Interview Alert

Today I was interviewed by Mark Goren, friend, co-worker and owner of Planting Seeds. 

You can read the entire interview here...

The cat

If Sarah thinks that curiosity killed the cat, who am I to argue with her. To me, its just one less person I have to explain the fur on the fender to.

The choice is hard

If I was given the choice between being a young writer with little life experience and credibility or being an old writer with lots of money, fame and respect, I would choose to be the young writer because at least I wouldn't have erection issues.

Down boy

When my dog died I was faced with a dilemma: Should I plan an elaborate funeral, proper burial and appropriate tribute to my best friend? Or should I just continue on our walk as if nothing happened?

No comment

At this time, I have no comment. 

Please do not ask me anything about this matter, because the whole story is a non-story as far as I am concerned. I will not be answering questions from the media at this time.

For the sake and dignity of all parties, I have chosen to remain silent on this matter. I will say that it is no one's business what I was doing with the hippopotamus, so, like I said before, no comment. 

It is important to state that this is a private and personal matter between me, my wife and the San Diego Zoo. I only ask that you respect my family's privacy, the hippo's privacy and the privacy of the gorilla that was watching us in the neighboring cage. I would, however, like to apologize to the Grade Two class of the Garden Oaks Elementary School for any misunderstanding I may have caused. It was not what you thought.

I have no other comment to make. I will only say at this time that the pictures in yesterday's paper do not accurately reflect the complete story. Regardless of what I was doing or not doing, the hippo was not in any pain as the angle of that shot may have led readers to believe.  I am also much better looking in person.

At this time, I just want to be left alone to deal with this matter properly, so I have no further comments to make. It is important to state, however, that the goat costume I was wearing did not belong to me. In fact, I do not know how I ended up wearing it. This is as much a mystery to me as it is to you. 

I also have no comment to make on the large quantities of Hippopotamus lubricating jelly found in my trunk. I do not know how that ended up there, so no comment. I will say that I lent the car to my neighbor, Ray, the day before so maybe he had something to do with it. If it helps any, Ray has a criminal record so maybe you should be asking him questions. Ray also likes to sleep with prostitutes and cheated on his taxes last year, so don't be so quick to judge me, when there are others who should be looked at more closely.

I guess what I am trying to say here is I have no comment. 

Thank you for understanding.

I am writer

Today I have decided to give in to two of the voices in my head (Regis and Tito, if you must know) and make an appointment with a Career Assessment Adviser to see if I have what it takes to become a serious writer.

I realize I am a little bit late in the game for this, since I have already had business cards printed up that say Terrence Paquet, Serious Writer, but better now than never.

Fearing our meeting might turn ugly if she tells me I am not cut out to be a writer who is serious, I place a chewed-up pencil with a worn down eraser behind my ear to subliminally tell her that I am a nervous writer who erases a lot of mistakes - in other words, serious. For the record, I have also stuffed my pants with a rolled up gym sock (not mine) and a 5-inch replica of the Eiffel Tower, which says that I am both athletic and cosmopolitan.

Our time is filled with plenty of emotional discussion about my strong moral values, my deep belief in Christianity and my talent for kleptomania.

50 minutes in to the assessment, I realize I have been spilling my guts out to Shirley, the receptionist from the office next door. I suppose the fact that she was constantly answering the phone during our "session" should have been a tip-off, but you know what they say about hindsight. 

By the time I step into the real adviser's office, I no longer feel like talking, so I stare out the window avoiding her questions but doing my best to look "writer-ish", meaning scrunching my forehead as if I was in deep thought and looking inebriated. 

The jabbing pain from the Eiffel Tower in my groin area becomes too unbearable so I cut the meeting short. Surprisingly, she still charges me for a full-priced session. I take solace in the fact that I am paying for this with Shirley's credit card so all is not lost.

As I drive home in a Toyota Corolla (Shirley's, not mine) the pencil falls out of my ear and hits the miniature replica of the world famous monument nestled up against my warm genitals.

It makes a clinking noise on impact.

For me, the sound represents the voice of an angel telling me that no matter what Regis or Tito say, I am a writer. And the rash that has developed from the viscose sock is also the angel telling me to switch to cotton.

Call me Keiko

In my three-tiered quest to build the brand of "Penis", help underprivileged children around the world and support my crack habit, I have come to the realization that I should be a little more exotic if I am to take advantage of the cash-rich immigrant market. 

My instincts tell me that these people will not be very inclined to buy a book written by a middle-aged white man no matter how good a writer I know I are. 

Therefore I have decided to change my identity to a 25 year old Japanese woman - a more appealing persona that is certain to earn me respect from the masses and get attention from the Japanese-loving producers of Oprah. 

To begin my transformation I have requested that all of my family members now  call me "Keiko Natsuki" which I am told by reliable sources means hung like a church mouse. 

I have also changed my work ethic from one hour of drunken, rambling, free-form scribbling in the morning to 23 hours of non-stop labor with no bathroom breaks. (The people from the  Guinness Book of World Records should be calling any day now.)

For visual effect, I have started wearing a silky kimono - a more comfortable alternative to my usual uniform of Saran Wrap pants and Garden Gnome party hat. An added benefit of this fashion shift has been the discovery of breezy updrafts on the genitals.  

If this new writer look doesn't work, I have a Gondolier's hat and fake mustache waiting in the wings. After all, how many many famous Venetian writers are there?

A letter to Bob Guccione

Dear Mr. Guccione,

In a previous post I referred to you as a peddler of smut. I would like to take this opportunity to sincerely apologize to you. Rest assured I meant no harm by this and was simply trying to indicate the unique qualities of my book title (My Penis and other short stories) to potential publishers. 

Just between you and me, I am a big fan of your magazine and its innovative use of cucumbers, anacondas and French maid outfits. It is certainly far more interesting than that crass, self-serving octogenarian, Hugh Hefner could ever hope to accomplish.

Perhaps you would be interested in interviewing me for your magazine? I think my story - a struggling  short story writer struggling to overcome the struggles of writing short stories - would make a compelling read for the many animal rights activists, clergymen and circus folk who regularly read your magazine. I'd be okay with a nude pictorial too, as long as you gave me enough prep time to tend to my rash.

Anyways let me know, I'll be waiting for your reply!

A letter to Hugh Hefner

Dear Mr. Hefner,

In the previous post I called  you a crass, self-serving octogenarian. I apologize for those remarks because I now understand those 'labels' have the potential to cause friction between you and your three wives who may not have been privy to the fact that you are close to 100 years old. (For what it's worth, when the light is just so, you don't look a day over 85.) 

To make amends, I would be more than happy to talk to your lovely better halves (quarters?) at the next Playboy Mansion Party and clear up the matter. I would also be happy to 'beef' up your image with any of the other Playmates and celebrity leeches in attendance. 

As you know, I am on the verge of becoming a world-famous author so having me at your party portrays you as someone who has his finger (however arthritic it may be) on the pulse of new and upcoming talent. Plus, I already have the pajamas so there would be no extra expense on your part.  

Just so you'll know, I did not receive my invitation yet, but I suspect this is due to the incompetent, shoddy service of the U.S. Postal Service and not your fault. Just the same, if you could check into it on your end and get back to me, I'd be eternally grateful.

Sincerely,

Terrence Paquet

Author of My Penis and other short pieces

Style King

This morning I woke up and realized that the paparazzi had installed themselves across the street from my trailer home. They were disguised astwo guys in a pick-up truck drinking beer. Although I have been expecting them for some time now, their presence had posed a fashion dilemma for me because I ran out of clean bolo ties last night. 

As one who thoroughly understands the importance of fashion in our celebrity-obsessed culture, I knew I needed a combination of clothes that would convey my serious side as a writer and still show them that my years of incarceration and therapy have not made me bitter or delusional. 

For the record, I chose an orange-colored head scarf which I wrapped around my arm as a symbolic gesture to show my support of Home Depot's low price guarantee.  I had also taped a tin pie plate to my head which brings to mind things like America, apple pie and wholesome - this accessory is certain to earn me points with pie-eating Americans - a much-coveted market for publishers and advertisers.

Finally, in the spirit of Britney Spears and Paris Hilton I decided to forego the underwear. However, I still felt the need to protect my genitals from the harmful effects of UV rays and flash bulbs so I covered myself with an old Burger King puppet.

I am hoping this clever move will lead to some kind of endorsement deal, so if there are any representatives from the 'Home of the Whopper' reading this, feel free to contact me. 

Richard

When  Richard discovered that the hair growing out of his scalp was pubic, he finally realized why his nickname was dick head.

An apology to Herve Villechaize

Dear Herve,

In a previous post, I asked you if you would be interested in working for me as I travel the around the world promoting my book. I have just been informed by someone in my entourage that you are no longer breathing. As you can well imagine, this puts a serious crimp in my plans. 

Just the same, I would like to apologize to you for the inconvenience my post and the comments within may have caused. 

On a related note, I was wondering if I could have my shoe coupon and Verne Troyer growth chart back, since you have no need for either. 

I was also wondering if you could supply me with any memorabilia from your Fantasy Island days that I could sell on EBay to support me in my quest to become an international has-been.

If you could autograph it, even better, as that would increase the value, earn me a bit more money and buy me a little more time to keep this dream alive.

Let me know soon.

Regards,

Terrence Paquet

A letter to Jean Claude Van Damme

Bonjour Jean Claude Van,

As you may know, I mentioned your name in a previous post entitled "A Message to Arsenio Hall" in which I wondered if he was "washed-up" as a performer like you. I meant no harm in this line of questioning so please do not take offense to what amounts to simple curiosity of his whereabouts. 

For the record, I have always been a big fan of your movies including... um... well... the movie that you starred in with... other actors... the one where you fought someone.... or something....  Anyways, I'm sure you know your movies better than I do. 

The point I'm trying to make is I am selling a book here and I'll do whatever it takes to achieve my 15 minutes in the spotlight. I'm sure you can understand this. So if you feel slighted by my inference that you are a washed-up French nobody, relax. I meant no harm. It might be a language thing. Plus you are probably old now so attempting to karate kick me to death might result in a hernia or hip replacement. Both of which could harm your eventual return to American television on shows like Washed-Up French Celebrity Rehab, Dancing with the French Has-been Stars or Fat Farms of the Flash-in-the Pan Stars.  

Stunt Man

As literary history has shown, launching a book is all about whipping the media into a frenzy so today I have come up with an ingenious marketing stunt in which I have wrapped myself in aluminum foil and barricaded myself in the house. I am not sure what the significance of the foil is, but it is flattering to my figure and will protect me in the event of an alien attack. 

Far from being a selfish manipulation of the press, I want this act of defiance to draw worldwide attention to the trials and tribulations of all people who are writing a book with the words "My Penis and other short pieces" in the title. I am hoping that the public will rally to their aid and donate much-needed cash to enable them the opportunity to enjoy the simple things in life like caviar, lobster and large homes in the hills of Tuscany.

For the record, it has been three hours since I pushed the fridge up against the front door and surprisingly not one police cruiser has come yet. I guess I probably have to call them, although that might seem a little desperate and go against the public persona I have worked so hard to construct. 

I did call CNN but got an answering machine so I left a message for Wolf Blitzer. 

I'm still waiting for a reply. 

A letter to Merv Griffin

Greetings Mr. Griffin,

As you know, I made a reference to you in an earlier post as a less-popular talk show host.  I apologize for this faux-criticism. I only did it to stroke the ego of Oprah Winfrey and convince her that I am worthy of a guest slot on her show. As an aside, someone in my entourage has just informed  me that you are dead. I did not know this and would like to take this opportunity to apologize to you, your family and friends for my indiscretion. One question: If you were alive, would you book me on your show? If your answer is yes, I will use it as more ammo in my efforts to persuade Ms. Winfrey. 

I'll be waiting for your reply!

A letter to Arsenio Hall

Hello Arsenio,

I just wanted you to know that when I referred to you in an earlier posting as a less-popular talk show host (along with Merv Griffin), I only did so with the intention of boosting Oprah's ego. Media reports have led me to believe that she is very fragile and I am only doing what I believe is necessary to earn her respect and get an appearance on her show so I can sell my book. Please do not take offense to the faux-criticism. I have always enjoyed your show and count myself as an honorary member of your "dog pound". One question: Do you still work in show business? Or have you gone the way of Gary Coleman and Jean-Claude Van Damme? Just curious. 

The new elements of style

Although she has not contacted me yet, I know it is just a matter of time before Oprah (as in Winfrey) comes to her senses and realizes (if ratings mean anything to her) that she needs to book me on her show soon... before other less-popular talk show hosts like Merv Griffin or Arsenio Hall cash in on my eventual fame.  

Anticipating a call any day now, I am already thinking about what I should wear for such an event. When it comes to book sales, image is everything so I wouldn't downplay the importance of my fashion forethought. 

To illustrate my flair for trends and to show my serious side as the thinking-man's scribe, I have settled on the haute couture-inspired combination of Indian Headdress, purple suspenders (an homage to Larry King) and white sport socks. 

I'm just not sure whether pants will be necessary... or appropriate.

 

I shall wax just in case.

Another question from another reader

With the launch of the book getting closer and closer, the media (as you know) has been ramping up their coverage of what one outlet described as "the next great literary masterpiece for our times." That type of praise has led to a barrage of letters and postcards from fans around the world who want to know more about My Penis. In the interest of satisfying curiosity and yes, boosting book sales, I will, from time to time,  answer your questions. Here is one from a little known city in Europe called Germany:

"I just want to tell you that I love My Penis. Any plans for merchandise to support the sales?" - Gunther F., Stuttgart, Germany.

Yes. Thank you for asking. Initial pre-sales figures and market data so far point to a huge Mexican fan base, so I am currently putting the finishing touches on a line of colorful Penis Hammocks that should hit the website in early April 2009 just in time for Cinco De Mayo. 

Also in the works is the 2008 "My Little Penis" disguise kit which focus groups show will have massive appeal with children between the ages of 3 and 6 and pedophiles between the ages of 27 and 65.

An open letter to Oprah

Good day Miss Winfrey,

 I don't know if you remember me but I sent a query letter a few days ago asking if you'd be interested in reading my book called "My Penis & Other Short Pieces." 

As you may or may not remember, I placed the letter in a box with a freeze-dried rat in honor and celebration of the Chinese New Year. Even though we are both not of Oriental origin, I thought you might enjoy its earthy odor - and glass eyes. You might be interested to know that I freeze-dried it myself - a hobby I partake in from time to time when I am not writing or spending time with my girlfriend, Betty Rubble. 

I would like to add that I was also the one that called your home and left 2 or 37 messages, I can't remember how much exactly. Not sure if you got those. I guess you're busy.  

Anyhow... have you had the chance to read an excerpt from my book? If so, would you be interested in talking about My Penis on your show? I would be deeply grateful since the mere mention of My Penis flowing from your lips would drive book sales through the roof. 

Of course, I know that there would be no reason for you to do this without actually getting anything in return so I am willing to send you an 8 X 10 color photograph of myself - fully clothed or not, your choice - for FREE! You can keep it on your night table, stick it on your fridge or sell it on EBay when my celebrity has reached full peak. I have no problem with that.  

Anyways, I'll be waiting. Right here. By the phone. And because it will be a special occasion when you call, I will be wearing pants. Let me know if you'd like an advance copy too. I can get you one at cost. 

That's a savings of over 45%! But only if you act now. 

P.S.: I loved your work in The Purple Color!

You're going to be big one day!

Controversy = $$$

If you take a look at the best-selling books over the last 20 years, it becomes obvious that the most effective way to generate sales is to create controversy. Google Dr. Phil or Salman Rushdie if you don't believe me. Unfortunately, in my case, all the stories I have written so far are about cute kittens, kind grandmothers and  happy days spent at the local community center helping those less fortunate. 

Hardly controversial subject matter. 

I blame this on pro-life activists, proponents of gay marriage, Catholics, Muslim extremists and the foreign policy of the Bush administration.

Helping Oprah

In anticipation of my upcoming appearance on The Oprah Winfrey Show (date to be confirmed when Oprah acknowledges my existence and I am released from penitentiary) I have decided that I would like to make her job a little easier. 

As many of the big celebrities in Hollywood do, I have compiled a list of questions she can ask me during our interview.  

As you'll soon see the objective is to showcase my palpable wit and burgeoning intelligence to the thousands of Cougars who watch her show every day. The hope is that it will lead to massive book sales, a teary reunion with my long-lost brother (currently a hobo) or a wedding proposal from Heidi Klum. If I can achieve just one of those then my pre-planning will be justified. 

QUESTIONS FOR OPRAH TO ASK ME:

1.

First of all, welcome to the show. I just want you to know how much Steadman and I loooooove My Penis. It's the last thing we enjoy before we go to bed. What's it like to be worshipped by so many Americans?

NOTE: This is where I thank her and Steadman, give my witty answer and maybe even jump on her couch and profess my love for Angela Lansbury in public. When the audience calms down, Oprah will ask:

2.

How long have you been working on My Penis?

NOTE: Between you and me the whole book took three days to write, but I'm going to tell her 7 years to make her think I am perspicacious (whatever that means??). 

At this point in the show, I suggest that we break for a commercial so Oprah can have her make-up adjusted and I can have my testicles feather-dusted with Chinese talcum powder. 

We will return from the break with this show stopper:

3.

How long have you worn a nipple clamp?

NOTE: Between you and me the answer is 7 years, but I will tell her three days to make her think I am impetuous.

After a long, uncomfortable, uneasy, deafening silence, Oprah will ask me this gem:

4.

Why are you stalking me?

NOTE: Even though I scripted this question, I will wait until the words leave Oprah's lips before I even think about the answer. I may jump on the couch again and profess my love for Emmanuel Lewis but I'll wait and see if the audience is warming up to me or not.

Finally, in a cunning attempt to boost her ratings, Ms. Winfrey will ask me this final question:

5.

You have to be the finest white boy I have ever set my eyes on, will you marry me?

NOTE: Of course I won't tell you what the answer is, but I will probably show her my ass tattoo to let her know exactly what she has in store "if" I decide to go ahead with the wedding.

Stay tuned!

Questions from readers

In my continuing effort to shed light on the book I have written entitled "My Penis & Other Short Pieces", I have decided to answer another question from one of my faithful fans. 

Are there any hidden meanings in My Penis? Gordon Rimrock, New Orleans

Most writers of my importance like to write intriguing subtext into every plot twist, which will motivate the reader to embark on a magical journey fueled by the hope of uncovering the veiled references and concealed viewpoints so cleverly hidden in the literature. It is truly part of the pleasure reading brings.

Admittedly, I wasn't going to say anything about it, however since you have been so kind to include a naked picture of yourself holding a handmade poster proclaiming  your love for My Penis, I will let you in on one secret about the book.

Between you and me, one of the chapters (I won't say which one) was written with an English accent. The illusion I was hoping for was one of an erudite linguist. I had planned on keeping it up throughout the entire book, but after a few pages I felt I was beginning to sound like a pompous ass so I switched back to my native Swahili twang.

Old news

As far as I can tell, there are no good stories about old people, so I think it would be a good career move to corner this untapped niche market.

I believe a good tale would involve something that had to do with their unconditional love and life wisdom. On second thought, a better story would be about how they like to give younger people money for no reason at all. I suspect they are so free with their riches because they know they are going to die soon and they want to stick it to the tax man one last time. Or they are going senile and have lost all sense of money's worth.

Of course, if I wanted a story that was more magical, I could always write something about the myriad of aromas they produce ranging from moth ball to urine.  I could even draw on my experiences as a youngster when I would sit behind my Grandfather's lazy boy at night. Just as he and his sphincter had fallen asleep, I would try to guess what he ate for dinner. My instincts would prompt me to yell out borscht, but most times it was stew or pizza pockets. 

I guess a good literary title for that story would be The Changing winds or Breezes from Yesteryear, but I'm open for suggestions.

Focus

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

It's genital-free day!

This morning I was going through old posts admiring my wit and folly, and it occurred to me that I have been using the word genital much too often. 

Some may attribute this obsession to the mixed messages I received as a youngster when Sister Mary Margaret told me touching myself was dirty and Father O'Leary told me it was good. 

Others might say it has to do with the fact that I have been self-medicating for the last 8 years. 

Nonetheless, in the interests of providing my fans with a new experience every time, I am declaring this genital-free day at My Short Pieces! This means I will not use the word genital at all... starting now. 

As an added bonus I will refrain from exposing my you-know-whats to pedestrians on Main Street, Elm avenue, 34th, Jefferson road, Hill Circle, Lakeview blvd., College Road, Oak Drive, Pine Avenue, Park, Crescent, Lexington, High Street, Maple and Cardinal street. 

I do maintain my right to expose my attributes on Martin Luther King Drive and Filbert Road as my thingamajigs still require a minimum amount of air.

Tips for writers

When I suffer from writer's block, there are certain things I like to do to get my creative juices flowing. 

First on the list is shave my back. In the early days, this was always a fun thing to do because I refused to use mirrors, lights or shaving cream, so I never knew what the final outcome was going to look like. Sometimes I got it all, sometimes I didn't. 

Nowadays, I have become more artful as I am able to create logos out of hair patches and scabs (Not bragging but the Starbuck's sign is my best work to date.) 

If I am still uninspired after this and my writer's block has not passed, I will get on the phone and randomly dial numbers asking for someone called Mitchell. I do not recommend this as it could take days, especially if the name you choose to ask for is not a popular one (Hint: John or Susan is better than Clay or Fabio). 

In any case, I will dial and dial and and dial until a Mitchell finally answers. When he does, I hang up right away because I do not know this Mitchell guy. And quite frankly, after spending 89 hours on the phone, does he really think I feel like talking? 

Next, if no ideas for stories come to mind, I will don a police costume, go to the local mall and set up a table at the entrance. When shoppers come in I will tell them that someone reported a shooting in the Gap and I must conduct a strip search. Most times people are offended and scurry off.  Other times they willingly remove their clothes. 

After I have frisked them, I often get an idea for a story that usually revolves around a police officer with a hairy Starbuck's logo on his back who interrogates a naked shopper only to find out that the guy's name is Mitchell.

Writer's block gone.

God

When God finished his sermon, he headed towards the door hopping on one foot, shaking his head up and down, waving his left arm in the air and twisting his torso as if he was twirling an imaginary hula hoop.  

He really does move in mysterious ways, I thought.

Employee rules

1. Employees must wash hands before returning to work. 

2. Employees must look clean and presentable at all times. 

3. It is forbidden to smoke in the washroom area. Masturbating is not a good idea either.

4. It is forbidden for employees to remove clothes and shower in the sink. 

5. It is forbidden to do laundry in the sink or toilet area. 

6. Hanging wet undergarments in the stalls is also not allowed. 

7. It is forbidden to wear a hockey mask, hide in a stall and 'surprise' the customers when they walk in. (This means you Bill)

8. No matter how funny it may be, it is forbidden to cover the toilet seats with cooking grease and film the customers as they slip onto the floor. Okay, maybe we'll let this one slide.

9. It is forbidden to wash bloody utensils in the sink.

10. Stabbing, spitting on, intimidating and/or petting the customers not allowed. 

11. Washing vegetables in the toilets? Don't even think about it.

12. Speaking in tongue not allowed.

13. Speaking in French is okay.

14. Wrapping yourself up in toilet paper and pretending to be the Michelin Man is forbidden.

15. Asking customers if they did number one or two is forbidden. Not your business.

16. Asking customers if they would "like a doggie bag for that", not allowed.

17. It is forbidden to write messages on mirror with blood.

18. It is forbidden to lick mirrors. Toilets too. Customers okay.

Thank you for your cooperation. 

The Management

Writer vs button

As I was getting dressed this morning, it dawned on me that being a writer is not as bad as it seems. Sure there is no pay, no fame, no readers and no book deals, but it could be worse: I could have chose button as my profession. 

I imagine the stress would be unbearable. 

For example, if I was a button on a pair of pants, the lives of the fabric, zipper and pockets would all depend on me because if I was too hard to 'operate' (in other words if I was too big for the hole I was entering), the customer would get frustrated and look for another pair of pants that was more user-friendly. 

Before you know it, word would get out about how difficult I was as a button. Then the store manager would get fed up with my inability to satisfy the customer (totally my fault), reduce the retail price and slap me on the bargain rack. 

Believe me, nothing would be more embarrassing because the high-priced sweaters and popular t-shirts would probably laugh at us.

Besides who wants a job where your very existence hangs by a thread.

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.

Thank you for your order

Thank you for your order. We hope you enjoy your purchase.

Please allow four to six weeks for delivery. Make it ten, just in case. 

Please be advised that some settling may occur during shipment. Some breakage too. If the item you received does not match the item you ordered, that's strange.

If someone named Benny delivers your package,  do not make eye contact. If you do make eye contact, how come you didn't listen to us? 

If he asks for a glass of water, get him one, but lace the water with some kind of chemical that will knock him out so you'll have time to get away. Check our catalogue for products like that. 

If he asks to use your phone, tell him is it not working. Just pray the phone doesn't ring after you've said that because he doesn't like liars. If he asks to use your washroom, then let him, he really does have to go. 

If he asks you to sign a release form, do so, but don't use your real name. We suggest Mitchell Cartwright or Stewart Flink. If you sign Stewart Flink, Benny may become enraged because Stewart owes him $150. He also slept with Benny's wife last October. Go with Mitchell.

If someone named Simba delivers your package, do not make fun of his large ears. Also, do not make elephant noises when greeting him. Do not give him a bag of peanuts as a tip because he may get mad and trample all over you. And finally, do not ask him to stand on his hind legs and throw his "trunk" in the air. He won't like that.

If the delivery man's badge says Tom, do not be fooled, it is really Simba.

Once again thank you for your order. We hope you enjoy your purchase.

You can't fool me

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. 

Duck

If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and looks like a duck, then it must be a duck. Unless it's holding a bloody axe, then it's probably a crazed madman in a duck costume.

Looking back

Sometimes, I think how wonderful it would be if I could go back in time and undo all of my mistakes. 

Like that day I locked Mrs. Jenson in the closet and told her I had misplaced the key and then I went and sold all her personal belongings for one dollar in a garage sale. Boy was her family ever angry at the funeral! 

I guess my mistake was only asking for a buck. I could've probably got at least five times that.

Or the day I decided the nuns at St. Mary's Convent would benefit from seeing a real man's thingy (not mine). I presumed once they saw how disgusting it looks they would be even stronger in their resolve to serve the Lord.  Wrong! 

How was I to know Sister Theresa and Sister Anita would go crazy like that, leave the church and become permanent fixtures at the local tavern? 

Talk about your hindsight.

Of course no recollection of mistakes would be complete without mentioning that time I stole a Pizza Hut car and delivered pizzas to the Dorm girls at the Community College wearing nothing but a cabbage leaf. Lets just say they were not too impressed.  I hope they enjoyed their "special" toppings though. At least the delivery man was able to free himself from the trunk the next week.

The morning I urinated in the coffee at work would be on my list of mistakes I'd like to fix too. Who knew a yeast infection could be transmitted through watered-down java? 

What am I, a doctor or something?

Looking at it all now, I guess my biggest mistake is owning up to all of these mistakes right here. Unless this is not really me talking and just some deranged guy who grabbed my laptop when I went to the toilet and is trying to implicate me in stuff I clearly did not do.

If that's the case, I'll get him back as soon as he takes that first sip of coffee.

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.

Stop the car

The best time I ever had with my Dad was the day he sat me in his lap and let me "drive" the family car around town. I remember he wrapped his big, strong arms around my waist and told me he was my 'seat belt'. Wait a minute,  that wasn't my Dad, that was my driving instructor!!!!

Mixed feelings -#1 in a series

When they discovered Santa's rotting corpse stuck in my chimney today, I had mixed feelings. On the one hand, I'd be able to use my fireplace again. On the other, no gifts this year.

Who are I?

Whether they come from the coasts of California or hairless nether regions of Brazil, many of my fans have been asking themselves one question: who the hell does this Terrence Paquet guy think he is? To that I would usually answer Lord Fauntleroy of Kingsbury. 

But that tight-wearing period of my life is all behind me now as I have matured into a modest man with a modest collection of well-written, short stories who just wants to live modestly in a large, auditorium-sized villa (modestly furnished, of course) in a gated-compound protected by modest, blood-thirsty Dobermans. 

A man who wants nothing more than to enjoy the simple pleasures of the unpretentious countryside of Umbria, whilst I savor the pedestrian pleasures of modest lobster, unpresumptuous caviar, and humble champagne culled from the modest vines of my modest, private vineyard in the country of France... as my wife and children frolic in an Olympic-sized, heated swimming pool filled with Perrier water (that I purchased on sale). 

A pool that meekly sits next to the Wimbledon-inspired tennis courts, across from the maid's quarters, on the south side of land, away from the quarter-horse stables and non-descript, city-sized amusement park. Which will, of course, be located behind my own private, yet humble and modest shopping plaza staffed by beautiful b-list celebrities who will cater to my every whim and desire. Humble ones, of course.

Is that too much to ask?