“Personal Take on the Whole Wear Sunscreen Issue, or Things for Kids to Remember When I’m Gone”
by Alexandra Magearu

Don’t ever hold a disgusting gulp of Hippophae Oleum in your mouth for more than two seconds, and above all, don’t push it to the back of your throat while you bring a better-tasting soda glass to your lips to wash it out. This moment will feel like eternity, and I mean that in a bad way.

If you arrive shamefully late (that is, 30 minutes or more) to a meeting of whatever form, do not panic! Breath in, don’t stumble over others’ chairs and feet, don’t drop your books (or bag or animal), don’t overdo the apologies and don’t hate yourself intensely for the next 2 hours because you can’t do anything right.  Instead, try a scheduled 5 minutes moment of self-loathing per day, before/after prayer.

Always brush your teeth before going to bed.  And I’m not saying this just because your mommies bought me off.  BUT, if you give up this fabulous habit of cleansing your dentals at night, you might wake up with a feeling close to a rat dead and rotting in your mouth.

Don’t become addicted to television!  Oh wait, actually, don’t watch movies, don’t read books, don’t listen to music…don’t even open your eyes!  It’s dangerous!  Don’t take any form of artistic expression for granted!  It will only ruin your life and turn you into an oversensitive, overromantic, overextremist, overidealist, overbigot, overcrazy, overillusional, oversexed, overhopeful, clueless you. Trust me, it’s better to isolate yourself completely from any human influence.  It’s like plague.

Don’t misinterpret! Whatever you do, know that people have different eyes, different ears, different mouths and different hearts, no matter what they tell you in school.  But you will more likely think that you see through the same eyes, hear with the same ears, breathe through the same mouth and feel with the same heart, and you will therefore allow yourself to judge people according to your own standards. Don’t judge people! Oh, nevermind, you’re just going to do it anyway.

If your mother catches you smoking, whatever you do, don’t hide the cigarette in your pocket. You will be very likely to stick it in there before you put it out, and this unfortunate accident will result in a flaming you and a desperate mother carrying you to the hospital by taxi. Plus, your mommy knows about your smoking anyway. She knows everything!

Don’t become unnaturally obsessed with or even impressed by some god or another!  It will only raise false expectations and give way to illusions and impossible dreams.  To believers, reply with a well-prepared and definite “Don’t know, don’t care!”

If you’re a boy, don’t imagine that girls are this great inexplicable mystery that you will never unveil.  They’re as plain as you are, they just vibrate in different ways at different times.

If you’re a girl, don’t think that guys were born to make you feel miserable.  I know it’s a strange thought to throw in, but guys mostly feel and act the same as you do.

If you’re a boy who likes other boys or a girl who likes other girls, admit it and rub it in people’s filthy, appalled faces.

Also, remember that we love in different ways, so don’t feel surprised when your notion about love is a nice cosy movie night with food and drink, while your partner suggests a threesome.

“Mr. Jones”
by Rita Buckley

He was the last cat, in the last corner, of the last cage in the animal shelter, a black and grey-striped Coon cat with grayish-green eyes and double front paws, a genetic defect I found endearing. He was big, a least 15 lbs., with an intelligent look on his face. His name was Mr. Jones.

We hit it off right away. He was stretched out along the back of the cage, by all appearances sound asleep. But when I peeked in on him, he was on his feet in a flash and beside the cage door, slapping at it with his big paws. I figured that this was a smart animal with a mind of his own, a strong and independent sort- my kind of guy.

The woman from the shelter was a rail-thin, somewhat faded, middle-aged blond. She got up from her chair behind the counter and walked over.

“I see you’ve hit it off with Mr. Jones,” she said, looking into the cage.

“Meow,” Mr. Jones said in a loud, clear voice.

“It seems that way,” I said.

“He’s a Coon cat, you know. Upcountry,” she explained.

Mr. Jones rubbed against the cage and purred.

“Rrrgh, rrrgh, rrrgh.”

The purr came from somewhere deep inside his chest. It sounded something like a soft roar.

“Rrrgh, rrrgh, rrrgh.”

“He likes you,” she said. “Usually he’s kind of stand-offish, the only cat in here who doesn’t play the “I’m adorable, adopt me” game. He’s been here a while,” she said sadly. “If no one takes him home with them today, I’m afraid we’ll have to put him to sleep. We planned to do it tomorrow morning.”

“What’s the story with him?” I asked. “You know, his past.”

“His owner died,” she replied, and the local shelter brought him here, thinking he’d get more exposure.

“How did he die?” I asked, just out of curiosity.

“Murder,” she said, “Shot- right between the eyes.”

Mr. Jones was busy batting at the cage door.

“The owner’s gun was on the floor, with the cat’s paw prints all over it. We figure the guy walked in on a robbery or something.”

“Oh,” I said.

I held my hand to the cage and Mr. Jones rubbed against it. He might‟ve been cool to others, but as far I was concerned, he played the “I’m adorable, adopt me‟ game like a pro.

“I’ll take him,” I said, with some degree of ambivalence. He’d had a traumatic past, and I thought that maybe he had some kind of weird cat mental health problem.

The shelter woman smiled and patted me on the back.

“Good choice,” she said. “He‟s quite a cat.”

_______

“Do you have any children?”

“No.”

“Do have a full-time job?”

“I work at home,” I said. “I‟m a writer.” I was waiting for her to ask what kinds of things I wrote, like everybody else does, but she just nodded.

“Do you rent or own?”

“Rent.”

“Are you married or single?”

“Single.”

“Any roommates?”

“No.”

“Do you have any other pets?”

“No.”

“Have you ever owned a cat?”

“Most of my life,” I replied.

“A cat person. That‟s good,” she said, looking me straight in the eye. She finally broke the gaze when I cleared my throat.

“What‟s your annual income?” she asked.

“High enough,” I replied.

She nodded.

“Congratulations,” she said. “You passed the test.”

I signed a bunch of papers, gave her $150 plus the cost of a cat carrier, water and food bowls, a purple litter box, a bag of kitty litter, a scratching post, and a case of tuna-flavored Purina cat chow. I also bought Mr. Jones a small dog bed; figured from the size of him, he could use a little more space.

“Do you have any toys?” I asked.

She rummaged through one of the drawers.

“Here,” she said, handing me a ball of yarn. “Give him this. It‟s free.”

____

I brought Mr. Jones into the kitchen, put his carrier beside the table, and opened the front. He stuck his big head out first and looked every which way. Then the rest of him followed, warily at first.

He was bigger than I thought, a good 20 lbs. of cat. “No one will ever pull your tail,” I told him.

“Meow,” he said.

Curiosity overcame suspicion, and he checked out the room. He walked around like he owned the place, peering left and right. Then he jumped on the counter and sniffed around for something to eat.

“Here’s your food,” I said, pointing to the bowls of food and water.

I walked into the bathroom off the hallway. Mr. Jones followed me.

“Here‟s your litter box.”

He climbed onto the vanity and tried to find water in the sink. I was starting to think he‟d had a hard life until now.

I walked upstairs. Mr. Jones followed.

When we got to the bedroom, I pointed to the cat bed. I’d put it right beside mine. I didn’t want Mr. Jones to feel lonely.
Then we went back downstairs to the living room.

“And here,” I said, pulling the big ball of yarn out of the bag,” is something for you to play with.”

Mr. Jones loved it. He batted it around the room for a few minutes, pouncing on it each time it stopped rolling. Then he ripped it to shreds, leaving a pile of light blue yarn on the oak floor.

“I see you liked it,” I said.
____

Mr. Jones followed me everywhere—from room to room, to the bathroom, the car, onto the patio. He stayed on the sofa in my office while I worked. He ate when I did, watched TV with me, ran errands with me, hung out under my chaise lounge when I sat by the pool. He even slept when I did, stretched out beside me. He wasn’t the type of cat who’d sit on my lap and purr, but he liked to be petted on his head, under his chin, behind the ears, and down his back. When he
wanted attention, he‟d bat me on the arm with one of his big paws.

“Meow,” he’d demand.

We communicated well; understood each other.

“ME-ow.” Rub my back.

“Me-Ow.” Let me out.

“Meow Meow.” Let‟s play mouse.

“Meow-Ow” Turn down the TV.

“Meeee-ow.” Let‟s go for a jog.

“Meow meow meow.” Get off the phone.

He was somewhat demanding, but in a playful kind of way.
____

We were coming back from a routine errand, cutting through the park at night, when three thugs came out of nowhere and surrounded me; sinister bastards who looked like they’d just stepped off chopped hogs, and were out for a fun night of rape, murder, and mayhem. I looked around for Mr. Jones and didn’t see him.

One of the guys ripped my bag off my shoulder and rummaged through it. He took my money and credit cards and dumped the rest of the stuff on the walkway. Another tore away the front of my shirt. I could see that he had a gun tucked into his pants; could smell the alcohol wafting off him.

I shoved him away and shouted: “MR. JONES.”

That backed them off for a second and I ran like my life depended on it, which it probably did. I didn‟t look back until I heard the gunshot. One guy was on the ground, another looked like he was on fire or being choked from behind; I
couldn’t figure out which. The third was stumbling away.

The thrashing thug fell on the ground and rolled around. I saw a double paw slash him across his face and eyes. He screamed. Then I heard sirens. Someone had seen what was happening and called the police. I wasn‟t about to wait around for them.

“Mr. Jones,” I yelled and started running again. He was right beside me when I got inside the house and slammed the door behind me. I leaned against it trying to catch my breath. I was shaking and felt kind of nauseous.

“Mee-oow,” Mr. Jones said.

I picked him up and hugged him.

“Rrrrgggh,” he purred, “rrrgggh.”

I took him in the kitchen and washed off his bloody paws.
_________

The cops knocked on the door two hours later. I was waiting for them, Mr. Jones beside me. I knew they had my empty wallet along with the rest of the junk in my bag, and would be along at some point.

They handed me the pocketbook, and asked to come in.

“Of course,” I said, and pointed toward the sofa. “Would you like a Diet Coke or some water?” One of them asked for water and I brought it in from the kitchen. My hands were still shaking so much, I almost spilled it all over him.

The cop took the water.

“Thank you,” he said.

“We have a dead man, a blind man, and a .38 special covered with paw prints. A witness reported three males attacking a woman. Was that you?”

I nodded.

They looked at me, then the cat.

“Could you tell us what happened?”

I told them the story, leaving out the part about Mr. Jones.

One of the detectives wrote down everything I said. “Do you know a Mr. Jones?”

“No,” I said.  “I just yelled out the first name that came to mind to distract them. He was an old teacher of mine.”

“A witness said he saw a wild animal attack the men. They were covered with bites and scratches.”

“It must‟ve been a rabid raccoon,” I said.

“A stroke of luck,” one of the cops replied.

“I‟ll say,” said the other.

Mr. Jones rolled on the floor.

“Meow,” he said.

One of the cops reached down and patted his head.

“Would you like to go to the hospital?” he asked me.

“No,” I said, still shaking.

“Was the cat with you tonight?”

“No,” I lied. “He was here alone, watching CNN.”

They laughed.

“Nothing like a well-informed cat,” one of them said.

The other mused about what happened in the park.

“The gun must‟ve slipped out during the struggle and gone off. Damn coon got him right between the eyes,” he said.

I looked at Mr. Jones. He was rubbing against the cop‟s leg and purring.

“Rrrrrgh, rrrrrgh, rrrrgh.”

“Nice cat,” he said. “What‟s his name?”

“Eric,” I replied.

“When Jesus Came”
by Andrew Glasser

When Cathy got home from school, Jesus was just finishing up with her mom.

“Who’s that?” Cathy asked.

“That’s Jesus,” her mom replied.

“Oh.” She should have recognized Him, she thought.  She was suddenly very nervous.  What was He doing here?  Would He punish her for not recognizing him?  Could she remember any bible verses to recite?

“We’ve been talking about you,” Cathy’s mom said, “among other things.”

The “among other things” didn’t soften the blow.  She already knew she was probably going to hell—she’d been told—and now Jesus was here in her kitchen talking about her with mom.

When would she be able to defend herself?  Tell her side?  Certainly Jesus would know if she lied.  But how could she tell the truth?

“Is He staying for dinner?”

“You don’t have to talk as if He isn’t right here,” Cathy’s mom said.

Dammit, Cathy thought.  She looked at Jesus.  He looked right back through her.  She had to tell the truth.

“I’m not sure I believe in you,” she began.  “No offense, I mean, you’re here in my kitchen and all, and I don’t mean to make you mad.  I didn’t expect you to be talking to my mom.  But now I guess I believe, that you’re really here, ‘cause I can see you. I’m just not sure that I believe the other stuff.  Is it true?”

Jesus was silent.  She looked at him, He looked at her, His eyes, His expression were non-committal.  She looked away.

“I do the best I can.”  She sat down.  Her mom was no longer there. “I guess that’s no excuse.  Let me tell my side of the story, at least.”

Jesus still didn’t say a word. And so she told Him her side of the story.  She let all of her fears, all of her insecurities, fall out.  She confessed everything.

Everything she had ever heard, been told, about Jesus, worried her now, and she was fishing for something.  She talked about sin, and lying, and believing.  She talked about being forced to believe, as if that was an excuse for not doing it.  She didn’t know.  “Is it?”

“I didn’t know my mom knew you personally.  She said she did, but I didn’t know that’s what she meant.”

Cathy went on about how she knew it was wrong to drink alcohol and to smoke pot.  She explained why she had sex.  She couldn’t lie, she liked it.  More honestly, she was looking for love.  She didn’t understand why that meant she was going to hell.  She searched the eyes of Jesus as she confessed for a sign of what she was sure He already knew, searched for some kind of confirmation that He knew, that these things were or weren’t a sin.  She got none.

“I know my mom thinks I’m irresponsible, that I shouldn’t be going out with ‘that boy,’ and that I’m going to have his baby and then go to hell.

“I’m sure she told you about my piercings and tattoos.  It doesn’t say those things are a sin in the bible does it?  Oh, I guess I should know, but I don’t read the bible as much as I should.  It’s hard.  So does it? Does it say anything about piercings and tattoos?”

Jesus was a sponge.

“Did you talk to my dad too,” she went on.  “He’s not the nicest guy.  I think he spoiled the concept of a “Father” for me.  Can I call you something else?  Not that I want him to go to hell.  Maybe I should just shut up.  He believes in you.  He believes in you a lot.  But I guess you know that.  I thought maybe it didn’t matter.  But I guess it does.  Look, I didn’t know, but now I know.”

Now she knows.  She said it.  But she expected a reaction so she would know.  She thought about it and realized she wasn’t going to get one.  She didn’t know after all.  It was just as if Jesus had never come.  As if Jesus had never been in her house, never sat in her kitchen.

After he was gone, she couldn’t remember if she had made any promises, or if she had to keep them.

“Jesus,” she said.

“A Breakfast Food Revolt”
by Jack Bristow

“And that is how I firmly believe we can significantly reduce the amount of teen pregnancies in the United States of America.”  Senator Stevenson looks directly at the TV cameras.

The audience cheers a perfunctory cheer—if such a thing exists.

I walk onstage and shake Stevenson’s sweaty, lifeless hand.

And now!

It is my turn to speak. And speak I do.

“Ladies and gentlemen—those of you here watching me in the audience and those of you fine people watching me at home—I, Senator Walter Brigman, have made an extraordinary discovery,” I tell them earnestly.  “And do you have any idea what that discovery is?”

Stumped.  They don’t know.  Except: Cough, sneeze, snort, burp.

But no answers.

“Think about it,” I tell them.  “The answer to it all is right under most of your noses in the morning. It is what will kill all of our Country’s ills finally.  And effectively.  Once and for all.”

Further silence.  Still.

“Still no idea?”  I look upon their contrite, ignorant little faces.  The question is no longer one of rhetoric.  I am now truly angry.

“What has the power to quash all the cancers of society?”

They are stupid. Yet engrossed.   Maybe there is still some hope for them.

“AIDS.  Influenza.  Colds.  Cancers of all shapes and forms.  Teen pregnancies. Terrorism.  Global Warming.  Pestilences.  Smallpox.  The measles.  Genital warts of all stripes.  Wars.  Drug addiction. Extortion.  Rape.  Child molestation.  Assault and battery, assault with no battery.  C’mon people!  For the love of God, has it not yet dawned on you?”  I puff on my pipe, filled with medicinal marijuana.  Panama Red.

Exasperated, I continue.

“See. Unlike my esteemed colleague, Senator Stevens, my answer doesn’t just reduce teen pregnancy, doesn’t just reduce all the other problems I noted, problems that are plaguing humankind—no. My answer will exterminate them.  Once and for all.  Haven’t you imbeciles caught on yet? Don’t you moronic people see the cure-all?  It is right in front of you!” I scream into the microphone.

They shout “What?”  Hostile.

I have struck a nerve. Breaking the tension, I give them the answer:

“Pancakes.”

Now. Truly engrossed. They listen – attentively.

“Pancakes don’t stab. Don’t kill. Nor steal. Nor rape.”

Now. Engrossed ever more by my brilliant words.

“They will not get your teenage daughter pregnant!  They will not give it to your wife while you’re out working.  They do not start wars illegally.  They are neither jealous nor puffed up with pride!”

A busty blonde newswoman leaps to the stage and shoves her tongue down my throat. It’s hard to talk as she’s doing it. But I manage. Until a security officer escorts her away. I warn him to be gentle with her.

“They do not carry venereal disease. They do not give you crabs.  After twenty-five years or marriage, they do not run off with another pancake of the same gender, making you question your own sexuality in the process!”

The auditorium bursts out in joyful acclamation.  Like a preacher empowered by some holy ghost, I continue.  Empowered by the Holy Pancake.

“Pancakes are not meat!  They do not entail bloody, vicious murder!  And they cannot murder you!  Can’t give you Mad Cow Disease. Or freckles. Or…or….” I struggle to speak over their massive applause. “They don’t hire a lawyer and ask for child support!”

“Pancakes didn’t neglect capturing Osama bin Laden at Torra Borra. Nor did they squirt their maple syrup all over an intern pancake named Monica’s blue dress!”

More wild applause. And all of them—the audience, you understand—simultaneously turning their heads toward Senator Stevenson, who is in the corner, pissing himself a river of shame.

“Pancakes don’t piss themselves!” I exclaim, pointing my giant, god-sized pancake fist at Senator Stevenson’s. He cries.

The crowd mocks him.

“You know what else pancakes don’t do?”

“WHAT?” The crowd pleads to know.

“They don’t belittle Senator Stevenson,” I chide.  “Or anyone else for that matter.  They have more class than that.”  I momentarily turn my nose up at them.

“Damn right!”  The crowd agrees with my counsel.  And by now the same busty blonde who kissed me has broken free of the security officer’s grip and jumps over to the side of the stage where Senator Stevenson sits sulking and whimpering.  She gives him a lap dance.

Senator Stevenson regains faith and beams, “I love you all—I love my country.”

“Pancakes neither endorse nor condone Senator Stevenson’s personal conduct,” I half-scream at the exuberant crowd.

I go on:

“Pancakes aren’t partisan!  They have no slush funds!   And they do not vote in favor of political expediency over what they know to be right!”

CHEERS.  APPLAUSE.  MORE DEAFENING, INTOXICATING….

CHEERS.  INTOXICATED BY.…

“Pancakes vote right on abortion, stem cell research, and gay marriage every time!”

The entire audience—men and women, boys and girls, Democrats and Republicans, young and old, gay and straight, pro-choicers and no-choicers—grab hands, howling enthusiastically. Binding together as one.

As America should.…

”Therefore…therefore!” I try to scream over their whole singular giant wall of voices.

“Ladies and gentlemen. My beloved countrymen and women, let us come together as the nationalistic brothers and sisters we truly are. And be—once and for all—One Pancake Nation. Under God…with liberty and justice and a vast selection of multi-flavored, multi-colored pancake syrup for all!”

“A Meaningful Discussion With My Internal Organs”
by Alyssa Greenberg

As if meeting his mother in her pearls and sanitary kitchen wasn’t enough to give me heartburn, I had to worry about the kidneys too.
• The kidneys and their ungracious behavior.
• The kidneys and their unwillingness to last through one traditional meal without protesting loudly enough to induce painful breathing.
Celiac disease — also known as celiac sprue or gluten-sensitive enteropathy — is a digestive and autoimmune disorder that results in damage to the lining of the small intestine when foods with gluten are eaten.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” she smiles and extends a hand. It feels nothing like my mother’s, whose sloping veins and bones are committed to memory.

There are no typical signs and symptoms of celiac disease.

Yet here are mine:

1. A tightening feeling.
2. A burning feeling.
3. A bad feeling.
4. A blood-stained, tear-soaked 3-day vacation to the restroom.

“What are we having?” Because naturally, a boy who plays with my hair and calls me obnoxious things like “beautiful” and “cute as a button” would remember to tell his mother about my kidneys; about not forcing the diseased substance within five feet of my being. Naturally he would have explained to her that I am 5’7”, remarkably interesting and gluten-intolerant, but still a magnificent lover, worthy of obnoxious praise. Yes, naturally he would have told her all of that.

Gluten: (from the Latin gluten, “glue“) is a composite of the proteins gliadin and glutenin. These exist, conjoined with starch, in the endosperms of some grass-relatedgrains, notably wheat, rye, and barley. Gliadin and glutenin comprise about 80% of the protein contained in wheat seed.

When I tell others about my “condition,” I have found that there are five possible responses that may follow…

1. The “You are impressive” response. Intelligent, rational human beings convince me that I am a warrior; a magnificent human being worthy of parades and party favors because I abstain from bread. This is my personal favorite response.
2. The “I am so sorry for you loss” response. This response is one of apology. Individuals who have a particularly intimate bond with doughnuts and pizza crust speak to me as if I’ve miscarried. The watery, apologetic glean that they wince as they learn of my misfortune looks similar to the appropriate sympathetic response that comes from lines like “I was molested as a child,” or “my cat was just boiled and eaten by terrorists.” All I need to say is “No thank you. It looks delicious, but I’m allergic” and the compassionate glances are so luscious and filling I don’t even need a bite of pound cake. “Thanks, but I’m simply too full. I couldn’t possibly have another bite of your empathy.”
3. The “Damn. I guess your allergies make you too Christian to party” response. This reaction is wrought exclusively by the male species. “Damn,” they reply as if I’ve castrated their hopes and dreams of future drunken grabass for all eternity. “So…you can’t drink beer then?” I always do my best to wistfully shake my head “no,” as though I can still taste the Miller Light; the memory of every man’s triple hops brewed wet dream. “There isn’t gluten is most hard alcohol,” I assure them before they’re too far gone into the dismal vision of a world where women can no longer be taken advantage of via alcohol.
4. The “TMI” or “Too much information” response. After I’ve declined ravioli or some Twinkie, respectfully, the declined individual is thrilled to tell me about every member of their family that have/has had an allergic reaction of any kind. Yes, I know all about your Aunt Doreen’s watery bowel movements when she eats Funyuns.
5. Finally, the “Disbelief” response. This response is often accompanied by a “no way!” or a “shut the hell up!” The individual cycles through every food that they can possibly think of while quizzing me as to whether an allergic response will follow. Cake? Cookies? Corn Bread? Matzo Balls? What about those noodles that are shaped like SpongeBob?

This guy kissed me for the first time while monster trucks were crushing one another on a television supported by a milk crate, like gluten crushes my digestive tract. This can’t be a good sign.

His house doesn’t smell like mine and his father has no beard and every father that should indeed be recognized as a father should have a beard or at least some degree of rough stubble that feels like sandpaper and this whole situation is making me have that feeling already.

http://celiac-disease.com/celebrities-with-celiac-disease/ provides a list of celebrities who have Celiac Disease. This list includes:

Keith Olbermann (Countdown with Keith Olbermann)
Thom Hartmann (Air America Radio)
Rich Gannon’s (NFL Quarterback) daughter, Danielle
Joe C (Kid Rock’s Friend and Rapper) – Now Deceased

I don’t quite find comfort in this array of B-list celebrities. Is being gluten intolerant synonymous with being average?

Just take a look at some of the other allergies/diseases/disorders and the star-studded lists they’re boasting.

Peanut Allergies: Serena Williams, Ray Ramano, Clay Aiken, Joshua Jackson
Heart Disease: Larry King, Regis Philbin, David Bowie, Bill Clinton
Bipolar Disorder: Robert Downey Jr., Ben Stiller, Robin Williams, Jimi Hendrix
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder: Charles Darwin, Billy Bob Thornton, Donald Trump, Leonardo DiCaprio

Even Herpes is more exciting than gluten intolerance!

Herpes: Liza Minelli, Robin Williams, Billy Idol, Paris Hilton (maybe)

Nearly one out of every 150 Americans suffer from celiac disease, according to a new study by the University of Maryland Center for Celiac Research in Baltimore.  The research indicates that celiac is twice as common as Crohn’s disease, ulcerative colitis and cystic fibrosis combined.

I fail to understand why we can’t at least have Robin Williams on our team.

“So you’re an English major, dear?” his parents look back and forth at one another as if I reek of diarrhea and old cats.

Yes, this guy whose parents think I’m defective for studying “the language I already understand” is a Construction Management major. I’ve been kissing somebody who takes classes about mixing concrete and more than the
• Garlic Bread
• Spaghetti
• Salad (with Croutons)
• Flaky, smoldering apple pie for desert
that was on the menu that night it was him who made my kidneys hurt most. It was him who called me nauseating names and liked 4-wheel drive and John Deere and Monster energy drinks. It was him who didn’t read books or love sentences, whom I lowered my standards for because it was time to “get back out there.”

Untreated Celiac Disease can be life threatening.

NO. I did not stay for dinner because his mother wore pearls that were tired with clichés and his father had no beard and he, he with his humdrum kisses had no passion for me, or any good literature.

…Now my kidneys feel perfectly fine.

“How to Raise Children to be Selfish Little Assholes”
by Scott Erickson

As a parent, it is your primary responsibility to equip your children with the skills they will need in life. Do you want your children to grow up to be sensitive, honest, responsible adults?  Or would you rather have them grow up to be successful?

You are a caring parent who loves your children and wants them to have a full and satisfying life. And by following only a few simple guidelines, you can show your love by raising them to be the kind of selfish little assholes that are capable of having a full and satisfying life in today’s highly competitive world.

Examine Your Own Beliefs and Values

Children learn comparatively little from what you say compared to what you do. They carefully watch all your actions and absorb. Think of children as little sponges, with slightly more intelligence. Therefore, the first and most important step in raising asshole children is to be an asshole yourself.

You have to be serious about this, because little children have excellent bullshit detectors and if they perceive weakness the little freaks will eat you alive. For this reason, it’s important to conduct a brutally honest examination of your own motivations for being an asshole.It’s important for you to truly enjoy being an asshole, and not just do it for appearances.

Faced with the duality of personal happiness versus compassion for others, most people seek to find some sort of balance. Screw balance. Remember: You’re not doing this for yourself; you’re doing it for your children.

Be an Effective Role Model

Self-described “caring” parents (idiots) put parenting first, which only serves to demonstrate to their children that the parents have no life of their own. It’s important for you to serve as an example of a fulfilled person who makes things happen. And you can’t be a fulfilled person making things happen if you spend all your time catering to the whims of some little ankle biters.

Resist demonstrations of selfless behavior, which your children might emulate. If one of your children asks you a favor, such as making them dinner or applying a bandage to a severed artery, ask the child: “What’s in it for me?”

Your children need to understand that concepts such as “conflict resolution” and “win-win scenarios” are for losers. Show your children that if they yell the loudest and hit the hardest they’ll never have to settle for second place. Other parents teach their children the importance of values such as courtesy, consideration, and sharing. This is extremely important, because such children are necessary to serve as cannon fodder for your children.

Rewards and Punishment

After you’ve knocked down the waitress who mixed up your order, invite your children to give her a few kicks to know how good it feels. Reinforce the feeling with a reward of candy or a cracker. After your children have learned to associate asshole behavior with a treat, eventually they will perform asshole actions and then salivate in anticipation. Pavlov knew what he was doing.

It’s important to train your children in motivation via rewards and punishments, in order to break them out of the bad childhood habit of doing things purely for personal enjoyment and to satisfy their growing curiosity. Therefore, your children need to understand that success and satisfaction are measured materially. Otherwise your children may grow up to be artists or social workers or something equally worthless.

Good parents know that it’s important to set clear limitations to raise good children. Don’t make that mistake. Limitations are for losers. You are raising children to be winners. Good parents know that failing to set limitations produces self-indulgent, out-of-control children.In other words, your children.

Teach Values

Responsibility helps children to understand that they are not the center of the universe. Therefore, avoid giving your children responsibility. Household chores are to be avoided. If possible, hire maids and gardeners to give your children early experience in exercising power over others. Encourage them to fire a few servants if their service is less than satisfactory, or for no reason at all.

Emulate appropriate heros and role models. Make sure that portraits of people like Bill Gates and the Olsen Twins are prominently displayed. Use photos of Gandhi and Jimmy Carter to line the cat litter box. Your children will get the message.

Utilize the grand spectacle of nature as a teacher. When watching nature documentaries, ridicule animals like deer that just wait around to get devoured by wolves. Tell your children, “The deer are peaceful, gentle, and cooperative creatures…see what happens?” Call the deer “morons.”

Encourage your children to form friendships with children that are small, stupid, emotionally vulnerable, easily intimidated, and rich. Set the pattern for adult friendships that will help your grown children to get ahead.

Money and Finances

Absolutely do not teach your children how to manage money responsibly. This may seem counter-intuitive in today’s money-conscious world, but you have to think about your child’s long-term success. If your children don’t learn how to spend it until it’s gone, then your children will never learn the valuable skills of how to con, manipulate, and cheat others who have learned how to manage money responsibly.

Encourage entrepreneurship. If neighbor children earn a few dollars with a lemonade stand, encourage your children to go to the police and tell them that the children’s daddy touched them inappropriately. The children’s daddy will likely settle out of court for many thousand of dollars.

Emotional Damage

It’s important to engender self-loathing in your children, which will make it much easier to loathe others. There’s that expression about the need to love yourself in order to love others. It also applies to hate.

The best way to do this is to deprive your children of pleasure and satisfaction. The resulting self-hatred has a variety of positive benefits, such as the inability to relate to other children, the continual search for scapegoats to punish for their own inner emptiness, and the drive to succeed financially to compensate for lack of self-worth.

Since all these behaviors consist of vicious cycles that reinforce and amplify themselves over time, a little effort spent in this area early in life guarantees asshole behavior for your children that will serve them for their entire lives. Giving your children self-loathing is truly giving them “the gift that keeps on giving.”

In Conclusion

To paraphrase the old saying, “Give a child a fish and that child will be fed for a day. Teach that child to fish and that child will be fed for a lifetime. But teach that child to be an asshole and that child will grow up to be the kind of person who has the power to buy and sell the kind of people who go fishing.”

“Shoplifting: the Anti-Drug”
by Tim Cushing

Being a teen or tween in today’s society can be tough. Between the pressure of school and the demands of family and social life, today’s youngsters often find themselves turning to the incredibly comfortable embrace of drugs.

Good for them, I say! You don’t want to spend the rest of the “best years of your life” stressed out and closed-legged. You’re only young once! Live now, while you still have your whole future to destroy!

But remember, each teen or tween is very different in very similar ways. Some of them are natural-born leaders, willing to lead the pack down the various dark alleys and cul-de-sacs that make up life.

Others are the pace-setters who establish the speed the pack will run, neither leading or following, but rather middle-managing.

Still others will cull the herd, picking off those without proper clothing, musical taste or an older brother who can buy them beer.

The rest will run with the pack, nose-to-anus, following blindly. They are still an essential part of the whole, like pawns in a chess match or civilians in a war-torn but heavily televised country.

With all these essential pieces forming an inseparable and indistinguishable whole, it’s easy to forget those who take the “road less traveled.” In fact, it’s incredibly easy to forget them, as you most likely will never see them again until you’re delivering Pepsi to their multi-store retail chains or detailing their Jag while they get a blowjob from your girlfriend at the nearest Holiday Inn Express.
There are some people from all walks of life (Note: “all walks” = ages 13-19) for whom drugs are not the answer. Surprising, I know, what with all the enhancements, side effects and crippling withdrawal that drugs have to offer.

For some, the thrill comes from skirting the law. It may start with random jaywalking or curfew violations. From there they may move on to cheating on their finals or entering false information on their Census forms, always seeking a new “high” or “rush” or “other co-opted drug metaphor.”

Before they know it (which is most likely before you know it, especially if you’re the victim), they’ve fallen into a life of petty crime, filled with illegal football pools and un-itemized deductions. It’s as if they can’t stop themselves. Soon their auto insurance has lapsed and they’re carelessly smoking well within the confines of the 200-foot “No Smoking” zone.

If this goes unchecked long enough, these low-level thugs will have clawed their way to the top of the criminal heap using that most heinous of misdemeanors: shoplifting.

It’s now a very dim future for these malcontents as they travel down a lonely, yet heavily populated, road to ruin.

Watch for these warning signs:
• Heavy clothing during warm months.
• Heavy clothing during cold months.
• Heavy clothing during promiscuous, meaningless sex.
• A sudden increase of small items and knickknacks with no verifiable income increase.
• A sudden detainment for shoplifting.
• Incessant humming of Jane’s Addiction’s hit, “Been Caught Stealing.”
• Your Father’s Day gifts include a caseless DVD, 16 Bic lighters, a laser penlight, 12 assorted packs of unpopular                              gum and a deck of cards.

It’s not too late! Grab your teen or tween (gently and appropriately, of course) and set them back on the drug path, with its relative safety in numbers and proven track record of lazy ineptness and occasional home invasions. Remind Grandma to put the Oxy-Contin in the gun safe.

Remember: You can’t prevent drugs from being the problem. You can only prevent them from being the solution.

“Chicken and Waffles”
by Dewan Gibson

She cooked fried chicken for ME, filled and refilled MY wine glass and thanked ME for coming over. I couldn’t believe it. She was different. I thought to myself, “Thank me? Shit! All I did was come over and eat and drink and crack a corny joke or two.”

Well, I also did something else. But even that, though full of effort, was just short and intense—like a preview for a suspense film starring Leonardo DiCaprio—and probably not worthy of thanks.

“So no!”  I thought. “Thank you!”

Fast-forward months later: past the laughs, drinks, long talks, tears, movies, lunches, dinners and everything else you do with your better half.

Again she stood in the kitchen, having just made fried chicken. We sat on the bar stools and began to eat. I splashed hot sauce on the chicken. She hated when I did that without first tasting the food. But I couldn’t help it. Hot sauce is a part of my culture, black American culture. We sneak that shit into the movies and put it on popcorn. Shit, I have an uncle that sprinkles it on pumpkin pie every Thanksgiving.  Man, put it like this:  I even know a divorced black couple who litigated over who gets to keep the big bottle of Louisiana Hot Sauce from Costco.

Wife got it, husband is appealing to the Supreme Court.  Justice Clarence Thomas has recused himself from the case.

Anyway, before going to town on the chicken I asked her, “How was your day?”

Without hesitation or reflection she answered, “It was crazy! I’m pregnant.”

I did what I always do when I’m speechless.  I laughed. I thought, “Well, I don’t think she got pregnant at work today so…oh I get it!” I laughed some more and then I said, “Cool…that’s crazy. Wow.”

She stared, worried, attempting to read my nonverbals. I said, “Wow…no it’s fine. Cool.” She looked relieved that I wasn’t going to leave her and run back to Cleveland, pay no child support and have the audacity to make rap songs about how the mother of my child is tripping. Songs with titles like, “In Maury We Trust” and “Half on a Baby—But You Pay for His Lil’ Ass.”

I’m sure there was more conversation, but it’s now a blur. This is crazy because the only other time I recall blanking out is when Mama forced me to cut off my rat tail. Or maybe that time in elementary school when I won the Monopoly tournament. I also drew a blank when the sixth grade bully, who happened to be a girl, beat me up. But I don’t like to speak on that. What I’m saying is that this was some hellafied life-changing news!

I gathered my thoughts and went right back to throwing down on that fried chicken. The tension was gone and I felt excited about having such an adorable little tax credit. So much so that I spread my legs and imitated a woman in labor, just so she knew that I understood what she would be going through. I guess.

Then I called my parents and gave them the news they’ve been waiting for since I hit puberty.

Mom was in disbelief about the pregnancy, but said she didn’t want to get her hopes up until we got closer to the due date. I assured her that neither Planned Parenthood nor $300 would be involved in any of this. Not even if they end up starting that special “No Interest, No Baby” nine-month financing plan I heard they were planning to implement in minority neighborhoods.

I told Dad and he was pumped, too. He even gave great advice, specifically, “Don’t give that baby no black name like we gave y’all. Dewan, LaShaunta, Durrell…just making up shit and we don’t even know what it means.”

The next few hours and days were spent telling friends. Responses ranged from surprise and congratulations to “Man, we have to kick it hard before the baby comes.” One really smart friend asked, “How’d you get her pregnant?” He has a couple kids himself.

I also asked a friend, who has four kids, for parenting tips. He responded by bringing his hands together to form a large circle and saying, “You gotta wait at least six months for that muthafucka to ratchet back down. You gonna wanna hit it right away, but that muthafucka gotta ratchet back.”

I tried to clarify that I was asking about parenting tips, not vaginal elasticity. Then he said, “I know, nigga. But the relationship wit the mama is the key. Once that muthafucka ratchet back down, you gone be cool.”

The circle was now made with his index finger and thumb. It was tiny, like a snake’s pussy.

“OK…thanks…so it gotta ratchet back down, huh?”

Then the advice started pouring in from everyone. “Just ask for Pampers at the baby shower…Read to the baby so he can talk when he’s real little, like Baby Jesus did…Teach him not to call anyone if they’re already having a good text message conversation.”

It all started to feel a bit overwhelming, and I hadn’t even had the chance to (watch the mother) change a diaper. Damn!

But then I calmed down. Where can we possibly go wrong? The baby will have a sane and loving mother of high moral quality and a peculiar father who has trouble expressing emotion verbally, but will be sure to show the illiterate baby lots of love through his writing. Damn.

I guess we’ll figure it all out in due time. Probably over a plate of fried chicken. With hot sauce.

“Bird Man’s Bird Sitter!”

by John Pavon

“Pussy”
by Libby Cudmore

I waited until I saw my wife’s car round the corner before I called Connie.  She was at my door ten minutes later, and five minutes after that I had my face buried in her snatch, searching with my tongue for the little baggie of coke she kept hidden there for such occasions when my wife went to work.

Mittens yowled from his empty bowl and I ignored him. I rolled a dollar bill while Connie divvied up the coke, and we both took our hits before we were back on the couch, this time with her mouth wrapped tight around my cock.  I came hard and she swallowed like a good girl, we did some more coke and I ate Connie’s pussy with a finger in her ass.
Mittens hissed and swatted at Connie’s bare feet.  Stupid fucking cat.

We did the last of the coke and got to the fucking.  When we were lying on the floor, brain-damaged from the sheer ecstasy of it, she lit a joint and passed it to me.  The last time I felt that good was last week, the last time she came to visit.  Mittens crawled across her chest and she pushed him off.  We finished the joint and drank a couple beers, too stoned in post-fuck black hole to even speak.  She left around three in order to give me until five to clean and sober up.  I nuked her cheap perfume off the couch, took a cold shower and smiled from the desk when my wife walked in the door.

And that was the day the cat learned to talk.

“Sarcasm Does Not Translate Through Texts”
by Levi Gribbon

My pocket vibrates. I take out my phone and look at it. The text message reads, “Theodore wants to hang out with you  tommorrow but he shoved his phone up his ass and it stopped working so i have to ask for him.” I am not sure if this is a joke or not. Theodore is that kind of guy.

“The Oddballs”
by Barb Chandler

“Nobody’s here, and it’s almost 10:00,” Dana looked around the empty lobby. “Are you  sure the meeting’s at 10:00?”

“That’s what the notice said. Maybe everyone is in the auditorium,” Sam said. “Let’s go in.”

“You’re sure the flyer said Friday?” Dana looked around the empty room.

“Yes.”

“It’s after 10:00 and I still don’t…” Dana stopped mid-sentence when a man walked onto the stage.

“Welcome to the meeting of Children from Functional Families,” said the moderator.

“Outsource This”
by Dane Zeller

Sunday morning, July 14th, 3:17 am. Six foot five inches tall, by the measure at the front  door. Two hundred forty pounds, in my estimation. Blue jeans, a red Cardinals baseball cap, no  facial hair, but needed a shave.

Three hours of training to be assistant night manager at 7-11 paid off. No clue, though, to the brand of big gun he pointed at me.
“Hand me the till, asshole.”

“Yes sir.”

I hit the zero sale key. Nothing happened.

“What’s taking so long?”

“Uh, it’s not letting me get into the drawer.”

“C’mon, get it out! Now!”

“I’m trying, I’m trying.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, believe me, it’s not my money.  I’m happy to hand it over. I just can’t open the drawer.”

“You got a hammer? I’ll bust that sucker open.”

“I don’t.”

The holdup man shook his head.

“Damn.”

He looked more closely at the till.

“What’s that label on the side there?”

“That’s the number for the help desk.”

“Well, shit. Dial ‘em up.”

I dialed the 800 number, hoping no one else would enter the store.

“Here, let me talk to them,” the gunman ordered.

I gave him the phone.

“Hello.”

“Hello,” he repeated, louder.

“The what?” he asked. “I can’t understand you. Serve Pests?”

“Service desk ,” I offered.

“Oh, service desk.” He calmed down a little.

“You want me to tell you what?” he asked.

“He wants the store number. It’s 8567,” I said.

“Store 8567. Where you at? Philippines? Are you shittin’ me?”

“We can’t get the cash register door open.”

The holdup man rolled his eyes.
“We…can’t…open…the fuckin’ …door of the cash register,” he shouted.

“Press the what?” he asked, looking over at me.

“Press the lum drop button? What the hell is the lum drop button?”

“Num drop…num drock…oh, you mean the num lock key. Geez, who taught you English?

This is going to take all night, isn’t it,” said the hold up man. “All night, comprehenday? Listen to this, bud. You need to get yourself an English Rosetta Stone. They’ve gotta be selling it over there.”
The big man with the gun hung up the phone.

“Well, shit. What if all I wanted was a pecan roll. We’d still have this problem.”

I agreed with the man with the gun.

“Thanks, bud. I’m outta here. Get a different job.”

____

“How tall was the holdup man?” asked the officer.

“He was about  5′ 9, ” I said.

“Ethnic group?”

I hesitated.

“Oriental.”

“Armed?”

“Nothing I recognized from training.”

“The Russell Senior Home School Curriculum with Class Descriptions: Grade 11-ish”
by Scott Oglesby

Morning Repentance Prayers and Devotionals
6:00 to 6:25
Location- Your bedroom.
Upon waking you will be trusted to dive right into this hectic new  schedule. You will be expected to worship and praise God and give your life to Jesus with every cell and piece of DNA in your sinful, adolescent body and beg forgiveness for yourself and for your country.

Homeroom
6:30 to 7:00
Location– Family Room.
Homeroom will be the daily how-do-you-do with mom which will allow us to get ourselves re-enthused and allow us the opportunity to pinpoint any problem areas in the learning process. The class will be served breakfast daily during this period provided they show some appreciation for their mother’s/teacher’s hard work.

Free time
7:00 to 8:00
Location– Bathroom and Bedroom.
You will have this hour to get yourselves ready for the school day ahead.  You will be expected to shower (with soap), brush your teeth (with toothpaste), clean up your room, let old Moses out, do the breakfast dishes, take the garbage out and clean up Moses’ messes in the backyard.  While you get ready every morning you will be expected to ask yourself if
you are really ready, really rapture ready?

Bible Study; Old Testament
8:00 to 9:00
Location- Kitchen Table.
The class will be expected to use their Discernment to learn which parts of The Law are to be honored and upheld, such as most of the ten commandments, especially the one about honoring your parents, and all the parts that mention homosexuals, and which parts can be now be safely ignored without risk of eternal damnation and hellfire, such as that
stuff about shellfish. God has no problem with Red Lobster or your cousin Marty wouldn’t be assistant night manager there. He’s devout.

Math
9:05 to 10:00
Location– Kitchen Table.
You guys will work your way through that math textbook that I found at that garage sale, learning about all the educative stuff in there. I’ll be keeping your nose pressed firmly to the grindstone. Don’t think that just because your mamma couldn’t solve for X even if Jesus himself asked her to, that you’ll be getting a free pass. Although if you do perform well you might just get a partial scholarship to Bob Jones University.

Conservaperiod
10:05 to 11:00 Location– Mostly Finished Game Room.
This period will be spent keeping up to date with current events and social studies via Conservapedia. While Satan and his earthly minions may control the lamestream media, God has blessed us with many resources to continue our walk with Him. You are going to learn to use your discernment to figure out that which is Godly and that what is demonic
and evil. (Are demon-crats? How about Lie-berals? Evilutionists?) God’ll tell ya how to separate the wheat from the chaff.

Driver’s Ed, Economics, Behavioral Studies, Marketing, Consumerism,
Public Safety, and Social Interaction
11:00 to 1:00-ish
Location– Mom’s 97 Saturn, Wal-Mart and occasionally if ya’ll are lucky, IHOP or McDonald’s.
This class perfectly exemplifies the freedom and creative opportunities for education in the Home Schooling environment. During this daily period you kiddos will come with me while I do the running around and shopping. This’ll give ya’ll the chance to intermingle with other people (just don’t keep messin with the Wal-Mart greeter like last year) learn price comparison, devilish marketing strategies like putting impulse purchase goods at the registers, plus you’ll be able to watch how some of the ungodly heathens behave while surrounded by demonic forces, like Britney Spears music and halter-top-clad minorities.

Physical Education
1:05 to 2:00
Location – Outdoors.
You will take Moses for a walk and take your brother to the playground while I attend to my womanly duties and motherly business. In the event of inclement weather you will go play in the game room. Do push ups or jumping jacks or something to get that teenage angst out. No video gaming though. I mean it.

Languages
2:05 to 3:00
Location– Kitchen Table.
This hour will be spent learning to appreciate the fine art of tongues.  You kiddos will also get your first practice sessions as well by learning to turn off your brain and loosen your jaw muscle and tongue. You will learn the subtle nuances of how to differentiate between someone who is having a Grand mal seizure and attempting to ask for help, and someone who is expertly speaking the language of the Holy Spirit. How do the masters, like that enthusiastic, red faced woman in first row at church last Sunday, do it? You’ll begin to uncover these mysteries this semester.

Biblical Proof versus Scientific Guesses
3:05 to Dinner Time.
Location– Sitting Room Couch.
We’ll study the inerrant word of God and compare it to the unintelligible gibberish of rebellious, elitist, angry, ugly Darwinian ‘scientists’ and decide whether we want to spend eternity burning in the infinite suffering of Hades or if we’d rather be strolling the golden paved, diamond studded roads of Heavenly Paradise arm in arm with Jesus. We’ll
get to make up our own minds.

School’s done, time for church!

“Boys With Boobs Might Be Just That… Boobs”
by Paul Lander

A study in the “New England Journal of Medicine” found that certain shampoos, soaps and lotions containing lavender and tea tree oils can cause boys to develop breasts.   In a follow up survey to shed light on the affects of Journal of Medicine study the following was reported:

75% of those boys who grew breasts had lower grades … apparently they spent less time studying and more time feeling themselves up.

37% had trouble seeing if their shoelaces were tied or untied.

2% claimed to have won a wet t-shirt contest

22% had told somebody at least once, “you know I have eyes, too!”

27% reported that after getting themselves drunk, they then went to “second base” with themselves.

Scientists warned these finding were based on too small a sample to be considered factual.

“Local Man Oddly Proud of Meaningless Award”
by James Fluty

MINNEAPOLIS– Local Assistant Manager Christopher Krauss couldn’t be more delighted today, much to the astonishment and embarrassment of those close to him.  Krauss, 34, was the recipient of the “Customer Key Award”, an “award” invented and distributed by his employer, GetMart.  The “award,” a letter-sized piece of paper printed with an assortment of congratulations, was unceremoniously handed to Krauss by his senior manager.

“Honestly, I didn’t expect him to care,” stated a bewildered William Fort, the 28 year old manager responsible for “rewarding” Krauss.  “I mean, I give them out a lot and most people just get angry.  It’s not even framed.”

Krauss, who told this reporter that he plans on framing the certificate at his own expense, had a very different outlook on the matter.  “I work a lot and I’m barely making ends meet, so it’s nice that my company found a way to show its appreciation for me.”  Krauss continued, chest puffed out with pride, “It’s something I can show my kids one day.”

A source close to Krauss said, “He just keeps waving it in my face and every time he does it, it just breaks my heart a little more.”

The “Customer Key Award” was given to Krauss for his ability to understand the multitude of acronyms the corporate conglomerate bombards their workers with on a daily basis.  “I can tell you what an ‘RTS scan’ is or what ‘NH score’ means.  Yeah, I pretty much know it all.  Sometimes it’s like my co-workers don’t even think these things are worth knowing.  But I guess that’s why I got a piece of paper and they didn’t,” Krauss added with a self-satisfied smirk.

Asked to comment, GetMart’s spokesman explained “We used to give bonuses or cash rewards, but over time, we began to faze those out for something a little more…personal.”

“They could have given me a check or a Starbucks card, but those things come and go.” Krauss choked back tears as he spoke. “But this certificate… well, I can put this on my wall and remember it always,”  Krauss declared before adding in amazement, “Though, I guess I could always frame a Starbucks card too… shit.”

“Karaoke Killer”
by Steven Shabo

No one is singing these days. The Karaoke clubs are near empty. The  club where the incident occurred, Checkered Past, shut its doors a  week after the murder. The police report said the victim was found  bludgeoned to death a block away from the club with a pair of  underwear in his mouth. The report didn’t specify if it was the victim’s own underwear or not. Patrons at the club stated that the  man was attending a birthday party and was quite drunk when he finally got up on stage at around one ‘o clock in the morning. The bartender remembered that he chose the 80’s hit “Safety Dance” by Men Without Hats, “I don’t understand why someone would kill another person just because they can’t sing. Karaoke is supposed to be about having fun; it’s not like this is American Idol or something.” The party’s waitress reaffirmed that the man was highly intoxicated and reluctantly admitted that he didn’t give a very memorable performance, “He was so drunk he almost fell off the stage a couple of times. I remember him laughing through most of the song. He was pretty bad.”

The dead body was found the next morning by a woman walking her Saint Bernard. A note was thumb tacked to the victim’s forehead that read, You cannot sing, therefore, you must die.

“Prolong This!”

by Kelly Anneken, managing editor

Well, here we are again.  And by “we,” I mean “me.”  I have to write some bullcrap about adolescence so Isa will give me back my lucky thong.  It’s the source of all my power!  I just hope I get it back before my webcam date with Charlie Sheen, because my lucky thong is the only way he’ll recognize me!

All right, pinheads.  According to the World Health Organization, adolescents are “young people between the ages of ten to nineteen.  During this adolescent period, there are numerous developments taking place that include: sexual, emotional, physical, intellectual, and social.”  Good for them!  My sexual, emotional, physical, intellectual and social development made me the spectacular human being and excellent judge of character I am today.  I just hope today’s adolescents are self-medicating to deal with their rapidly changing bodies, otherwise puberty will be an unremittingly bleak journey through hell.  But I’ve seen that Teen Mom on MTV, so I assume most of America’s youngsters are just as on the ball as those young procreators and their immediate family.

I am concerned, though.  In the course of my thongless research, I came across several “Christian” websites.  According to these “Christian” fellows, American youths are now experiencing a “prolonged adolescence,” meaning that they can postpone adult responsibilities like having a job, having a house or having an HIV test until well into their 20s!  Those lucky little bastards!  I had to start working and getting court-ordered HIV tests at the age of fifteen, but did I hear a single word about “truncated adolescence” in the so-called “news media?”  No, I did not, and not simply because I temporarily lost my hearing to a rare ear fungus in 1999!

It seems to me that today’s young citizens have far too much free time on their hands.  These “Christians” and their mutual friend “God” all appear to agree with me.  However, they seem to think that the solution here is “prayer” and “guiding our young people to salvation.”  I call shenanigans!

“Christians,” all we need to do to put a stop to this extended teenagerdom is reinstate child labor.  I realize that people are complaining that there aren’t enough jobs as it is, but I think that’s just political spin.  If there aren’t enough jobs for the adults and the kids, we’ll just have to create some!  There’s a defunct cloth mill just up the road from my apartment—why not reopen and staff it entirely with minors?  I hear that these tweens’ tiny hands fit perfectly in those hard-to-reach places in the gears and whirligigs.  Older teens can learn all about management and corporate malfeasance, the better to replace Boomer corporation heads as their generation begins its grim, catheter festooned march to the grave.

On a smaller scale, instead of hiring illegal immigrants to clean our houses, let’s hire illegal immigrants’ children!  It’s perfect, especially if they were born on American soil.  No more worrying that Uncle Sam is going to ship little Pedro back to Mexico, he’s a legal citizen!

Now, I know what you’re thinking.  “But Kelly, kids are adorable, we need to preserve their innocence!  Kelly, how could you want to take advantage of America’s future like that?  Kelly, you were a better writer when you had your lucky thong!”  Look, nobody’s arguing with that last point, let’s just get through this, okay?  Oh, and your previous two points?  Totally wrong.  There’s plenty of ugly, jaded kids just lying around going to waste.  And if we don’t take advantage of America’s future now, how else will we be able to convince them to let us just sit on our asses in our old age?  This generation needs to be taken in hand and broken, broken like a Vegas whore’s nose!

Speaking of which, I gotta get my lucky thong back, punch Isa in the babymaker, and then see a man about questionable, high-risk sex via the internet.  In the afterglow, I’m going to convince him that his daughters should clean out my garage.

To the editor:

After a scrupulous look at last issue’s “No Comment” by Kelly Anneken—a compelling example of what somebody on Adderall is capable of writing—I decided to try it out.  I asked my son for one.  He’s 14.  He has a prescription,  so we keep him fueled up at all times.  I popped it, slugged it down with Red Bull, and then sometime around 10 AM, I began writing. It is now 12:42 AM.  My attention to detail has definitely improved, but my focus is still off track, on the wrong things.  I’ve smoked a pack and a half of cigarettes. I’ve bitten down and ruined the nails on both of my pinkies.  I’ve done a bunch of pushups and I’m pretty sure I found the Loch Ness Monster on Google Earth. Goodbye.

Sincerely,

007

Dear 007:

Our managing editor couldn’t be more thrilled that you’ve followed her example!  Before you know it, you’ll be off on a Thelma & Louise-esque adventure with Elizabeth Wurtzel, Andy Dick and Tweak from South Park!

You shouldn’t get discouraged simply because you feel like you aren’t focusing on the “right” things.  That’s the beauty of stimulants!  No matter what you do while you’re on them, it’s bound to come in handy later.

Cigarette smoking is essential to being a writer.  We really can’t stress this enough.  How else are your readers, editors and other patrons of your internet café supposed to know how deep, edgy, and tortured run the neurological pathways of your unique and brilliant mind?  Plus, cigarettes remind these same people that your time is extremely valuable because in twenty years, you’ll be dead from lung cancer.

Don’t worry about your pinkies.  They are truly the least important fingers, pinky swears notwithstanding.  Much like the baby toe, the pinkie finger is slowly evolving away. As you gnaw your pinkies down into gangrenous stumps, take pride in the fact that you’re ahead of the evolutionary curve.  Later in life, you can say, “I lost my pinkies before Mother Nature deemed it a biological imperative!”

Finally, you can never have enough upper body strength, especially as a writer.  Writers get in fistfights constantly.  If you’re not, well, you’re not really much of a writer, are you?

Sincerely,

The Hobo Pancakes Team

PS—Did you really find Nessie?  If so, send us her address.  That bitch owes us money!

*

Hello,

I am interested in the writing position I saw advertised on craigslist.org.

I have attached my resume to this email, for more information please contact me.

Thank you,

Pendarvis Harshaw

Dear Pendarvis Hershaw:

We were quite excited upon receiving your resume.  However, having reviewed it, we are very disappointed to discover that you did not matriculate at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Unfortunately, we are not hiring at this time, and even if we were, we certainly wouldn’t hire your non-magical, if whimsically monikered, ass.

Sincerely,

The Hobo Pancakes Team

*

Hi Dear

how are you today i hope all is fine with you, my name is favour i saw your profile today at when i was on google searching for a good and honest man that will be my life partner my spirit told me that you are the one i am looking for and became interested on you, i will also like to know  more about you, and be your friend, and i want you to send an email to my email address below so that i will tell you more about myself and send my picture for you to know whom i am,

I believe we can move from here! I am waiting for your mail to my email address above.(Remember that distance or color does not matter but love matters a lot in life) i hope to hear from you soon thanks

yours faithfully
Miss favour

Dear Miss Favour,

All is fine with us today, but we think you may have the wrong email address.  We’re not good, we’re not honest, and we’re none of us a man.  Although we’re pretty sure editor-at-large Isa Hopkins has been taking testosterone so she can grow a boss goatee.

Miss Favour, there are a number of online dating sites where you can upload your photo, list your likes and dislikes and write rambling, improperly capitalized sentences about what you’re looking for.  We heartily recommend you try one of those.

Unless you’re actually Miss Lady in disguise.  In that case, bring on the polyamourous triad!

Sincerely,

The Hobo Pancakes Team

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Dear Hobo Pancakes,

Do you know the way to Santa Fe?

Your friend,

Yours Truly

Dear Yours Truly,

We sure do!  Turn left and go fuck yourself.

Sincerely,

The Hobo Pancakes Team