Maybe Barbi is Into S&M

A headline in Yahoo news grabbed my attention. It reads “Barbie ideal may be myth”.

Huh? Sorry, guys, but women are not plastic toys with big breasts and slim hips that you can bend in any direction. The fantasy may be there, but it is just a myth. I am sorry that Yahoo has to break the news.

First I get asked if I have a corduroy fetish, now I have been stopped a couple of times to be asked if I know where the rave was going to be? What is it about me makes people think I know where the rave is? Are corduroy pants the secret symbol indicating I am the person to ask for the location of the local rave?

It turns out I was close, after all. It was explained to me that my watch is the secret. I am wearing a watch that has the hidden meaning “I know the location of raves”.

Huh? I just went into a store and bought a watch.

I was also told my belt means I have marijuana. No, I don’t. Although I appreciate being forewarned as to why the cops will be following me everywhere.

What is this thing of wearing clothes to indicate secret messages? This makes me think of the outline for a romantic story:

As I glanced across the room, I saw her green poodle skirt and plaid earrings. I knew that meant she was looking for an older, ugly guy, just like me. I walked past and flashed towards her my fake Rolodecks watch upside down. She immediately understood I was interested. She didn’t smile, though, and I feared perhaps she I wasn’t her type. But then she removed her purple patent leather booth and tapped it on her shoulder, gently, three times. Alas, she was interested in exploring coffee and conversation, just so long as I understood that she was a woman who wanted to be loved by one man only, who enjoyed shoulder massages with chicken feathers, and wanted no more than three children and to live no more than a 100 miles radius from Manhattan. I removed my orange socks, and put on my yellow socks. At last, she flashed a smile, and I knew she indeed was interested in a man who was into corduroy, chicken feathers, and pizza at Lombardi’s. She changed her pantyhose into silver stockings. A white pizza woman, eh? I could live with that. I put on a purple sweater with glitter, letting her know that we should slip away for that coffee, and perhaps a bagel afterwards. She picked up her pinot noir, threw it in my face, and stormed out. That’s the problem with women today: we just can communicate.

I then read the Barbie article. It seems it was another Barbie myth that was being dispelled. The article stated that little girls do not play with their Barbie dolls. It seems they torture them. Well, that doesn’t surprise me. Women have been torturing men for generations, so they probably get their early practice with dolls.

Underneath that article is one reading “Kate Moss Is No Role Model.” What? Young girls DON’T want to grow up becoming anorexic cocaine addicts? Why should they when they can torture their Barbie dolls instead.

My New Religion: Jewish Scientist

I have made a religious conversation. I am now a Jewish Scientist. That is a fallen Christian Scientist. I used to be a fallen Christian Scientist, in that I would see a doctor. Now, I am definitely a fallen Christian Scientist. Instead of believing in the power of prayer, I now firmly believe in the power of complaining incessantly. Although, I regressed a bit, in that I no longer see a doctor. I now feel: oh vey, what good will that do?

I do think I have a higher tolerance than some others. I recall recently when I felt feverish and was vomiting, and I announced to the people at work “I think I might be coming down with something” and went back to work. Truthfully, I felt fine. Now, if I were really sick, as I don’t believe in spreading germs, I would stay home. But I felt fine. So, to feel even better, I then realized all one needs to do is complain about it, and like a miracle, you feel great.

Now, how to market this new Jewish Scientist religion?

That’s the problem with many religions today. They’re about marketing. That why Congregationalists are doing poorly. They don’t believe in icons, only plain white churches with very little on display. Today, too many religions increase donations through pageantry and glitter. But there’s money in it.

For marketing purposes, I could bring someone back from the dead. But enough about trying to resurrect Donnie Most’s acting career.

I like how a New Year’s Eve event announced it will be held “rain or shine”. So, if it rains, we won’t postpone 2006 after all?

The Amazing Kreskin’s mind reading show is getting so good, he now stays at home and vibes his entire act to his audience through mental telepathy.

If You See Me in an Australian Porn Video, I Can Explain

If you see me in an Australian porn video, I can explain.

Now that I have already had to explain my possibly being in a Danish porn video, I realize that I it is getting more and more difficult to explain how I may accidentally get into these situations. For those who missed my earlier explanation, when I did a tour for the TV show “Sex and the City”, a Danish film crew came along, which we thought nothing about. Suddenly, in the midst of the tour, the crew packed up quickly and left. Someone came over laughing and explained they thought it was a sex tour. They were not familiar with the television show. One woman was upset, because she had been asked by one of the crew, on camera, in broken English “how often do sex in the city?” She has explained they she “did” “Sex in the City” every Sunday at 9 pm, and that it lasts half an hour.

The Australian porn video explanation is at the end, because I am cruel and I make readers read to the end.

Recently, I did a quick two city book reading tour in Philadelphia and New York City. Both book readings struck me as unusual because it apparently never struck anyone that the object of these events, in other cities, is to sell books. At both events, the books were not available (although, to be fair, in one case, the book’s publishing had been delayed.)

The Philadelphia event was sad, because it was a group of readings in support of independent book stores. What the independent book store failed to realize is what the big chains know: you have to have books in order to sell books.. And, you need an audience. I quickly realized this was primarily authors reading to other authors. The authors wore name tags. I surmised I was just about the only person in the audience without a name tag, and after failing to correctly answer the question as to what book I have written, I felt out of place. I was there to buy books, and the authors were reading from their books but had not brought their books to the book store (which, rumor has it, sells books) to sell. The author of a particular book I wanted to read offered to send me the book for free. I declined, stating that I wanted to support authors, and he need not do that. After awhile, as news began circulating that the Bush Administration was infiltrating suspicious radical groups without a warrant, and being the only person there who was not a book author (scripts and humor doesn’t count), and we all know the Bush Administration fears anyone who writes or thinks, I felt more and more out of place as the authors prodded me for more information for their background checks. I quickly fled for New York.

The New York event had the right idea: hold it in a bar. Get the patrons drunk and then sell them some books. Again, though, there were no books to be sold (although I did get an author to sell a copy she had in her pocketbook: I was definitely returning with at least one book from this tour). The book readings were fun, and an Australian video operator was at the event. He stated he was representing a fetish film maker, since the readings included fetish themes. (During the break, I was asked if I had a corduroy fetish because I was wearing corduroy pants. I must admit: I have never been asked that question before in my life. I was wearing corduroy because there was a transit strike and it was freezing. Although, if there are corduroy fetish people out there, I am willing to sell photos on me wearing my corduroy. Contact my agent. I might even be available for some plaid shirt and overall photos.)

The video camera kept taking shots of me, which make me feel self-conscious as I was sitting alone and probably looked like a lonely corduroy fetish freak. So, people in Australia, please don’t judge us solitary corduroy pants wearers. We’re human, too.

I am not sure exactly what an Australian fetish film is like. Yet, if it winds out that, like my Danish experience, this is another porn video, let me repeat: if you see me in an Australian porn video, I can explain.

Ode to John Lennon, Had He Lived

Number 10.
Number 10.
Number 10.
Number 10.
Number 10.
Number 10.
Number 10.
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Number 10.

If You Can Read This, You Are Fine

The news reports that a woman went skydiving, her parachute malfunctioned, she hit the ground at 50 miles per hour, survived, and during the medical examination it was discovered she is pregnant. What did she do: collide with a stork on the way down?

A person was shot by a police officer because the officer thought the Bible he was holding looked like a gun. I told the Bible publishers that the gun shaped Bibles were a bad idea.

Eleven million Americans are illiterate. If you can read this, you are fine

My Dying Thoughts...For Real (Read All the Way Through)

I have not posted for awhile, but I have a good reason. I died. It seems that dying limits your ability to post on the Internet. The things I learn from dying. This posting may not be as funny as my usual postings (it seems death narrows the scope of what remains funny), yet, for readers who follow the story to my last thought, they may discover a rare glimpse of the journey into the afterlife (which, for most entertainers, means a life of game shows and lame commercials.)

My death began when I made the mistake of attempting to have a rational conversation with an irrational person. Yet, let me start at the beginning. I went to a theme restaurant to recall if it was suitable for a friend and her daughter to visit. I had been there years ago and recall that it was nice, silly place where the staff dresses up in costumes and walk around telling lame jokes. I went alone, placed my hat onto a chair, and ordered. At that point, a woman in costume as a 19th century wench announced to everyone that there was a lonely man (me) dining with his only friend in the world, a hat. She then went to another table where a gentleman was dining with three very attractive women and informed the man that he had too many women and that he should share one with me. She grabbed one of the women and placed her at my table.

It seems the gentleman did not mind as his women were,,, let’s say available for lunch conversation for a price. She gave me her card. I told her I wasn’t interested in paying for conversation so she left.

After suffering the embarrassment of a public announcement of dining alone, I later decided I would eat dinner alone in my hotel room. I survived a long line to pick up some shrimp bisque and a drink. Unfortunately, as I placed the drink onto the counter to pay for it, it exploded and it spilled all over me. It seems someone as a joke had punched a hole in it. The woman at the cash register threw it away. I asked if I could get another drink. She said yes, but I would have to go to the back of the long line all over again. That did not seem fair to me as it was not my fault someone had sabotaged my drink. She then charged me for the drink. Now, here is where I state one cannot have a rational conversation with an irrational person. I tried to explain she shouldn’t charge me for a drink that was faulty when they sold it to me and that she has thrown away without my consuming it. Her response was that she didn’t know if it wasn’t me that put the hole into my own drink. Well, I asked, since you charged me for the drink, why did you throw it away and not let me keep what I had paid for. She responded she is not allowed to sell tampered products.

I went back and since I had spelled drink all over me and I needed to change for a shower before going to a play, I removed my clothing in my hotel room and had dinner. Fuming over being charged for a damaged product I did not receive, I quickly began to have some soup. It is interesting how, in just a fraction of second with the first sip of shrimp bisque that my brain could quickly process all of the following information: the soup, while still good, was missing some of the spices and flavoring that the establishment used to offer and thus was not as tasty as their soup used to be, and that they should add a warning to their shrimp bisque “Shrimp can be a choking hazard.”

I could not breathe. Fortunately, I know the Heimlich maneuver and I know how to self-administer it to avoid choking. Yet, in my panic, I never thought of this until a good half hour later. My panic response was to attempt to regurgitate. After several minutes, I realized this was not working.

I recall the feeling of losing consciousness. I remember my last thoughts before I died. I think a person’s last thoughts can be useful illuminations. Not mine. My last thoughts were: the police report is going to read he was found dead alone, naked, throwing up into a toilet, with a hooker’s phone number in the trash. Elvis Presley had a more dignified death.

Fortunately, at that moment, the shrimp dislodged and I survived. So, I live to post more. And to figure out an even more undignified way to die.