Tag Archives: humor

Ten (and a Half) Things I Learned from This Week’s Episode of New Girl, Entitled “Normal”

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Who said television can’t be educational?

 This week on New Girl, Jess brought her new Silver Fox boyfriend, Russell, into the fold, by  letting him play with her Nick . . .

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Also, Winston got a new job.  And Schmidt  . . . um . . . got laid some more . . .

But this isn’t a recap.  It’s a “teaching post.”  So . . . let’s get down to learning, shall we?

(And don’t worry.  I promise there won’t be a quiz, afterwards . . .)

Lesson Number One: A corn holder (So, THAT’s what those things are called that hold your corn!  Clever!) can double as a Gentleman’s Shiv!  Talk about getting a good bang for your buck!

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Lesson Number Two:  Is your sink or toilet bowl acting up?  Just stick a bat in it.  And hit that bat with a frying pan.  Works like a charm!

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Yeah . . . because THAT doesn’t look phallic at all . . .

Speaking of phallic . . .

Lesson Number Three: Putting your balls in someone’s milkshake is apparently a “Guy Thing” that I wouldn’t understand . . .

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(possibly because I lack balls . . .

. . . and am occasionally lactose intolerant.)

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Lesson Number 3 and 1/2:  I guess I should probably take “typing” off of MY resume . . .

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What about “blogging,” guys?  Is that still cool?

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Wait . . . don’t answer that . . .

Lesson Number Four:  Nick has an Idea Book, which he really hopes no one will ever steal.  *clears throat, winks suggestively*

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Lesson Number Five: In other Nick Miller News – 1/8th Cherokee . . . who knew?

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He’s my TV Boyfriend.  I NEED to know these things, OK?

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Lesson Number Six: Apparently, there’s this amazing new drinking game out there called True American.  And now, I know how to play it.  (Actually, New Girl didn’t really teach me how to play this game.  But the lovely folks who took the time to write the rules down on Wikipedia did!)

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Lesson Number Seven:  This is REALLY the most surefire way to win True American.  (But it’s probably more fun for the loser than for you . . .)

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Of course, with any luck, you’ll be too drunk to care . . .

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Lesson Number Eight: When Kareem Abdul Jabbar fears for your life, you should be afraid .  . . VERY afraid.

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And NO, he will not let you sit on his shoulders . . . (no matter how politely you ask).

Lesson Number Nine:  This one is for all you guys out there.  I’m looking at YOU, Nick Miller.  If you want to be Jess’ lover, you have to get with her friends.  (And, yes, that IS a Spice Girls song.)

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And finally . . . (drumroll please)

Lesson Number Ten: Who needs Vacation Days, when you can have Sexcation ones?

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And there you have it . . . Ten and a Half things I learned from this week’s episode of New GirlWow . . . shortest . . . post . . . ever.

Consider yourself SCHOOLED!

Until next time, my fellow New Girlians!

 

[www.juliekushner.com][Fangirls Forever]

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A Letter from Chuck Bass to Blair Waldorf, written after he watched the Gossip Girl episode “Cross Rhodes”

My Dearest Blair,

Letter writing . . . it’s a bit of a lost art, don’t you think?  For me, there is just something so personal about putting pen to paper . . . gradually baring my soul to you, with each florid flick of my pen.  To know that you are holding my thoughts in the tips of your long elegant fingers . . . it’s kind of erotic, really.

Then again, you and I have always been a bit old fashioned, haven’t we?

More in some ways, than in others, of course . . .

Generally, I don’t watch much television.  My responsibilities as a prominent New York hotelier don’t afford me much in the way of free time.    And when I do watch, I’m frequently unimpressed.

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Just this past week, Nate convinced me to join him in a viewing of an episode of The Jersey Shore.   I spent most of that hour of my life (which I will never get back, by the way) trying to adjust the television screen.  I was about to call the cable company to complain about the poor picture quality.  But Nate assured me that the characters on the show really do have skin that color . . . a fact I found unsettling, to say the least.

That said, Monkey and I have recently gotten into the habit of watching Gossip Girl, together, each week.

Between you and me, Monkey has become a bit of a prima donna, since his debut on the show.  He insists that the producers only film him on his right side.  Every once in a while, you will catch a shot or two of Monkey taken from the left.  When this happens, Monkey always grabs my cell phone in his teeth, and rushes to call his agents in my bedroom.  There’s always a lot of loud barking going on, on those nights.

Anyway, I’m writing this to you, to discuss some things that happened during the “Cross Rhodes” episode that greatly disturbed me.  Aside from the parts of the episode that featured yours truly . . .

. . .  I’d say my favorite part of the episode was the one that featured you and Serena fighting at the breakfast table, after Dorota locked you in the dining room together.  You looked stunning as always, dear Blair.  And part of me was very much hoping that you and Serena would amorously wrestle one another on the table, amidst a shower of breaking glass, flying bits of fruit cocktail, and of course, lots and lots of bacon.

That would have been incredibly arousing . . . though, since Serena is my sister, I would probably have to refrain from looking at her during the battle, and only look at you.  No problem . . .

Also, I must say that having seen the fur vest to which Serena was referring in her insult of your wardrobe choices.  I must say, that I patently disagree with her assessment of it.  I thought you looked smashing in that vest.  Then again, you would look smashing wearing nothing but a paper bag, or better yet, a roll of red-tinted plastic wrap . . .

I’m going to refrain from remarking on the fact that the two of you were arguing over that boring, brillo-pad headed, puff pastry, with a passion for wearing cheap flannel, otherwise known as Daniel Humphrey, for the time being . . .

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Speaking of the Donut, Monkey and I were particularly exited to get to the part of the story, where the Upright Citizens Brigade skewered Dan’s novel.  After all, if there is any book in the world that deserves a good skewering, it’s the Dair fanfiction commonly referred to as “Inside.”  (Dan’s proposed second novel, The Manhattan Monarch, on the other hand . . . now THAT sounds like a good book!).

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I was especially interested in seeing which dashing young gentleman they would cast as the brilliantly, witty, but ulimately tragic, auto-erotic asphixiator,  Charlie Trout.  But alas, that aspect of the performance was never shown on screen.  For what it’s worth, I’ve always pictured Charlie as a swarthier Ryan Gosling, or, perhaps, as that talented little Brit, Ed Westwick . . .

That said, I thought the Brigade did a nice job casting that hairy mountain man with the slight speech impediment as Dan Humphrey . . .  Granted, he was a bit more attractive, and charming, than the real Dan.  But isn’t that always the case with Hollywood casting?

As for the girl they cast as a stand-in Serena, she was a bit shorter and rounder than I would have liked, but she did manage to catch many of Serena’s trademark mannerisms . . . most notably, her patent inability to brush her hair, and the fact that she likely shares her wardrobe with Mary Kate Olsen . . .

Regarding the casting of your character, there is no way that Lola girl, could hold a candle to you.  And you are right.  That headband she was wearing was an insult to headbands everywhere, certainly to the caliber of headbands you wore on your pretty little head, back in high school.

So, of course, Monkey and I were thrilled to learn that Lola had to back out of the show (though we’re sorry that Cece had to die for the sake good art), and that you were ready and waiting to take her place.  After all, no one does Blair Waldorf, like Blair Waldorf.  You know that, better than anyone . . .

Prior to the actual play, we did get to see you offering some acting tips to the woman who was to play you, which I think was a very kind gesture, on your part.  I think you were absolutely right, when you described any kiss that would exist between you and Dan Humphrey as “perfunctory.”  I couldn’t have said it better myself.  (Though the words “nausea-inducing” also immediately come to mind.)

Then, of course, I became very worried for your safety, when Humphrey tried to eat your face, like a hungry zombie, closing in on an exceptionally tasty brain, after weeks of going completely unfed.

The way your hands haphazardly grasped at various parts of that Donut’s body led some viewers to thing you were “caught in an arousing moment.”  But I could see that you were actually fighting for your life.  I was about to call 911 on your behalf, until Monkey reminded me that this show is pre-recorded . . .

Fortunately, Serena arrived to distract the zombie from his brain-eating attack.  And you promptly ran into the streets after her, in hopes of escaping infection by the undead and personality-free.  Monkey and I cheered, when this happened.

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I must say, I didn’t understand much about the argument you had with Serena, shortly after she rescued you . . . something about squashing your emotions like a bug.

I seem to remember once, back in high school — the first time I admitted to you that I might be harboring romantic feelings for you — you told me to murder the butterflies fluttering in my stomach.  In that case, I’ll take your seemingly random comment as a clandestine acknowledgement of our everlasting love.  Message sent and received, my darling, Queen B.

When it came time for the actual show, there was a ridiculous moment, in which the Serena character relayed to you, an experience in which Humphrey supposedly came to watch you read some essay you wrote in the fifth grade. She said this, even though you and Dan Humphrey did not attend the same school, during that time.  (He was in public school . . . poor boy.).   Also, I might add, you had no idea who the f*&k Dan Humphrey was until high school.

It was a charming story in the way syphillis is charming, despite it’s being completely untrue.  And I guess your response of “Dan loves me for me,” was supposed to be funny.  The Upright Citizens Brigade is meant to be comedic, after all . . .

Now, I certainly can’t  fault Humphrey for falling in love with you, Blair.   You are perfect, in every way.  You know that.  The question is, what version of you does Dan love?

Does he love the strong, powerful,  incredibly ambitious, and often manipulative, woman, who used to stay up nights with me, planning and scheming?  Does he love the Queen B, who ruled the halls of Constance Billard High School, with an iron headband?

Does he love the woman I helped to become the perfect prom queen?  The one who helped me build my empire, and pulled me back from the brink, after my father’s death?

Does he love the first woman to whom I said those ever elusive three words and eight letters?  The woman who enjoys the finer things in life . . . posh hotels, king sized beds with soft sheets made of Egyptian cotton, in ridiculously high thread counts . . .

. . . a designer wardrobe,  eating tasty macaroons . . .

. . . indulging in the kinkiest of foreplay, playing dress-up, and, of course, limo sex?

Or does he only love you, when you are at your most vulnerable and broken  . . . a girl on the run, hiding from a life she never wanted, and pretending to be someone else, so that she doesn’t have to face the nightmare that her world has become?

I wonder . . .

But then you ran out the door again, and I assumed you must be having PTSD flashbacks of Zombie Dan eating your face . . .

When you arrived at the hospital to support Serena in her time of need, I wished I could be there for you.  But Monkey and I were too busy plotting world domination, and my limo driver couldn’t get across town in time.  Yet, I did call you.  And the words you said to me, were statements I genuinely took to heart.

You are absolutely right, Blair.  Being a good person, is more than just being kind to you . . .the woman I love more than life itself.  Being nice to you is easy . . .

. . . The real test of reformation is being benevolent to all of gods creatures . . .

. .  . even dull, squishy-bodied, slugs like, Dan Humphrey.

And thanks to your powerful words, I vow to be an all-around more decent person, in the future, Blair  . . . even to those who are less fortunate than myself . . . or at least have less fortunate hair . . .

Then, you told Humphrey you had real feelings for him, and I started to wonder whether, perhaps, he had chewed out a portion of your brain, after all . .  .  I plan to have an in-depth conversation about this with my neurologist, later today.  It’s a good thing you decided to stick around the hospital.  Impromptu surgery might be in order . . .

Until then, I pray for your speedy recovery.  Don’t you worry, though.  I’m not going to make a Pact with God, on your behalf.   Because that would just be ridiculous . . .

Forever yours, with deep and abiding love,

Charles Bass.

P.S. Dan sent that video of us declaring our love for one another on your wedding day to Gossip Girl.  If you ever want to get revenge on his ass for pretty much ruining your life, you know who to call  . . .

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What Lost’s Jacob’s “Candidate” Job Opening Might Have Looked Like, if He Posted it on Careerbuilder.com

Those of you who watched Lost’s penultimate episode, “What They Died For,” last night (which was excellent, by the way), already know that, during it, the “mysterious and godlike” Jacob finally selected Jack Shepard as his “Candidate” to replace him on the Island. 

(And, for those of you who were surprised that it ended up being Jack, I have GOOD NEWS for you!  I am in the process of selling the Empire State Building for dirt cheap!  If interested, please send a check in the amount of $1 million, made payable to TV Recappers Anonymous, at  . . .)

Yeah, it was kind of predictable (and by “kind of” I mean “very”) that Jack would take the reins as “Guarder of the Light Thingy.”  And yet, while many of us viewers immediately surmised that this would ultimately end up being the case, Jacob, himself, was not nearly as quick on the uptake.  In fact, it literally took this dude CENTURIES of bringing people to the island and watching them die senseless deaths, to solve, what was essentially, a Human Resources Issue.

But all of this could have been avoided, had Jacob simply took advantage of modern hiring technology.  (After all, we already know the Island has internet access . . . ) 

So, just for kicks, I thought it might be fun to see what a “Jacob’s Candidate” job posting might have looked like, had it actually been placed on a job search website, like Careerbuilder.com.

Employer: Jacob

Job Title:   “Protector of the Light”

Location:   Undisclosed, but we call it “The Island”

Employee Type:    Full Time (And I’m not talking a 40 – 60 hour work week, either.  I mean REALLY full, like you will do ABSOLUTELY nothing else, for the duration of your life.)

Manages Others:    Nah, we killed all the “Others.”  Except for maybe, this guy.

Job Type:   Security, Godliness

Experience:   No prior experience necessary

Salary:   Non-applicable (Your “payment” is the pride of knowing that you have been chosen over centuries of other less worthy applicants, you ungrateful turd.)

Benefits:  See “salary” description above.  But you are more than welcome to all the fish .  . . and polar bears that you want to eat.

To be honest, we haven’t actually SEEN a polar bear around these parts since Season 1.  But that’s OK.  It just means more FISH FOR YOU!

Duties:

1) Keep the Man in Black from “entering the Light”

2) Keep the Light from going out

3) Keep the Man in Black from killing you

4) Find more suitable replacement “Candidates,” just in case you fail to do items 1 through 3

5) Smolder, brood, and generally try to look self-important ALL THE TIME.

Requirements:

1) A crappy home life a MUST!

2) Nonexistent or minimal sex life . . . unless you are this guy . . .

In which case, screw all you want!

3) Daddy issues

4) God complex

5) The ability to run quickly, and cover long distances, when chased by a polar bear or puff of black smoke . . .

Transportation:  Last time we checked, there were three ways of transporting one’s self to the island.  They are: (1) plane or jet crash;

(2) shipwreck; or

3) submarine

Please note:  Here at the Island, we do not cover your relocation expenses.  However, should you arrive at the Island via means 1 or 2, you may ultimately be able to have your travel fees reimbursed, as a result of a class action lawsuit begun on your behalf.  There is no guarantee of your actually receiving such reimbursement, however, as most people in the outside world are probably going to think you are DEAD.

So, what are you waiting for?  Apply Now!  Your violent and untimely death FUTURE is just a mouse click away! 🙂

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An Excerpt from Life Sucks, Death Bites: A Novel by Julie Kushner

Food Mart, Inc.                                                                                                                                             

2 Metro Corporate Drive                                                                                                                      

 Los Angeles, CA 90001                                                                                                                       

Attn: Fred Thompson, CEO

Dear Mr. Thompson:

I’m not usually the type of person who writes letters like the one you are reading right now.  OK, that’s a lie.  I’m exactly the type of person who writes these sort of letters.  But that is not really the point . . .

“The point” is that my most recent experience at one of your Food Mart stores (62 Blueberry Hill, Los Angeles, CA 90015) was particularly harrowing.  No, “harrowing” is not a strong enough word.  “Downright terrifying” is more accurate. 

 It was like something out of that awful horror movie franchise.  You know, the one where that crazy guy with the creepy mask, whose name I can’t remember (Bulls Eye?  Puzzle Piece?), makes people choose between doing something truly awful to another human being or dying an excruciatingly painful death.  Of course, you couldn’t pay me to watch such a movie.  So, I’m afraid that I cannot be much more specific than that.  But I think you catch my drift . . .

Anyway, as CEO of Food Mart, I believe that you have a right and a duty to know what is going on at your stores.  Furthermore, as a consumer, I believe that I have a right and a duty to make you aware that at least one of your stores just so happens to be a toxic death trap.

This past Sunday, around 8:00 AM Pacific Time, just as your store was opening, I drove to Food Mart for my weekly purchase of groceries.  Upon arrival, I exited my car, only to be attacked by a vicious shopping cart. Said shopping cart was clearly on the loose and out for revenge, against what I don’t know. (Perhaps it was angered about being shackled to such a dangerous, ill-kept store). 

Owing to the fact that it was a windy day (weather.com said winds could reach speeds of up to 50 mph that Sunday), and that none of your associates thought it worth their precious time to return said cart to its rightful holding pen, located mere inches away, the Errant Shopping Cart flew right into me at a frighteningly fast speed (50 mph?).  By some miracle, the cart narrowly missed squashing my body into the side of my car, arms and legs akimbo, as if I were a large fly.

Have you any idea how many fatal accidents have been caused by shopping carts in the past year alone, Mr. Thompson?  I’ll spare you the specific statistics.  But, rest assured, there were a lot . . . 

You see, I am in the business of evaluating risk, so it is literally my job to know these things.  If I told you what I actually did for a living I would have to kill you.  OK, that is a lie too . . . the “having to kill you” part, I mean, not the “risk evaluation” part.  I just always wanted to use that cliché for some reason.  But I digress.  Let’s get back to the Toxic Death Trap, shall we? 

Upon regaining my composure (In addition to almost dying, my morning brush with death nearly gave me a heart attack.), and selecting a shopping cart other than the one obviously intent on murdering me, I entered the store and hastened toward the vegetable aisle.  You see, I’ve kind of been trying to lose a few pounds.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m fat or anything, just . . . plump . . . chubby . . . overweight.  And, as far as risky behaviors go, being any of the three aforementioned things is probably right up there with bungee jumping, riding a motorcycle, or going hunting with Dick Cheney.

So I get to the vegetable aisle, and what do I see?  This teenage girl, with long, obviously unwashed hair, is fondling the tomatoes with her unclean hands!!!!  I stood watching the girl for nearly five minutes.  In that time, she must have slimed every single solitary Food Mart tomato with her greasy fingertips. 

As if that wasn’t bad enough, she then starts having this really loud grotesque- sounding coughing fit.  So, there she is, sort of covering her mouth, but there are these little gaps between her fingers.  You can actually see the phlegm and mucus escaping right through them, coating the tomatoes with a sticky layer of germs (probably the Swine Flu or the Bubonic Plague).  After that, she goes back to fondling the tomatoes . . . AGAIN!

Now, to my knowledge, this woman was not an employee of Food Mart.  At least, she didn’t appear to be wearing one of those red smocks they always wear (which, by the way, always give off an unlaundered look).   But, nevertheless, shouldn’t there be some sort of policy against patrons of Food Mart touching unwrapped food with their bare diseased hands?  Studies have shown that our hands are the dirtiest parts of our bodies.  (You would think it would be our asses or our private parts, but that’s actually a common misconception . . .)  If, by 8 AM, Food Mart tomatoes have already been contaminated with the plague once, lord knows what state they are in by noon, or 5 PM.

Needless to say, I avoided the vegetable aisle completely after that.  I mean, I guess I could have sprung for one of those pre-packaged overpriced salad bags.  But those things are so riddled with pesticides and growth hormone that you could hardly call them nutritionally sound.  And my physician wonders why I can’t lose the pounds . . .

Suddenly overcome with an intense urge to wash my own hands, I finally located the “Employee Bathroom” in the corner of the store, but only after asking about five people where it was and getting no answer.  (So, let me get this straight, Food Mart doesn’t have public restrooms?  Better that your customers feel free to shit and vomit on the floor, after inevitably being taken ill upon eating bad tomatoes, right?)

In addition to smelling like the fetid armpit of a marathon runner, and being “unisex” (I despise unisex bathrooms because I am deathly afraid of tampons and the women who use them.  I mean, really, what kind of perverted SOB would invent such a thing?  A blood flotation device . . . on a string . . . beyond disgusting), there was so much dirt, empty rolls of toilet paper, and sanitary napkin wrappers (a bit better than tampons, but not much) on the floor  that I thought I had somehow landed in the flatbed of a garbage truck instead of a non-public restroom in a very public establishment. 

As I entered the bathroom, one of your employees was flushing the toilet (at least he flushed).  However, when he went to wash his hands, I noticed that he turned on the cold water (not the hot water, mind you, which is necessary if you want to actually kill any germs on your hands) for only 5 seconds.  FIVE SECONDS!  That is barely enough time to find a working soap dispenser (2 out of the 3 in this bathroom were completely empty), let alone thoroughly clean your hands prior to the preparation and handling of food.  Physicians say you should wash your hands for at least 20 seconds (roughly the length of time it takes you to sing the Happy Birthday song twice through) in order to properly cleanse your hands following a stint on the toilet.  After this encounter, I knew I had to avoid, not only the vegetable aisle, but any unwrapped food prepared or handled by members of your staff.

Despite coming to Food Mart with a shopping list that was two notebook pages long, I arrived at the checkout counter with just a six-pack of Charmin Ultra Strong toilet paper (less likelihood of leakage), a tube of Crest toothpaste, and a package of pre-wrapped Hersheys miniatures: three items (eight, if you count each of the Charmin rolls separately, which, I don’t).  Either way, I was significantly under the 15 item limit required to use the Express Checkout Lane. 

Apparently, however, I’m the only Food Mart shopper capable of counting, because the four people in line in front of me each had a shopping cart full of at least 16 items.  One person had 32 items.   I know because I counted them . . . twice.  Instead of politely directing these cheaters to another aisle, YOUR cashier proceeded to ring each of them up . . . very . . . slowly . . . one . . . item . . . at . . . a  . . . time.

To make matters worse, each of these patrons waited until the person in front of them had paid in full and exited the store to unpack their groceries onto the conveyer belt.  And the person before me purchased, you guessed it, among other things, seven diseased tomatoes that she didn’t even bother to put in a plastic bag prior to paying.   She then spread her items out on the conveyor belt, so liberally, that there was no room for my items at all (not that I could possibly use the grotesquely tainted belt now).  When it came to be my turn, I had to rush to unpack and bag my items (What?  No one believes in having bag boys anymore?) so that I could be finished in time for the next person to be rung up.  It was very stressful. 

By the time I exited Food Mart that morning, I felt like I needed a stiff drink.  But I abstained, because it was only 8:30 AM, and I am not foolhardy enough to drink and drive. 

So you see, the way things are now, I cannot possibly continue to shop at Food Mart if I wish to maintain my health and sanity.

Thank you for your attention to these matters.  Hopefully, they can be dealt with in an efficient and expedient manner.

                                    Cordially,

                           Gerald Blumenstein


Chapter 1

Happy Death Day to Me!

Risk Assessment Analysis:

Odds of being killed by lightning:       2,320,000 to 1

Odds of being killed in a plane crash:            52.6 million to 1

Odds of dying in your shrink’s office during some ridiculous therapy session involving a vampire bat:      Actually, that kind of shit tends only to happen to me . . .

            “Hey there, Mr. Blumenstein!  How was your day?”

            Every evening, when I return to my apartment building, the concierge, i.e. the lanky pimple-faced pubescent son of my landlord, asks me the above question, in his trademark faux – cheery, sounds like he’s been kicked in the nuts a few too many times, voice.  On most days, I refuse to answer this inquiry, because, personally, I find it offensive.  Now I know some of you readers out there are probably thinking I’m rude for snubbing Little Jimmy over there, who, after all, was just trying to be polite, right?  Make “conversation”?  Well allow me to explain myself.

              On principle, I resolutely refuse to respond to any question where the asker doesn’t give two shits about my reply.  Am I supposed to believe that Little Jimmy is truly concerned for my well being?  That he is actually expecting me to provide him with any sort of response to his question other than “Fine and Dandy.  How was yours?”  Because, honestly, most of the time, my days are total and complete crap. 

              But does Little Jimmy want to hear about that?  Does he want me to tell him all about the fact that I am nearly forty, and haven’t had sex in six years?  That my boss hates me?  That I’m a massive disappointment to my family?  No!  Little Jimmy wants me to lie, and I refuse to perjure myself for some snot-nosed kid.

                     And yet, on this particular day, circumstances have unfolded in such an extreme way during the past twelve or so hours, that I decide, just this once, to answer Little Jimmy.  And to his inane question, instead of merely grunting or simply ignoring him, like I usually do, I respond, “Well, aside from being brutally murdered, my day was pretty fucking fabulous.”

                  Now, technically, this too is a lie . . . well, the part about my day being fucking fabulous, at least.  My day, quite literally, sucked.  Nevertheless, this was the answer I gave Little Jimmy, or whatever the twit’s actual name is, just to see how he would respond.

                  “Ha, ha.  Good one, Mr. Blumenstein,” squeaks the boy wonder.  “You have a great night,” he chirps after me, as I head across the lobby to the elevator.

                  See what I mean?   You try to impart an important piece of personal information to someone, and all they do is laugh in your face.  Sighing, I reach into my messenger bag, pull out a tissue, secure it tightly over my pointer finger with a rubber band, and enter the already open double doors of the elevator, which, thank the Lord, is empty.  With my covered finger (Did you know that nearly 15% of all elevator buttons are covered with human feces?), I press the number 6, which responds to my command by lighting up.  Or at least it would, if my dipshit landlord ever got around to fixing the elevator.  Instead, the elevator door closes and I ride in utter and complete darkness for six floors, which I mind less today than I would under normal circumstances.

                 By the time I enter my apartment, I am dead tired (har de har, har).  Upon removing the tissue from my finger, triple locking my door, and fastening the chain across it, I then bend down to put my “doorstop” (a six by four inch cement block) in front of it.  Seem a bit excessive to you?  Did you know that the odds of having your apartment broken into by a gang of hoodlums are as small as one in 1,000?  And if that was to happen to me, who do you think would come to my rescue?  My 84-year old neighbor, Ms. Tingle?  My dipshit landlord?  Little Jimmy?  I’d rather take my chances throwing out my back (which I’ve done about five times since I moved in) with the cement block.  Thank you very much.

                           My apartment safely secured, I slouch dejectedly in front of the full- length mirror situated in my entrance foyer.  Staring back at me is a pasty, prematurely bald (although, I gather, once you pass thirty the “premature” label is debatable) paunchy loser in an ill-fitting suit.  “Still ugly,” I mutter under my breath at my mirror image, who, having taken offense to my comment, glares back at me as if to say “Pot calling kettle . . . “ or, whatever the heck that saying is supposed to be. 

                      For the record, all those movies and books that would lead you to believe that people who turn into . . . what I turned into . . . suddenly become all “Brad Pitt” in the looks department are a crock of shit.  That is unless, of course, you are Brad Pitt, in which case, more fucking power to you, I guess . . .

                    Without passing Go or collecting 200 dollars, I head directly to my bed and flop down on my mattress fully dressed.  But I can’t sleep, because my head is spinning and the wooden headboard hovering over me makes me feel as though I am sleeping in a coffin, which, while apropos of the situation, disturbs me greatly.  Thirsty, I head to my fridge, and take a swig of milk straight from the carton (which is actually statistically shown to be more germ free than glassware, especially if you live alone like me).  Even though the expiration date on the carton is still over a week away, the milk tastes rancid, so I spit it out and spill the contents of the carton into the sink.  I then pop open a can of non-name brand soda (I’ll be damned if I have to pay over a dollar for a can of pop when the fifty cent cans are just as good), but it tastes terrible too.

                  Resolved to my fate, I reach into my messenger bag and remove a bulky mason jar I received earlier that evening from Dr. Freenly.  Taking a deep breath, I open the jar, close my eyes, and pour its entire contents down my throat.  The red liquid is warm and thick, but it feels good going down.  So good, that I don’t even mind it when some of the liquid trickles down my chin and chunky globule lands on and ruins my brand new shirt.

                    Once I have finished, I forlornly rinse out the empty jar and place it with the rest of the recycling.  To my relief, I recall that Dr. Freenly has placed two more jars of the stuff in my bag.  I extract them and place them on my counter, staring at them in confusion. 

               Am I supposed to refrigerate these?  I think to myself.  Do NOT Refrigerate! reads a handwritten label hastily secured on one of the jars.  After putting the two jars away in a nearby cabinet, I slump down into a chair in front of my kitchen table and begin to ponder my last hours among the living . . .

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