their toes when in a nasty mood. Basically all the stuff in wedding vows, (the toe-sucking is in the vows, right?)

But You can’t do any of that stuff, because regardless of all of Your power, You’re not tangible. And I think that deep in the minds and hearts of people, they may have an inkling about that. And they are not happy campers. If you rob hope from people, it makes them crazy. So, instead, they choose to see You in others. They’re willing to compromise in the name of love, and to convince themselves that they have met You. Time, age, experience, these are the teachers that weigh heavy on people, causing some of them to compromise, to settle.

I thought I met You 15 years ago. I blinded myself to any other truth. Much like those who choose to see the world through rose-colored glasses, I felt that I had made my choice. And even better: You chose me to be Your soul mate.

Too bad that’s not how it works.

Years of fighting. So much anger and revenge and drama and games. But mostly sadness and wasted emotions. Obviously, she couldn’t be You. If she were You, there would only be happiness and running through meadows, and my heart warming up enough to find puppies cute, instead of seeing them as soccer balls. So, I lied to myself. I convinced myself of something that I knew wasn’t true.

The worst part? I tried to see You as much as I could in her. I honestly did. Even past the point of everybody else giving up.

But that wasn’t enough. I started to see You in most of the women I dated. I took the concept of the “one” and I spread it across all the women I knew, the women I met and ones I just happened to see. I could see You in a smile, a stance, a smell, the eyes, hair, height, weight. I realized that I was trying to put You together like a puzzle from all the women I knew. Each woman I have ever dated, kissed or even longed for, held at least a piece of the truth that I sought from You.

But I know better now. I’m only 30 of course; I’m no sage, or even a wise man (I’m barely even an adult). But I’ve seen a couple of things in my life, and while I’m pretty sure You aren’t going to pop into my life any time soon, I’m happy that You’ve been able to convince my friends of happiness. Because, while I think You’re an evil trickster and imaginary, I also know that They need You to make the world turn.

So…keep up the good work, You. And take care of Them.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

The People vs. A Right Jolly Old Elf

Opening statements

Prosecutor: Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you for being here today and doing your duty as American citizens.

Today you will see and hear facts and evidence that the accused did knowingly, purposely and unlawfully, send erotic and pornographic photographs of himself to several people, including Mother Nature, Cupid, the Easter Bunny and for reasons known only to himself, Bob from accounting.

None of these people requested these photographs and all of them feel, in some way, soiled, sullied and abused for having received them. These pictures, of an extremely graphic nature, now haunt the dreams of the defendants and have made it hard for them to work. The testimony you hear today from both the defendants and expert witnesses, will show how tormented their lives have become and how the monetary compensation of a measly $8 million will never erase the pain from the defendants’ lives. Although it’s a good start. Thank you.

Defense: Good morning everybody. I hope you’re having a good day so far. It’s a beautiful July day, the sun is shinning, the weather is mild and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. And even better, you get a small reprieve from the tedium of your jobs!

Ladles and jelly-spoons, what my colleague has told you is a complete fabrication. My client has never sent inappropriate pictures to anybody and certainly not to his fictitious peers, nor this “Bob” person.

To be honest, if anything, there’s a high demand for photographs of my client’s private parts that he has to fight off constantly. It has caused him considerable anguish that people perpetually harangue him to see that which has been reserved only for Mrs. Claus.

We demand that these charges be dropped and apologies given to my client, who is nothing more than a simple man, with a stomach that shakes like a bowl full of jelly, and who wants only to bring joy and happiness to the boys and girls of the world. Would you find such a good soul guilty of this laughable crime? I think not, and I know you’ll agree. Today, justice will prevail. Thank you.


Prosecutor: Please, Easter Bunny, in your own words, describe the events that occurred on the night of December 8 of last year.

Easter Bunny: I’ll…I’ll do my best. I was sitting in my warren, watching an old episode of Duck Factory and enjoying a Harvey Wallbanger, when out of the blue I got a message on my cell phone. I opened the message attachment…sob

Prosecutor: It’s alright Bunny. Take your time. Here’s a tissue.

Easter Bunny: Thank you. Anyway, the picture was of Santa Claus’s groin area. It was close up and not out of focus at all. Thank you 4G network! You worked too well!

Prosecutor: And how did you know whose crotch that was?

Easter Bunny: Because the carpet matched the drapes!! Sob, sob…

Prosecutor: Thank you. You may step down.

Testimony, continued

Defense: I call to the stand: Dr. Gustav Otto Olberov Christof von Hubberstein.

Dr. Gooch: Danke.

Defense: Dr. Gooch, here we have exhibits J, R and W, blown up photographs of my client’s alleged penis as sent to the defendants. Can you tell us, in your expert opinion if this is actually Santa Claus’s no-no spot?

Dr. Gooch: I sure can, and it isn’t.

Defense: Can you elaborate, doctor?

Dr. Gooch: You bet.

Defense: …

Dr. Gooch: Oh you mean now? Sorry. Anyway, as you can see in these photographs here, here and here, you’ll notice that the skin is smooth and unblemished. After spending hours personally handling St. Nick’s balls and shaft, I can tell you that he has a slight scar right at the base from a night of wild, experimental sex that he and Mrs. Claus tried back in the 70s. It involved a jar of honey, a razor blade and four…

Defense: We don’t need all the details doctor. Thank you. Please continue with other differences you’ve observed.

Dr. Gooch: You got it. Alright, here take a look at the scrotum skin. You’ll notice how droopy and saggy it is. There’s enough extra skin there to supply an entire burn ward at a children’s hospital. This is typical of what you’d expect to see on the balls of a really old guy. However! Santa is no normal old man. He’s a fairy, and as such the skin on his testicles is smooth and taught.

Defense: Interesting. Do go on.

Dr. Gooch: The most important difference is also the most obvious one. The penis in these photographs is uncut. Not circumcised. Weird-looking. Whereas Santa Claus’s purple-headed warrior is majestic in its full splendor and glory!

Defense: Thank you for that…oddly specific testimony doctor.

Dr. Gooch: You’re welcome! Now I’m off to perform a reverse nipplectomy on Justin Beiber.

Defense: I have no idea what that means, but good luck.


Judge: Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have spent the last six weeks listening to both sides as they presented their cases. And frankly, a lot of it was some weird shit. But it’s a weird case, so I guess it’s par for the course.

You have also spent the last 18 hours deliberating as to the verdict of this case. Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?

Foreman: We have your honor.

Judge: Could you please read as to how you find the accused?

Foreman: On the count of sending lewd and salacious photographs of his genitalia to multiple people, including some who are underage, we find the accused guilty.

Judge: Thank you Mr. Foreman and members of the jury for your hard work. You may be excused.

As for you, Kris Kringle, you have been found guilty by a jury of your own peers. And I don’t blame them. What we have seen over these past weeks has painted a disgusting picture of an old man who has abused his position as Father Christmas. Frankly sir, I find you and your personal life offensive and would go so far as to say that you would most certainly appear on your own “naughty list”.

Because of the circumstances, I must sentence you to a year of house arrest, to be followed by a stint in sex rehab, until I feel that you are well enough to be giving presents to people that don’t involve your pubic hair.

Get this freak out of my sight.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

I want to bang Janice the Muppet*

I want to bang Janice the Muppet.

I want to run my fingers through her yellow, stringy, yarn-like hair.

I want to caress the soft felt of her radiant cheeks,

And listen to her wail on her left-handed Gibson Les Paul

“Like, oh wow man!”

I want to hump Irona the Robot Maid.

There’s just something about a female robot

With a square jaw and a maid’s costume.

Richie Rich doesn’t know what he’s got,

And she’d beat the hell out of Rosie the Robot

I want to screw Blondie Bumstead.

I want to make her a big ass sandwich and watch her eat every bite.

I want to spoon with her backwards on a couch all Sunday.

Her classical looks and ridiculous ta-tas,

Make me want to meet her in the funny pages

I want to smurf Smurfette

I would gnaw on a mushroom, like Alice.

And shrink down to her size.

And if she didn’t put out,

Then I’d end up having blue balls.

I want to sexify Jessica Rabbit.

I truly enjoy her booby…traps.

She sparkles more than a lame-ass vampire.

I’d show her how funny I can be,

With an over-the-top lisping stutter.

I want to seduce Ophelia.

And take her to my castle in the country-side.

I’d yell at her uncontrollably, for no obvious reason,

Then manically cry on her shoulder.

Our honeymoon would be at a nunnery.

I would love all these fictitious women,

And make them my harem.

The Hef may have The Grotto,

But I get to have all the fun.


* Or, Fictitious Love**

**Or, Do women think about stuff like this?

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Eighty-Four Glyde Fables: The Little Greenhouse that Could

Once upon a time there was a little old lady who lived all by herself in a big, empty house. Living alone made her sad, so she decided one day that she would build a greenhouse next to her house.

So she did.

Her greenhouse was a beautiful building that held rows upon rows of the most exquisite flowers and plants you’d ever seen. There were snapdragons, lilies, tulips, ficus, quamoclits, begonias, roses and a variety of other unique flowers that couldn’t be found anywhere else. The beauty of each flower in her greenhouse surpassed the plant before it.

The greenhouse was the old lady’s pride and joy and she loved to spend hours each morning watering, talking to and caring for her plants.

One morning the old lady noticed something upsetting about her beautiful greenhouse. While the plants at the end of each row grew big and stood up tall and strong, the plants in the middle of the rows were small and weak looking. The old lady couldn’t explain why this was. Worst of all, her beloved Rose, the pride of all her flowers, the one that was more beautiful than all the other flowers combined, looked fragile, near death.

Concerned by what she had discovered, the old lady decided to run out of the greenhouse and pour through every botanical book she could find in her library.

So she did.

That night, in the greenhouse, the flowers had a conversation.

“Why,” the small Rose said to its neighbor, a tall ficus, “why is it that the old lady is sad?”

“The problem is that the flowers at the ends of the rows are growing tall and beautiful, while the flowers in the middle of the rows, (like you) are small and weak. She doesn’t know why it’s happening and it upsets her,” the ficus responded.

The Rose thought about this, then turned its petals toward the ficus and again posed a question: “do you know why we’re not all growing beautiful and strong as she would like?”

“Yes I do, little bud. You see, we need sunlight to grow. It nurtures us and gives us warmth. Without the sun, we will all wither and die. The sun always rises in the east and sets in the west. Unfortunately, this greenhouse was built facing the wrong direction, so only some flowers get the full benefit of the sunlight,” explained the ficus.

“Is there anything we can do to fix that problem and make the old lady happy again?” asked the Rose.

“Hmmmm, there are two options here: we could rotate the greenhouse so that everybody gets sun, but that is too difficult and would require outside help,” the ficus said. “Or, we could change the orbit of the sun so that it rises in the north and sets in the south.”

So they did.

And then the worlds were thrown out of their orbits, the seas crashed upon the shores, fires spread across the face of the planet, the glaciers ran aground in the Caribbean, birds flew into volcanoes, animals ran straight into chasms and the Earth spun out into the cold harsh emptiness of space, never to be seen or heard from again, because all life on the planet was dead.

The End

Moral: Never listen to any Rose. They never have anything good to say and only cause you pain and trouble.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Owner of a Lonely Heart

Josh: Is it better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all? That’s the topic on tonight’s episode of “Nosh with Josh” the show where I interview a panel of guests while serving them light snacks, because eat, eat, you’re all skin and bones!


Joining me tonight are four very special guests. But first, let’s talk about some food! Over here, we have some prosciutto/ mozzarella wraps, some yummy looking canapés, and the always popular pigs-in-a-blanket. And, for those who enjoy getting their “veggie on,” off to the side there we’ve got a nice self-serve salad bar.

Alright, now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s meet our panel for tonight! First off, to the left, is the original “star-crossed” lover, the one and only Romeo Montague!

Romeo: Thanks for having me Josh!

Josh: Glad to have you. Sitting next to Romeo is the debonair secret agent who’s bedded more women than most people have had hot meals, mister 007 himself: James Bond!

Bond: Pleasure.

Josh: Quite. In our third chair, you know her, you love her, (because you’re legally obligated), your mom’s sister, the lady who never married, she owns at least three cats and her house/apartment always smells like feline excrement…your spinster aunt!

Your aunt: Josh, I’m so very alo…

Josh: (Cutting off her words, which are just oozing with desperation and heart-breaking loneliness) didn’t mean to cut you off, just have to introduce the last guest.

When it comes to cold-heartedness, nary a person can touch my final guest: Mr. Freeze!

Mr. Freeze: I would thank you, but I am beyond such mortal sentiments.

Josh: Oookay. Well, Let’s start off tonight with young Romeo. Tell me Romeo, about your love life. It couldn’t have been easy with the brief existence you had on this earth. But first, how are those canapés?

Romeo: Simply delicious, thank you. You know, you’re right Josh. I mean imagine, there I was, faced with the dead form of the love of my life, I had no choice but to take my own, so that we could be forever joined in the hereafter.

Josh: So tragic. Especially when you consider that she wasn’t even dead! That must have been embarrassing.

Romeo: It sure was Josh…wait, what? She wasn’t dead?

Josh: Nope. Sorry buddy. You killed yourself for nothing. Which brings me to my next question for you: How did you know that Juliet was this so-called “love of my life”? How old are you anyway?

Romeo: Well, I’m…13.

Josh: Just 13? You’re barely even old enough to see that crappy Baz Luhrmann movie that came out in the 90s.

Romeo: Don’t remind me. And the worst part? I was wayyy more into Juliet’s sister. Hell, I didn’t even know Juliet existed at first. In the beginning I thought Rosaline was the love of my life.

Josh: So let me get this straight: a combination of teenage emotions, plus a supreme lack of life experience put you in a situation where you fell in love with the first girl you saw, then married her and then killed yourself over the course of a weekend? All before your voice changed or your balls dropped? And people find this to be the ultimate story of romance?

Romeo: Well, when you put it like that…

Josh: You sit there and eat some more snacks, you immature little horn dog.

Your aunt: Josh, I’d like to sa…

Josh: I’m sure you would, and we’ll get to you in a moment. But first, I want to go back to Mr. Freeze to hear his story. Victor?

Mr. Freeze: My story is one of woe and of the eternal search for redemption and happiness.

Josh: Do tell.

Mr. Freeze: I met my wife Nora while I was still in college, studying cryogenics at Hollywood Upstairs Medical School.

Josh: Good school. I’ve used that joke at least two other times in my blog.

Mr. Freeze: Blog?

Josh: Ummmm, never mind. Continue.

Mr. Freeze: Anyway, as I was saying, Nora and I fell passionately in love and after a few years of courtship, unlike the pipsqueak over there…

Romeo: Hey!

Mr. Freeze: …we were married and spent such wonderful times together. Sadly, as is so often the case in comic books written by deranged cokeheads, Nora developed a terminal disease and I promised to cure her. One thing led to another, yada, yada, yada, next thing you know I’m a super villain with an ice gun, a frozen heart and about a million really bad puns based around ice and cold.

Josh: How’s that working out for you?

Mr. Freeze: Can’t complain. It’s a living.

Josh: Good for you Victor! Sounds like you turned a negative, into a… a… a…

Mr. Freeze: Into a frostitive?

Josh: Ugh. You’re the worst. Next up, Mr. James Bond. Not many people may know this, but you were married at one point, weren’t you, Commander Bond?

Bond: Before I answer that, let me ask this: I noticed the salad bar (wonderful vegetables, by the way) but is there an actual bar? My throat is rather parched.

Your aunt: Well Mr. Bond, I do believe, that I have a fla…

Josh: Spinster aunt makes a good point, let me ask my intern Raul to fetch you something. I assume it’ll be the regular?

Bond: Indeed. Now, back to your original question, you are correct. I was married once, years ago. But tragically, after only being married for 45 minutes, I was forced to use her body as a human shield during a terrible drive-by. A scheme concocted by my arch-enemy, Blöfeld.

Josh: That sounds horrible.

Bond: Truly. And as those bullets tore through her gorgeous dress, leaving giant, ragged holes in her beautiful flesh, I knew right then, that I had (quite literally, mind you) dodged a bullet.

You see, I could have probably spent the rest of my life with that woman. I did love her so. But I knew that that would eventually get boring, and daddy would have to go out to find some new toys to play with. So by her being killed on our wedding day, not only was I free to go drown in as much poon as I wanted, but I had a great tragic story that was certain to turn any woman into a puddle!

Mr. Freeze: That’s some cold shit right there, man.

Bond: Perhaps, but in the end, you’ve spent the majority of your life obsessing over some vegetable, while I’m out there scooping up vaj left and right! And the best part is that they always eventually die! It’s the total commitment-free relationship!

Josh: But what about the ones that aren’t killed during your adventures?

Bond: I don’t think you heard me “they always eventually die.” I’m not a super secret agent/assassin for nothing, dear sir!

Your aunt: Can I get som…

Josh: You sure can lady. Okay, it looks like we’re about out of time, so let me end things by going around the room one last time to find out which is better: to have loved and lost, or to never have loved at all. Let’s start with Romeo: To be, or not to be?

Romeo: Wrong line. Wrong person.

Josh: Commander Bond, who’s idea was it to make Denise Richards a nuclear physicist named “Christmas Jones”?

Bond: I’ve been scratching my head about that one myself.

Josh: Spinster aunt, just how many cats do you have?

Your aunt: Thir…

Josh: I thought so. And finally, Mr. Freeze, what is your opinion of The Hunger Games trilogy?

Mr. Freeze: The first book is riveting and action-packed. The second two are the literary equivalent of The Matrix Reloaded and Matrix Revolutions.

Josh: And there you have it folks, the definitive answer to one of the questions that has always plagued mankind. Let this matter be put to rest forever!

Join me next time, when my panel and I will discuss that age old question “What’s love got to do with it?” Thank you and goodnight!


Friday, June 03, 2011

How to meet a celebrity

Have you ever been somewhere, say the grocery store, mall or alley behind a strip club, and you happen to spot a celebrity? You want to say something, but get so flustered and tongue-tied that you end up just pointing to your genitals and licking your lips? Don’t you hate it when that happens? Well I’m here to help. With my (not at all) patented techniques you’ll be chatting up famous people in no time!

The problem is simple: Celebrities meet dozens of people every week, hundreds each month and thousands each year, which means to them you’re just another faceless blob on the street, fawning for their attention. To solve this you must find a way to make yourself memorable, to stand out in their minds. The key is to approach them in a unique, but non-stalkerish manner.

Those two words in italics? Don’t forget those. Anybody can walk up to, say, Denzel Washington and scream gibberish while flailing at themselves with a homemade cat o’ nine tails and be memorable, (it has a 100 percent success rate on making an impression, that’s how I met my last three girlfriends) but that is probably not the best way to be remembered by the guy who’s banged Eva Mendes in two movies.

What you want to do is leave an impression in such a way that the celebrity will give you a call later and invite you over to their mansion to enjoy baby seal burgers and swim in their Courvoisier pool. Here’s how to do that:

1. Firstly, spot a celebrity. Without a celebrity present, none of the following steps will make a lick of sense.

2. Don’t freak out. Celebrities are totally used to people losing their shit in front of them. That’s not classy and it’s not memorable.

3. Don’t say the first thing that pops into your head. Because it’ll be something dumb like “I loved your last album,” or “can I have those panties when you’re done with them?”

4. Make sure that it’s a good celebrity. Anybody from a reality show probably doesn’t count because they’re lame and recounting the story later to your friends won’t impress them in the slightest.

5. Remember, celebrities have experienced pretty much every way they could be approached, you have to think outside of the box to get their attention.

6. It never hurts to open with a good joke. Celebrities like to laugh as much as the rest of us. But make sure the joke fits the person and situation. If you’re on an elevator with Forrest Whittaker, a racist joke probably isn’t the best idea, as you’ll be mashed to pulp by the time you get to your floor. A joke about dead babies to Gwyneth Paltrow, while hilarious if actually attempted, would probably make her cry (which would also be hilarious.)

7. If the situation doesn’t call for a joke, try something else. Have a friend of yours drive a car recklessly down the street so you can push the celebrity out of the way and make yourself the hero. Hire a homeless person to try to rob the celebrity so you can step in and save the day. You only get one chance to make a first impression.

8. If no friends or bums are handy, you might want to fake a heart attack or choking, to entice the celebrity to come to you. Be warned though, not everybody is a Good Samaritan. Pretty much any country music singer will just step over your convulsing body, while most political figures would probably just rifle through your pockets in lieu of doing anything helpful. Conversely, pick your helpful celebrity carefully. Tom Cruise will save you if your boat is sinking, but is it really worth the two-hour lecture about the benefits of Scientology that will follow?

9. Do not attempt to kidnap the celebrity.

10. Another attention-grabbing method is to quiz the celebrity about some minutiae from their past. If it’s an actor, ask questions about their “craft.” Most movie stars are dense and take their jobs far too serious (considering that they just pretend to be somebody else for a few hours and get paid millions of dollars for it.) They love to talk about their motivations and shit like that.

11. Learn an interesting skill, then show it off in front of the celebrity. Examples include knife juggling, farting or burping on command, escaping from strait jackets or mailboxes, ESP, teleportation or weight-guessing.

12. If all else fails, then a guaranteed way to meet a celebrity is by being a celebrity yourself. Famous people love schmoozing with other famous people and then posting pics to their twitter accounts or whatever. Being famous yourself never fails to work. On the other hand, then a bunch of no-name nobodies are going to be bothering you all the time trying to shake your hand or get an autograph. Them’s the breaks.

Follow these simple steps and congratulations! you’re now friends with a celebrity! What you do next is up to you. Sell them drugs, have a love affair, be an extra in their next show/movie, order pizzas for them. The sky’s the limit and the choice is yours. This is only a guide to meeting celebrities, not maintaining relationships with them. That part, my friends, is up to you! Good luck.