Caution

We hope you enjoy the rich aroma of our expertly-brewed Columbian coffee.

Please be advised that the contents of this cup are extremely hot. 

If large heat welts appear on your hands, you won’t be holding things for a long time. If your head catches fire, DO NOT pour the contents of the cup on your head. Contents are flammable. Also, do not panic the other patrons since business has been slow lately and we can use all the customers we can get. Call the fire department and remain inconspicuous.

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Consumption of this beverage may result in the use of a colostomy bag. If you are currently using a colostomy bag, thank you for coming back.

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If you get an erection while drinking this beverage, that’s sick. You’re in a coffee shop, man.  If you are a woman and you get an erection, you didn’t fool us. We saw your Adam’s apple when you walked in.

If this coffee suddenly tastes like cabbage, see your physician. If this coffee suddenly tastes like physician, see your cabbage. 

We hope you enjoy your beverage and we look forward to seeing you again.

Visualizing success

Motivational speakers believe that a sure way to become successful is to visualize your success before it actually happens, so now, every night as my head hits the pillow, I close my eyes and imagine what my life will be like when this book gets picked up by a publisher, endorsed by Oprah and sells hundreds, if not thousands of copies. 

 

I am ready for that kind of fame.

I read once that Jim Carrey wrote himself a cheque for one million dollars before he became famous, visualizing the day he would cash it.  Ripping a page from his book, I have tattooed a bar code on my buttocks that rings up a total of two million dollars and seventy -five cents when you scan it. This simple, yet painful procedure decreased my net worth by $100 but has increased my self-worth by much more. I have yet to figure out how I will cash my ass in but that's a detail I can work out later.

I have also begun visualizing beyond the apex of my celebrity when I am washed up and nothing more than a footnote in annals of entertainment history. 

For instance, right now I see me entering rehab for the fourth time, scowling at the paparazzi who clamor over themselves to get a shot of my crotch as I exit the taxi cab. 

I also see me leaving the rehab center the very next day proudly telling the press that I am cured of my addiction to pop tarts. I do admit that there is still work to do on my obsession with porn and affinity for crack but, c'mon man.... one crisis at a time. 

I see me writing a book about these struggles being careful to leave out the part of my life where I sat in exile with a trio of glaze-addicted midgets who were protesting the destruction of another Krispy Kreme (too traumatic, plus the little ones need their privacy).

But most of all, I see me on the cover of Time magazine, voted transvestite of the year after an epic selection process in which I narrowly beat out Paris Hilton and Clay Aiken for the coveted award.  The ensuing controversy that happens after judges discover I am not a transvestite but just "some guy wearing his Mother's dress" creates serious controversy and earns the attention of Hollywood heavyweight, Martin Scorcese, who casts me in his next picture, taking me from washed-up writer to has-been actor overnight.

What more can anyone ask for?

Hats off!

After yesterday's shoe-throwing incident in Iraq, I got to thinking that if this writing thing doesn't work out, maybe there's an opportunity to train Iraqi journalists in the art of rifling articles of clothing - a sort of fashion firing range catering to disgruntled reporters who are destined to come face to face with visiting heads of state. 

Clearly, Iraqi television journalist, Muntazer al-Zaidi could have used a few lessons before the incident. Unfortunately, now he'll go down in history as the guy with the bad aim. 

Hindsight being what it is, I see that his lack of precision was just a symptom for a bigger problem. The fact is, his inability to lock on his target was actually caused by many factors, not the least of which was shoe weight. After studying the video for the last 16 hours, it appears to me that Mr Zaidi wore a size 11 shoe. As someone who has spent the better part of his adult life throwing things, I can say with first-hand authority that a size 11 shoe is far too large. In fact, the circumference of the large sole creates a disparity between the friction generated by the hand and the air surface it is traveling through leading to a uneven flight pattern. 

In short, he would have been much more successful had he scaled down to a size 9 or 9 1/2 at most. A woman's high heel shoe would have been good too. If it were red even better (maximum dramatic effect).

For future consideration, shirts are never good for throwing because they almost always parachute open never reaching their intended destination. They're also not very threatening. 

Few would argue that the best article of clothing for this sort of activity is the Bolo hat with steel rim as depicted in the James Bond movie Goldfinger. Unfortunately, those are hard to find. Although I may consider throwing in a free Bolo hat with every paid tuition just to boost enrollment.  

Almost cured

Today, I finally cured myself of hypochondria. At last, I am free of this debilitating disease. 

Now if I can only figure out how to get rid of the nagging brain tumor, the throbbing in my left arm, the heart palpitations and the frequent dizzy spells, life will be great.

Something to fall back on

As many of you know I have a small fear that this writing thing will fall flat on its face, so I have been exploring the possibilities of a career in the exciting profession of celebrity stalking.  

If you Google the words "Celebrity Stalking" and I know many of you have already, you'll come up with more than 8 million hits so the field is nothing if not a competitive one. I am not sure what the pay is like but I believe the media attention you'd get from a job well done would be worth all the money in the world. 

As for job qualifications, your guess is as good as mine, but I think to be the best in the business you need a healthy dose of patience, good penmanship, a nervous tick and a nice repertoire of 'crazy' faces  for the inevitable mug shot on CNN.  

To prepare me for my first day on the job, I've purchased a pair of fresh underwear in the event one of my lucky subjects should fall in love with me. You never know. I've even waxed my you-know-what... just in case.

To show potential employers I am eager, I've taken the initiative of putting together a type of Starter Stalker Kit which includes binoculars for watching, Dr. Scholls Insoles for comfort, handy wipes for cleaning and a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken because licking your fingers in public is just plain scary. I've also printed some business cards that say Terrence Paquet Celebrity Stalker to hand out at Hollywood parties, movie premieres and soup kitchens. 

If you know of any stars that need to revive a sagging career or want the boost of publicity that comes from being followed by a stalker, then let me know. I'm not professional yet, but I'm a quick learner. Plus I'm willing to ply my trade on weekends, day and night and I'll work for nothing. Kind of like being a writer.

Super Clean Hero Guy

The DVD release of the new Will Smith movie, Hancock has me thinking about whether I should have become a super hero instead of a writer. 

I had always wanted to be one as a youngster but my parents put the kibosh on it quickly. "Janitorial services is your destiny", my Mother would say, squashing my dreams in a fashion akin to The Hulk pulverizing a taxi cab. 

Despite her better wishes and to satisfy my curiosity, I purchased a pair of tights last week, and accessorized with a Union Jack flag for the cape, my wife's shiny bikini top to distract potential villains and an Indian rubber ball for sexy crotch bulge. 

I was ready to fight crime. 

Unfortunately, the only thing close to a felony in my neighborhood is Old Man Feldman's penchant for socks and sandals. Hardly worthy of an epic battle.

Another problem was my lack of super powers unless you consider flatulence on command a weapon. If so, I am legend. 

Finally, to be a hero you would have had to have saved someone or something and all I had was a mason jar filled with nail clippings. Disgusting, yes. Heroic, not quite.

With no villains to fight, I have decided to combine the tights and cape with a mop and bucket and become Super Cleaner Man - the city's greatest grime fighter.  

This way, my dream and my Mother's dream will both come true.  

Am not

When people ask me who I am, I always answer by telling them who I am not. For example, I often say I am not a woman. Despite my large, saggy breasts, occasional bouts with PMS and love of high heels, I am definitely a guy because I like to drink beer. And I'll fight anyone at the drop of a hat. I find flatulence funny too.

I am also not a priest, even though I wear a black robe and carry a cross around my neck. This outfit keeps me safe from vampires. Once, when I was hiking in the woods, I saw one coming my way. I had a sneaking suspicion he was going to bite my neck so I stabbed him to death with the cross. The police said he was a local farmer looking for his dog, but what do they know? Where they there? I took his wallet because there was no sense in wasting all that money. It wasn't like he was going to spend it or something. For the record, I gave it all to a local charity. Or maybe it was Hooters, the details are fuzzy now. 

One other thing I am not is a tramp. Sure I wear heavy make-up, slutty clothes and I like to hang out on street corners, but that doesn't make me cheap. The other night a guy came up to me and asked me how much for a "ride" around the block.  A ride around the block? I just looked him in the eyes and said, "Listen mister, I don't know what you're thinking here but I suggest you just move along." Because I may be a lot of things but I'm definitely not a taxi cab.

A letter to all publishers

Dear to whoms it may concern, 

My extensive research on the publishing industry has led me to believe that  not many people in your world get to see unsolicited  manuscripts that have the word Penis in the title (unless you are that peddler of smut, Bob Guccione).

The truth is, not since Thine Vagina has a literary label of this magnitude promised so much. Imagine for a second how many intellectuals with disposable income there are out there who have been longing for something as satisfying as My Penis.

Instincts tell me there could be hundreds.

Now lets just say, for the sake of an argument, the title alone is not what makes a book a bestseller. Lets take a leap of faith and say content is important too.

Well the other unique benefit of this book is that it is filled with words. Yes, I know you're going to tell me ALL the submissions you get have words in them and to that clever retort I have but one argument: as we both know it isn't the words that define how successful a book is, it's how the writer puts those words together that doughnut under chutney flung?

I guess what I am trying to say is, to appeal to the crucial demographics that your publishing house currently seeks, my book makes generous use of words like Fabio, lumpy and tungtsen - key words that are hip with the younger, male-model-obsessed, weight-conscious, lighting-pre-occupied generation. 

But the advantages don't stop there.

On many occasions I employ a little known 17th century literary trick to drag the reader into my tales that I will now share with you for free: In short, I use intriguing combinations of words in my stories like pus-filled, sexy librarians and Al Gore that subconsciously stick in the reader's subconscious forcing them to like me and talk about My Penis with colleagues, clergy and cell mates who will then rush out and by a copy at full retail price.

But wait there's more.

The beauty of a book entitled My Penis is its potential for mass appeal because everyone has a penis. Well, almost everyone. Fact is, statistics show that if you don't have a penis, you want one (Google Clay Aiken if you don't believe me).

The point is My Penis fills a large, gaping hole for a wide range of people no matter their age, race, religion or deviant sexual orientation. 

All modesty aside, I believe this book could very well be the book to end all books. Or the book to end all books in which the word book is used six times in two consecutive sentences. Between you and me this one has bestseller written all over it. Or at least somewhere in it (see page 72, line 14).

What you must know is that this literary masterpiece has been created to enthrall, entertain and titillate the masses, not just those small niche markets that books like The DaVinci Cold or Henry Potter went after.

So if you'd like to harness the money-making power of My Penis give me a call today, or risk losing out on the last chance you'll ever have to do something constructive with your sad, pathetic life. 

My agent would be waiting for your call, if I had an agent... until that time, you can call my Mother, who I am currently sharing living quarters with (in separate beds, of course).

Thank you.

Terrence Paquet

Author of My Penis and other short pieces

Scurvy update

 In an earlier post I expressed concern that I had contracted scurvy. Today, I am happy to report that I totally misdiagnosed the problem because initial tests came back showing that I am suffering from nothing more than a mild case of something called leprosy. Apparently having sex with a goat in the Dominican Republic wasn't such a good idea. 

I'd like to take this opportunity to send out a virtual high five to Dr. Fezstein for his professionalism and gentle probing. Actually, high five isn't right, it's more like high stump. 

The good news for all my fans is I am still able to type using my remaining elbow and what is left of my right leg. 

Rest assured, if the condition worsens I will be prepared, as I am currently training a chicken to operate a stenograph machine. A very attractive chicken, I might add.

Bulging with talent

I like to think positive but if this writer thing doesn't work out, the profession I have chosen to fall back on will be cargo container - simply because I love to carry things in my pants. It makes me feel big, powerful and loaded like a human semi-truck. 

In the early days, I would ship important items from the kitchen to the living room. But just for fun. Then, one fateful day, my passion became more powerful than my medication and I was soon transporting goods from my apartment to my therapist's office without incident. I had lots of room in my pants and a talent that few others can lay claim to.

I am not bragging when I say this but I can carry it all - cheese graters, frozen foods, curling irons and certain types of lawn furniture. And I do it for no reason at all, other than the enjoyment one gets from feeling purposeful and having large items squishing your genitals. 

I once transported my grandmother from her senior's Residence to the Rose Hill National cemetery to show her where her next 'outing' would be. I am proud to say she arrived without a scratch. 

I will put that on my resume.

I think it is important to say that I have not attempted to carry livestock yet, but if the price is right it wouldn't be out of the question. I may need to purchase bigger pants if we are talking about cows though. 

Interestingly enough, my testicles are not happy with this hobby and have let me know with their itching and swelling. I think they want me to continue writing.

A few important career moves

I think if I want to be taken seriously as a writer I need to start thinking about my memoirs. 

Unfortunately, if I were to write one now it would be filled with stories of the days I spend at the park performing Tai Chi, admiring the fauna and flora, and masturbating on park benches. 

Compelling material, but not really "Hollywood" enough.

That's why I have decided to spend the next little while drinking excessively, lashing out at paparazzi and experimenting with various types of over-the-counter laxatives to beef up the chapters. 

I also plan to play with my weight so it fluctuates wildly in the hopes of scoring an endorsement deal with Jenny Craig. Or Dunkin Donuts if it doesn't fluctuate.

 

I will also look for Hollywood stars that I can sleep with as this is the kind of thing that readers devour. I'm thinking of seducing Angela Lansbury or fornicating one of the Golden Girls if they're still alive. That'll go over big with the aging Boomer market.

Finally, in keeping with the current trends of celebrity life, I will adopt an immigrant but it won't be a child because studies show they have poor bladder control and can be whiny.  I was thinking an Oriental girl around the ages of 23 to 26 would fit better with my lifestyle.

 If you have any ideas, let me know. I'm open to suggestions.

A letter to Herve Villechaize

Good day Mr. Villechaize. 

I know you are a busy man, so I'll keep this short. Well, maybe short is not the right word given that you are a midget. Or dwarf. (Please verify in any future correspondence). 

In any case,  I am currently looking for new ways to market the release of my book and I was wondering if you would be interested in helping me achieve global recognition as an important author guy? 

My sources tell me you haven't worked since Fantasy Island, so I'd like to hire you to tour with me when I do my press junket. I was thinking you could introduce me by saying something cute like Da Penis Boss! Da Penis! 

People would find that funny. 

Rest assured once my marriage to Oprah Winfrey happens I will have plenty of cash to compensate you. For the time being I can only offer you a discount coupon for platform shoeswhich you can redeem at Mel's Platform Shoe and Boot Emporium. I'd also be happy to give you my Verne Troyer growth chart which I outgrew 42 years ago. I'm sure it'll be perfect for you though (depending on whether you are a midget or dwarf, of course).

Let me know.

Terrence Paquet

Author of My Penis & other short pieces.

Party etiquette

When I go to a party and someone asks me what I do for a living, I never tell them writer.

I find it is much easier to lie and say I am a doctor because I don't have to prove anything.

However, if at that same party someone starts to choke on a pimento-stuffed olive and turns blue, then I switch my profession to embalmer because I don't know the first thing about doctoring. 

But if that person dies, then I have to come clean and say I am writer because I also don't know the first thing about embalming.

 I guess the moral of the story is lying can kill people so its better to tell the truth.

Phew!

It was the moment that every writer dreads. The one we don't like to think of. The monster that can break a career. Crush a man. Kill a dream. No matter how hard I tried I could not find the words. They had abandoned me. Left me for dead.

Out of despair, I turned to my usual remedies but to no avail. 

I broke out in a sweat. I felt like vomiting. My hands were covered in welts. 

I knew I had WRITER'S BLOCK!! 

But then, luckily, a doctor told me it was just something called syphilis. 

A letter to Oprah

Hello Oprah,

It has been some time since we last spoke (telepathically) and I just wanted to check in with you to make sure everything is fine.

I must say I am so excited about my upcoming appearance on your show (whenever you're ready!) that I have soiled the trousers I am wearing three times. Not to worry though as they do not belong to me - FREE when you work at McDonalds.

The reason for my correspondence is two-fold: I was thinking of moving to Chicago and I was wondering if you could tell me which neighborhoods are good. I am looking for an area with lots of green space, a well-stocked library, some schools, a few choice coffee shops and easy access to the local whores.

I understand that the housing situation is crazy right now, so if it's alright with you, I might have to stay at your place until I can find adequate lodging. I should tell you that I have been diagnosed with a feeble sphincter but it shouldn't be too much of a problem as long as you can provide me with extra sheets and thick towels you no longer have use for. A large supply of antiseptic wipes would be nice too. I can bring my own air freshener.

Let me know as I plan on being in your area next week.

My second question may seem a little strange but I was invited to the Annual Chicken Fry for former Inmates of the Illinois Department of Corrections (pyromaniac section) and I was wondering if you would be my date for the evening. The boys would really get a kick out of seeing me walk through the doors with you in a gunny sack.

I realize this may cause some problems with Steadman so I'd be willing to talk to him if you want. If he's into it, I can set him up with Nancy, the sweetest guy I've ever known and my cellmate for three years. I think they'd make a nice couple. Who knows, if all goes well maybe we can watch each other have sex. 

Or not.

Anyways, let me now. I can be reached at the McDonalds on Northway Drive tomorrow 'til 5. It's in the phone book.

Regards

Terrence Paquet

Author of My Penis & other short stories

A letter to Mom

Dear Mom,

Just a short note to thank you for watering my plants while I was gone. As you know, I really needed the vacation and your help was greatly appreciated. 

All the best. Your loving son,

Terrence

P.S.

I happened to notice the faint smell of urine in my geraniums and was wondering if you had used filtered water like I mentioned in my chore list entitled "475 things you are responsible for while I am gone".  Just asking.  

Have a great week. Your curious son,

Terrence

P.P.S.

Before I left, I had a bit of time after packing and counted all the potato chips in the bag on the counter. When I returned, I was relaxing in my kitchen and just for fun decided to count the number of potato chips in the same bag again. I couldn't help but notice I was short 23 chips. Thinking that I had miscounted them, I had Ray, my neighbor, do an independent count and he verified my initial tally. Just to be sure, I called someone at Ernst & Young to see if we were both having an off day, mathematically speaking, but just as I suspected, 23 chips were missing. 

Do you happen to know where they might be? I know you're probably thinking "23 chips, what's the big deal?", and under normal circumstances I'd agree with you, it's just that I was planning a party this weekend for some friends at the penitentiary and I had calculated 23 chips per guest. Now, one of them will have to go without. That's no way to throw an event, especially since it was a "chip party" and all.    

I'm not pointing any fingers or implying anything here but I was wondering if you could submit yourself to a blood test. Just asking.

Say Hi to Dad. Your chip-less son,

Terrence

P.P.P.S.

I don't know if I mentioned this to you or not but I had installed a few hidden cameras throughout the house (23 coincidentally) and I was reviewing the tapes last night. Who was that guy dressed like a Fireman? He didn't look like Father. By the way, it was hard to tell from the way the camera was positioned but it looked like he was giving you CPR. Did something happen? Also, why was he not wearing pants? Is he part of the volunteer fire department? Just curious.

Take care. Your inquisitive boy,

Terrence

P.P.P.P.S

One more thing. Upon returning yesterday, I noticed my TV was missing. I'm not implying anything here, but when I said 'Help yourself to anything in the house' I didn't mean the electronics (or the chips). If you happen to "find" the TV somewhere, you know where to return it. 

Thanks again. Your son,

Terrence

Who's there?

This morning opportunity knocked at my door. But I didn't answer because I had a sneaking suspicion that it was a Jehovah Witness in disguise. 

Down with squirrels

I have noticed that very few people on Facebook have squirrels for friends. 

I'm generalizing here, but I suspect this is partly due to the fact that all the squirrels I've met are bastards. And the rest are somewhat reclusive with limited social skills. I'd even go so far as to say that, unless pressed or caged, they will only associate with their own kind which, between you and me, makes them racist.

Of course, their limited appearance on the Internet giant might also be attributed to the fact that they have rabies too. This makes them unpredictable to hang out with. One minute you're playing Battleship - the next you're bleeding from the neck and foaming at the mouth.  

Who wants a friend like that?

I once dated a squirrel for three months but it didn't work out because all she wanted to do was bury nuts (not mine). In all fairness to Elizabeth, it was fun in the early days but the novelty quickly wore off. Plus our families never really got along mostly because my Mother wasn't agile enough to climb the tree where we lived. 85-year-olds are funny like that.

I suspect one more reason  for their lack of world wide web friends could have to do with Facebook's strict No Rodent policy. Although I know for a fact squirrels don't give a damn about rules. I had a sign on my fence last summer that read "Attention Squirrels! Please Do Not Sit on my Lawn Chairs. Or else!" Despite the warning, they would just lounge there all day long, grooming themselves and fornicating. They didn't give a damn.

And that, in a nutshell, is the problem. 

So I ask you: if they don't care about us, why should we care about them?

Bored

Sometimes when I am bored I like to lie on the grass in the park and watch the clouds roll by. I pass the time looking for familiar shapes in the puffy condensed water vapor above me and let my imagination run wild. 

If it is a rainy day and I am bored, I like to don a ski mask and walk into a bank from a nearby city. I like to let my imagination run wild there also, by telling customers and staff that I am a modern-day Robin Hood who is taking all their money and jewellery to feed the poor. Even though I would never give anything to those lazy welfare recipients, I take comfort in the fact that everyone in the bank feels good because they 'think' they are giving their cash and valuables to a special cause.  This makes me feel important, knowing that I changed someone's life with a kind gesture, profanity-laced threat and sawed-off shotgun.

If I am still bored after I have counted my 'lottery winnings',  then I like to go the orphanage down the street and laugh at the kids who have no parents. Especially the adult ones who don't stand a chance of ever finding a real family. 

If I am still bored after they have beaten the crap out of me, I like to go down to the local Hooters to apply for a job as 'Hooter Buffer'. Between you and me, I know there is no such job, but I enjoy watching the look on the faces of the girls as I approach them with a bucket of warm urine (not mine) and a soggy chamois* (also not mine). 

It is one of those other times when I like to let my imagination run wild. Just before the police come.

*Publisher's Note: This is the first time the words 'soggy chamois' have ever been used in a piece of published literature. The only other documented use of this term was in a second-season episode of the A-Team when B.A. Baracus (Mr. T) threatened to scrub off Murdock's' face with a soggy chamois. This exciting first in the literary world is certain to earn attention from the good folks in charge of handing out the Nobel Prizes every year. Keep your fingers crossed!

One of those days

When I woke up this morning  I thought I was having my period because there was  blood on the bed sheets. My wife pointed out that I was wrong, the blood was coming from the horse's head. 

Phew, I thought. 

How would I explain male menstruation to my kids?

Hmmpff!

Recently, I ran in to a "good" friend at a funeral who wouldn't even acknowledge me. Couldn't even look me in the eyes.

What's his problem?

At first I thought he was just upset because it was a sombre event, but then I started thinking maybe he wasn't speaking to me because of the $3500 I owed him and never paid back. Did he finally discover I had slept with his wife? Maybe someone told him I slept with his sister too? And his Mother? Maybe that's why he's so cold to me. 

Maybe he found out about all those times I scratched curse words into his car door with my key. Or that time I shaved his cat but just left a mustache. Maybe he found out it was me.

After about an hour of this uncalled-for behavior, I couldn't take it anymore. I went up to him and asked him straight to his face "do you have a problem with me?"

But he didn't answer. 

He just lied there, with his arms folded across his chest and eyes closed like he didn't hear a word I said. All smug in his nice oak box with brushed nickel handles. 

Bastard.

Innocent?

On his way to work this morning, Gordon, an atheist, accidently ran over Jesus. 

Or did he?

Morning routine

In the morning when I get up, the first thing I like to do is take care of hygienic needs  like showering, shaving, brushing my tooth and cleaning the blood stains off the walls. 

Once I am minty fresh and Pine Sol clean, I like to go downstairs,  put the kettle on and let it boil until it screams so loud I can hardly hear the screams in my head. 

At this point, I like to contemplate the day before me by skimming through my agenda, taking note of any important meetings I have (none) and calling my therapist to ask her if I am cured yet. If the voice on the other line says "Hello Pizza Hut. What will your order be today?" I hang up right away. For the life of me, I don't know why my therapist has moved her office to a pizza parlor. Maybe she's having money problems. Wait a second! Who cares about her problems anyways? Isn't she supposed to be helping me with my problems?  I mean, come on, be professional for once in your life!

Next, if I am in a good mood, I usually like to let my 'girlfriend' out of the trunk so she can scurry off, freshen up and call the police. That's when I leave town and start anew in another city. 

This is the routine I follow every day except for Tuesday mornings when I will stick my buttocks out of the front window and scream Italian curse words at the people passing by.  I had always wanted to be a linguistics teacher but because of national gun laws that dream died pretty fast. This way I can still fulfill my need to educate folks without pants. 

An apple a day

They say an apple a day keeps the doctor away, but I think a brick through his window or a threatening letter written in gerbil blood would work much better.

Image is everything

One of the things I like to do to let industry people know I am a "real" writer is go to hotel bars and drink myself into a blackout. This is my way of letting publishers know I am just like illustrious authors from the past who enjoyed liver damage and bleeding ulcers. 

Admittedly, I could never drink as much as Ernest Hemingway or Hunter S. Thompson because my Father once told me I was born with something called ballerina's liver. Although he never did explain it to me in layman's terms, I think it has something to do with the fact that after a beer and a half I often sashay around the lobby like Baryshnikov in ankle cuffs. 

If Mr.Vomit has not appeared on the shoes below me, I will tilt my head upwards and cradle my chin in one hand to let interested patrons know I am toying with something called "thought." Then, I will deliberately lower my head and cradle my forehead in one hand to let people know it was not "thought" I was thinking about - it was the absence of thought I had engaged in. This concept of thinking about thoughts that are not there to be thought of sounds intellectual even though I'm not sure what it means or what I meant to say. 

It is important to state that I always wear black nylon socks during these publicity events to let any interested publishers know I mean business. And since I am naked from the waist down, I am free of the restrictions caused by too much fabric and therefore less likely to spit on my legs and fan my anus* with a rolled-up newspaper - something I am told is distracting during intense negotiations or light lunches on the terrace.

* AUTHOR'S NOTE: Regular readers of My Penis & other short pieces will be interested in knowing that this is the first time I have ever used the word 'anus' in one of my essays. If all goes well and the response is positive, I have an inkling** the word will be making a comeback real soon.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Regular readers of My Penis & other short pieces will be interested to know that this is the first time I have ever used the word 'inkling' in one of my author's notes. According to the Guidelines of English Word Usage (Strunk & Whyte, 2008), if a writer uses this word more than three times he is gay so I officially announce it's retirement from this blog right now.

Humane kindness

On my way home yesterday morning after a late-night party, I accidentally hit a raccoon with my car. I stopped to see if there was anything that could be done to save the poor creature, but it just lay there on the threshhold of death's door. Reluctantly, I got a shovel from the trunk and put him out of his misery.  Out of respect, I buried him deep in the woods so no predators would devour his mangled corpse.

Lying in my bed later that day, I wondered if he was in heaven resting peacefully amongst the angels. I also wondered why he was wearing a mailman's uniform. 

Who am I now?

In my quest to beef up my biography and make myself an interesting topic of conversation at the clinic, I am currently practicing to be a part of the witness relocation program. This entails moving from state to state a lot, changing my name and adjusting my wardrobe, sometimes two or 27 times a day. 

I think it is important to pick names that are common so I am currently introducing myself as Fleshtiit Vergabby, but not THAT Fleshtiit Vergabby, I always say.  I am the Fleshtiit with two "i"s. 

Of course this will change tomorrow when my new alias will be Barbbara Walters. That's when I will have to explain to people that I am not THAT Barbara Walters, I am Barbbra with two "b"s. 

Sheesh! Pay attention people! 

Naturally, I will also have to explain why I have a mustache if I am supposed to be a woman and I know I'll have to go into a long-winded explanation on hormone replacement therapy. (Note to self: Find out what Hormone Replacement therapy means.)

Wardrobe is always an interesting dilemma for me as it is a vital part of any disguise in the program. I currently have a thing for plastic wigs because they are affordable, soft, safe, waterproof and allow me to blend seamlessly into a crowd of plastic-wig-wearing stool pigeons. 

Plus, when the light is just so, the blonde one makes me look like Heather Loklear. But notTHAT Heather Locklear. I mean Heather Loklear with no "c". 

The helpful writer

Now that the promotion of my book is in full swing, I am trying to get my name out there as much as possible to increase my celebrity quotient rating. Therefore, when I walk into local stores, fertility clinics and donut shops, I have begun a tradition in which I drop my trousers then holler my name and profession in an Italian accent. 

Not only does this help society's most important decision makers remember me, it lets them know they are in the presence of someone unique because of my foreign-sounding  enunciation and croissant-shaped testicle. 

This revolutionary style of connecting with the masses also has the added benefit of putting patrons at ease knowing that, if they were at a loss for words or needed a better way to describe something, they could just ask me, a generous writer who is only too happy to help. 

Why, if the timing were good and my testosterone levels were right, I might even throw in a free sperm sample too.

For those who have problems writing or spoking English, I imagine it would be reassuring to know there is a professional writer in the neighboring gurney who can provide them with a beautiful adjective or eloquent verb they can use to flower their conversation or make better their parole application. 

Currently, I am particularly fond of intelligent-sounding words like Zamfir, shank, diddle, areola, ringworm and pneumonoultramicroscopicsillicovolcanoconioses, although I am not sure what they mean or how to use them in a sentence yet.

I'll zamfir with it for awhile and get back to you.

Shank you very much.

The snowman

I'm not sure where the snowman went that warm, spring day, all I know is I wanted my carrot back.

Eddie

When I found out that Eddie was a guy who couldn't tell his ass from a hole in the ground, I finally understood why there was a shovel sticking out of his pants.

Inside of me

Inside of me exists a strange and mysterious universe. It is like another world in there with its own unique ecosystem that can produce an incredible range of special science things like noises and aromas. 

In the event these undecipherable sounds and smells escape the world deep inside and enter our atmosphere, humans have been warned on many occasions to grab their children and run for cover. For these invisible things have the power to scare small chihuahuas and drive away elderly people. Believe me, I have seen the damage these mystifying savages can inflict on our society and it is not pretty.

Sometimes they infiltrate our world late at night when we sleep soundly in our beds. Sometimes it is during the day when you are having a meeting with the CEO of a company. There is no rhyme or reason to their methods of madness.

There have even been stories of entire rooms emptying after one of these sounds managed to break through a protective barrier of nylon gym shorts. Turns out it wasn't just one sound but a whole league of smells too. Like a trojan horse. Luckily, the only thing that was harmed in that incident were the nylon shorts. May they rest in peace.

I often wonder if I have misread the things that go on inside of me. Perhaps I am wrong and they are not foul-mouthed aliens speaking a coded language who are trying to take over our world. Maybe the inhabitants of the world inside of me are peace-loving, yet misunderstood. Are they trying to send me a message when, for instance, a stream of urine suddenly turns into a spray of orange? Are they warning me of some evil presence? Are they telling me they come in peace and only wish to be friends? Or are they saying "stop eating Cheezies and Kool-Aid. Have some fruits dammit." 

I guess I'll never know what goes on inside of me for I am not a doctor. Just ask any of the people I performed surgery on in the last year, their hideous scars will back me up on that fact.

A poem

If you love someone set her free. If she comes back she is yours. 

If she doesn't come back, it's probably because the leash wasn't tight enough.

The vow

When Andrea disappeared that balmy August evening, I made a vow to myself that I would never fall in love with an ice cube again.

Focus

When I was diagnosed with a severe form of Attention Deficit Disorder, I knew it was important to... oh look, a pretty butterfly!

Man seeks woman

Man seeks woman. Must be a real woman. Not a blow-up woman, a cardboard cut-out woman, or a reasonable facsimile of a woman. Only real women need apply. 

Please do not respond if you are a man posing as a woman. A man who feels like a woman inside, or a man who has always wanted to be a woman. Especially you, Joe. Not interested. 

Must not have facial hair, back hair or hair of any kind anywhere. Hair on head is a must though. Must not have big, muscular arms or legs either - slender extremities only. 

Must not have a penis, own a penis or lease a penis in any way, shape or form. Must not want to have a penis surgically added in the future either. Women must not say they don't have a penis and then surprise me later, when we're on a date or something. That is wrong and deceptive.

Must not drive truck, cab or bus. Must not know how to spit, burp or pass gas. If the latter has been experienced, must not take pleasure in it and laugh when it happens. That means you are a man and well, like I said, I am looking for a woman. 

Must love walks on beach in the moonlight but not because you want to dump a body in the ocean and you need someone to help you carry it. That means you are a man, a mad man. 

Must not have killed anyone. Nor is planning on killing anyone in the future, either on purpose or by accident. Must not be a cannibal either because eating people is the same as killing them.

Must love children and dogs. But not in that way. What is wrong with you? You are sick for even thinking that. Please do not apply if that thought crossed your mind. 

Please do not apply also if you are looking for a job, a kitten or spare car parts. I do not have any of those things. I am just looking for a woman.  

If you are a woman and you think you look like Halle Berry, Angelina Jolie or Heidi Klum, move along. You do not look like any of those women. You are a delusional. Must not be delusional. 

Interested women can contact me. All others can look elsewhere. That means you, men. I have no interest in you.

Telling it like it is

I'm the kind of guy who likes to tell it like it is. For example, when my friend Joe was about to quit his job and take a position with an employer who would have paid him less money for doing more work, I said " Joe, your wife is ugly." 

Obviously, Joe did not want to hear that his wife looked like a Pug at that time but someone had to tell him. Can you imagine if he switched jobs and found out from a stranger that his wife was a hideous monster? Thank God for me, I say. After all, he is my best friend and I couldn't just let him go on with his life oblivious to the fact that the woman he married should only be let out on Halloween night.

Sometimes I like to tell it like it is at the local mall too. "Hey you're fat," I'll say. "Do you really think a third hamburger will wash down all those Dunkin doughnuts? Keep this up and you're going to look like Joe's wife." But my grandmother can't hear me. I guess the fat has squished the passage in her ear drums now and prevents any sound from entering. It'll be a sad day when we have to bury her in a piano crate.

One place I will not tell it like it is is the therapist's office. That's when I like to lie and fabricate stories.  Like the time the doctor asked me if Joe knew I was sleeping with his facially-deformed wife. I told him that Joe was paying me $250 a month to keep his wife satisfied so he wouldn't have to go near her. And the stupid therapist believed it. Can you imagine?  $250! That's just crazy. He was only paying $100.

R.I.P.

Now that Joe the Plumber has a book coming out, I think I can finally put an end to this year-long dream of having my manuscript published. If an unlicensed, tax-evading, toilet dwelling bald guy takes precedence in the publishing world over me, an unemployed, alien-evading, rehab dwelling writer-guy, what hope is there?

On the surface, I have done everything right. I have learned a new word every day to improve my vocabulation (today it was ‘alas’). I have consumed enough alcohol to develop a level of cirrhosis that rivals history’s best writers. And I have even gone thong-less for 27 days straight in the hopes that renegade paparazzi would capture my “talent” and publish my exploits in Writer Monthly creating the kind of buzz that would make cash registers sing.

 But alas, it was all for nothing.

It seems as if publishers would rather hear about the trials and tribulations of cloggy u-pipes than the intrigue and excitement of mannequin stalking.

 What gives?

What do I have to do to get noticed? Do I have to start wearing my fuzzy Alf fanny pack again? Do I need to exchange my plastic I Dream of Jeannie slippers for something less comfortable but more conservative?  If you think having incompatible nipple colours would be enough in this day and age to set you apart from the crowd, think again.

If I owned luggage, I’d pack my bags and pursue my dream of becoming the world’s first pregnant man. What? Thomas Beatie did that already. 

Damn! One more dream that has  twirled down the drain of life.

Not President-Elect Terrence Paquet

Now that the proverbial dust has settled from the recent U.S. elections and Barack Obama has won the coveted prize, I have a bit more time to reflect on my own failed efforts to become the President of the United States. 

In hindsight, I guess there were many things I would have done differently; not the least of which is wear pants for the ENTIRE campaign and not just those moments when I felt the chilly outdoor temperatures would compromise the integrity of my "running mate".

I suppose the fact that I'm Canadian was a problem for some voters, but if an African -American can hold office, why not me, a crack-addicted, pop-tart-eating, welfare recipient hiding in the basement of ammunition store wearing a plastic Woody Woodpecker puppet on his privates and a cardboard Burger King crown on his head? Perhaps I overestimated the appeal of retro-marionettes and cutting-edge style in both the red and blue states.

Looking back, I also think I should have spoke English to potential voters. Maybe they would have understood what I was trying to say.  However, in my defense, I thought Aramaic would have appealed to all those religious folks that paid 10 bucks to see the Passion of the Christ.  Boy, was I ever D'+aLeM!

Finally, my campaign slogan could have used the skills of a good writer too. Apparently "Hopefully, I'll be able to" just doesn't have the same magic as Yes We Can. 

Live and learn I say.

Building the brand of me

As someone who "claims" to be a writer, I have recently implemented various techniques in an attempt to make myself appear intelligenter so that pedestrians who walk by me will know right away that I have more substance than famous writers like Suzanne Somers or Dr. Oz. 

Through crafty subliminal manipulation, my hope is they will rush out to buy my book (which does not exist yet) and not the literary trash of my contemporaries. 

As a regular reader of this site and someone who I have called Mother for the last 46 years, I will let you in on a few tricks of the trade that I have developed to help me attain  the aforementioned goal.  

First, but not least, I have Crazy Glued my forefinger and thumb to my chin so it looks like I am in perpetual deep thought. As many of you are aware, deep thought is a sure sign that someone is thinking deeply which, expressed another way means they are educated. 

(As an aside, this pose only works if you look up towards the heavens and flutter your eyelids meaningfully. Looking down conveys a sentiment of disapproval for someone's shoes and that is not the image we are going for here.) 

One word of advice to potential copycats: when you are using Crazy Glue be certain not to scratch anything until after you have washed your hands. I have it on good authority that skin is very sensitive in the genital area. Plus walking around with your hand stuck to your baby maker is unacceptable in almost every social circle I can think of.

But I digress. 

The second thing I do to let people know I am a writer without actually telling them involves alcohol.  No surprise here but, historically speaking, writers are drunks and I happily count myself among the scribes who lack in the healthy liver department. Of course, drinking a lot requires cash which is something I am in dire need of so I have become accustomed to licking wayward beer bottle caps I find on the street. It takes a lot of energy and time but the cost savings in these economically-depressed times are well worth the effort. Perhaps a book will come out of that hot tip?

Finally, I invested what little money I have in a t-shirt that says "I am Dr. Oz". 

I know I don't look like Dr. Oz, nor do I have his "alleged" experience, but anyone who isn't playing with a full deck or watched an episode of Oprah in the last five years won't know that. (I am talking to you prisoners.) By using his name, people will know I am a successful writer and doctor right away.  

To aid in the illusion, I have also acquired a plastic stethoscope from the kid next door which I wear around my waist. This adds credibility when I ask the above-mentioned pedestrians if they would like a "sidewalk physical". Although no one has accepted my offer to disrobe, I think it is only a matter of time before I snag my first subject.  Maybe if I had rubber gloves instead of my Bob the Builder mittens, I could seal the deal.