THE BROTHEL BUS: A CAUTIONARY TALE

Well I am just devastated.
Read it and weep:

MIAMI (Reuters) - A "brothel bus" that detectives said cruised Miami Beach offering lap dances and drinks has taken its last ride, police said on Wednesday. Riders were offered oral sex for $100, according to Miami Beach police who impounded the limousine bus and arrested its operator early on Sunday.

The sleek black bus cruised the South Beach neighborhood popular among tourists and club-goers, offering rides and unlimited drinks for $40.

Aboard, undercover detectives said they found a fully stocked bar and several young women who stripped down to reveal G-strings stuffed with cash and offered to perform sex acts.

Suspected operator Christine Morteh, 29, was arrested on charges of offering to commit prostitution, transportation for the purpose of prostitution and operating a business without a license. She was released from jail on $5,000 bond.

This sucks for many reasons:

1. Aren't we all suffering enough with these high gas prices? Here we have a wonderful, energy-saving carpool option, and now it's been shut down. If this type of intolerance continues, we will be slaves to foreign oil forever.

2. Must we attack this delightful female entrepreneur? Statistics show that women still only earn 85 cents to the male dollar. We should be supporting this innovative businesswoman and her energy saving, carpool/blowjob service.

3. This "brothel bus" reminds me of the Gold Club van that used to cruise around Buckhead in Atlanta, looking for drunken horndog conventioneers to scoop up and transport to the Gold Club's whipped cream-basted-nipple-baring environs. Since I did not have a driver's license, and lived within walking distance of the Gold Club, I was more than once tempted to climb aboard. It seemed like a practical way to get home on time to catch Sanford and Son reruns on TVLand.
But alas, fearful of drunken horndog conventioneers, I never did.

And then poof! A few arrests and several court dates later, the legendary Gold Club was gone, just like this Miami brothel bus.

Moral of this story?
If you see a seedy, nudie bus zooming about--carpe diem!
It may not be there tomorrow...

DEN OF SPIES

Why is there a dashing photo of Roger Moore on today's Peon Confidential?
Two reasons:

1. I am a member of a very tiny minority: I think Roger Moore is the best Bond. Consider he took over in the 1970's, when Sean Connery's brand of swaggering, macho, Cold War sexuality was quite antiquated. Moore injected some humor into a role that could have become extinct otherwise. I love how he never took himself too seriously. Plus, there were times he was forced to scamper around the globe in some dubious 1970's attire. Connery, who was consistently decked out in gorgeous Saville Row suits, never had to wrestle with such sartorial indignities. Not such an easy task, and Moore wore it well.

2. The next Mama D's Arts Bordello, which is slated for October, is going to be a spy theme. So I am putting it out there:

If anyone has a short film, a short story, some great dance moves, wants to sing a Bond theme with a kazoo accompanist or is itching to offer up any type of art that would fit in with a spy theme--let me know!

P.S.
ROGER MOORE IS THE BEST BOND!

WHAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF...

Yesterday I came home from work to find a beautiful surprise.
Carefully encased in a bubble wrap envelope, someone had sent me former CNN anchor turned self-help guru Daryn Kagan's inspirational book entitled, "What's Possible!" (Note the exclamation point in the title. That really drives the concept home, doesn't it?)

Enclosed was a card which simply read, "Dare to dream, Saara!"

I cried tears of joy.
For years I've lived in the shadows of my desires. Too shy, too fearful of the consequences of daring to dream.
But now with Daryn Kagan's help, I can and will achieve my goals. No longer will I shuffle through this life unfulfilled.

Thank you, Peon Confidential reader, for sending me this treasure.
And thank you Daryn Kagan, for saving my life. By following your example, anything is possible...

Even sex with Rush Limbaugh.

PLASTIC TWEETY: THE REAL ME

I've been working on a few short stories about my bizarre early childhood in Hawaii. This means I've been sorting through family photos to jog my memory. Most of them are ripped, like the one above. Why? Because my parents split up and my dad pursued a new life of haunting Honolulu discos with a bleach blonde Pan Am stewardess. In a coked up state, this disco queen decided it would be an excellent idea to rip up the majority of our family photos.
Not sure where my father was when she was doing this. In my more cynical moments, I imagine he joined in.

The weird part is--sure we had some negatives, but for some reason, we never developed them.
My mother felt our family history was more authentic this way--ripped, yellowing, scotch taped together.

When I came across this photo, I smiled because although this one was taken on Halloween, I used to wear this costume all year round. I don't know why but I loved that plastic smell and the idea that I was wearing a costume when everyone else was stuck wearing boring clothes.
And then it struck me:
This is EXACTLY the image I have in my head when people say: "How do you see yourself?"

Whenever I try to look sexy on the dance floor...
Whenever I try to be sophisticated in a restaurant...
Whenever I try to be professional at a business meeting...

It is ALWAYS this image that comes to mind:
My chubby belly pressing up against this stupid Tweety Bird costume in the middle of June.
I am always ridiculous, juvenile and slightly absurd.

I often wonder if any political despots, sex symbols, and Wall Street titans have similar images in their heads.

IF YOU HAD JUST ONE SHOT...

Alright:
We're approaching the season of blockbuster summer films.
This inevitably means we are subjected to bombastic voiceovers proclaiming:
"If you had just one shot..."
Or:
"They had just once chance, one moment, one opportunity..."
Or:
"This moment would never come again, he had to seize it now or never..."

But seriously...
I'm asking all of you.
Have you ever felt like that? Have you ever believed that if you fucked up this one opportunity your life was over?
Maybe it's because I'm a writer and not an athlete, and I get rejection letters left and right (yet I keep plugging way) but I have never once felt that I had just one shot.

Am I alone here?

GOVERNMENT STIMULATION

So, I've been reading a few articles implying that George Bush's stimulus check strategy has not exactly been the economic lubricant he'd visualized. Far from flooding the malls with their Bush lucre, Americans seem to be spending this money on necessities like food and gas. New York Senator Chuck Schumer even said,

"It's galling to think that taxpayers' stimulus checks will be lining the pockets of OPEC. The sad truth is that the average American family will spend almost their entire stimulus check on higher gas prices this year."

Well Chuck, that may be. But I've heard of at least one American who is spending his stimulus check in a way that would make our forefathers proud...

While at work yesterday, a co-worker burst into the room all aglow. "I finally got my stimulus check!" he announced with Rocky-style fists in the air. "I'm headin' to Chinatown tomorrow night for a massage. There's this unbelievable woman there who gives a happy ending that makes you cum like a mother fucker."

Now that's what I call economic stimulus. With one government check President George Bush has provided a hard working young man with a hand job and a masseuse/hooker with a few extra bucks for her next Valtrex prescription. This is Trickle Down Economics at it's finest.

Uncle Sam, I salute you.

THE SASQUATCH GODDESS

I've received quite a few e-mails from quite a few out-of-town Peons, asking how the last Mama D's Arts Bordello was.
Answer:
Fantastic.
But with one caveat...
There were a few nerds in the audience who apparently have a problem with burlesque.
So:
To anyone thinking of attending the next Mama D's, which is a sexy spy themed show:
If you can't handle nudity, if you can't handle yummy women shaking their asses for you---stay home.
Seriously.
I mean it.
Stay the fuck home on your boring sofa and watch boring Law and Order.
We don't need you pissing on our good time.
If you come to the bordello, you WILL see nudity.
You will also have fun. You will drink too much. You may even get a hard on.
Newsflash: IT'S A BORDELLO!

Anyway-
For anyone who wants to read the Jackie Collins homage we created at the last Mama D's, I am providing you with a link.
I'm very proud of it, and very proud of the bordello.
All the nerds can kiss our naked asses...

THE SASQUATCH GODDESS

B.O. MYSTERY

New Yorkers--how about this fucking heat wave?

Actually, it seems to have let up a bit today. But I fear we're on track for a brutal summer. So I have a question about the hot city nights. Perhaps there are some scientists out there who can answer this one:

Last night I was walking home from work, through the smelly concrete sauna that is my fair city. I walked past Japanese restaurant employees having a smoke, packs of cellphone-addicted teens ordering street meat, and a few robust women squatting down to clean up their dog's shit.

However, while sauntering across a block that had no one on it, nary a pedestrian--I suddenly stepped into a vast pocket of B.O.
I looked up, down, all around and could not find anyone who could have been the culprit. I even sniffed my own armpits, but I was not guilty.

So how does a pocket of B.O. get trapped in the muggy atmosphere like that? How could it just be suspended in midair for me to stumble upon and sniff?

How?

ASSORTED VEGA$ PHOTOS

Well,
I finally received some photos from the former CNN peon pal who caused mischief in Vegas with me.
I am only posting a few--but I believe these photos capture the true heart of Vegas:
Cheap buffet food, matching denim jacketed tourists, the romantic gondolier, and Blue Man Group photo ops at the Venetian.

MAMA D'S ARTS BORDELLO PRESENTS: GUILTY PLEASURES

Tonight's the night!
Twinkies, fake blood, boobs, booze and delicious prose!

What more do you want out of your Tuesday? Get over the the Parkside Lounge and hang out with Mama D and the gang as we indulge our guiltiest pleasures...

DATE: Tuesday, June 3rd
TIME: 8pm
PLACE: The Parkside Lounge
ADDRESS: 317 E Houston St
SUBWAY: J, M, Z; F at Delancey-Essex; V at 2nd Ave
COST: 8 dollars

MAID GETS PAID (AND THEN SOME)

This story baffles me:

TAMPA, Fla. (AP)
A nude maid is accused of really cleaning up at a Florida man's home. The Hillsborough County Sheriff's Office said a 50-year-old man hired the maid from the Internet on Friday to clean his Tampa home.

Authorities said the woman arrived at the home in a one-piece, light colored dress. She took off the dress and cleaned the house for $100-per-hour. Sheriff's office spokeswoman Debbie Carter said the man told deputies he left the maid alone in the bedroom to clean.

When the man's wife came home from vacation, she discovered $40,000 in jewelry missing from their bedroom.

Now:
If you're paying a woman $100 bucks an hour to clean in the nude, I'm gonna assume you aren't actually looking for a sparkling clean home. You're not doing the white glove test. You're not sniffing the air for that "pine fresh scent." The point is to sit there and masturbate while she bends over and pretends to dust under the bed.

So why was she cleaning ALONE in the bedroom? You could hire some dull, unattractive, clothed maid to do that for a lot less money. What was this idiot doing while a paid stranger was cleaning the bedroom, alone, in the nude?

And where does a nude maid store $40,000 worth of stolen jewels?
(I know, I know...The obvious answer is "up her twat". But $40,000 worth? Those are some fine tuned Kegel muscles.)

I'd love to see how hubby is spinning this to his wife. Chances are he's shelling out a whole lot more money for a whole lot more jewels.

PERPETUALLY PRESENT

Just woke up and read this:

CONSTANTINE, Mich. (AP)
Andria Baker has pretty much always been present. From the first day of kindergarten through her last day of high school, Baker somehow made it to school for every day of classes, despite colds and sports injuries. Why? If she kept it up, her father promised her a car.
Baker kept up her end of the bargain, willing herself to go to school on those days when she felt under the weather. She notched her 13th year of uninterrupted classroom attendance with her final day at Constantine High School on Friday. At a party Sunday, her father, Tim, presented the young woman with the keys to a new, $17,000 Pontiac G6, complete with a "0 DAYS" personalized license plate.

You know what my reaction to this is?
What a huge waste of teenage opportunities.
And I know I should applaud this purpose-driven young woman. She had her eye on the prize and she seized it.
But frankly, it is unfathomable to me that there wasn't a single day in her 13 years of schooling where she said "fuck Algebra" and went swimming with her friends instead. She never skipped school to participate in a protest march, or make a secret trip to Planned Parenthood. She never took time off for a crazy, impromptu vacation to Mexico, to go sailing, get tipsy on cheap beer or head downtown to shop for ridiculous vintage clothes.

This doesn't sound responsible to me--it just shows a lack of imagination.

And yes...this is why I'm not a trustworthy adult. Never will be.
So before anyone writes in and tells me what an asshole I am--save it, I already know.

YOUR WORKPLACE ISN'T SO BAD AFTER ALL

So-
Today American employees trudge back to work after a relaxing Memorial Day filled with hot dogs, beer and traffic jams. Some of you might pull out your white shoes for the first time in months. Most of you will wince a little as you head back to the florescent glare of your workplaces.

But before you deliver the invites to that pity party, check this out:

THIRUVANANTHAPURAM, India (Reuters)
Employees counting donations at a popular Hindu shrine in southern India will no longer have to take off their underpants at work after the local human rights commission intervened.

Police and temple authorities imposed the dress code at the Sabarimala hill shrine in Kerala five years ago after thefts were reported from the shrine's strongroom. Employees in the vault, all of whom were men, were made to work topless wearing only a dhoti -- a cotton wrap worn around the waist -- with nothing underneath.

But they found it degrading, and their union complained to the Kerala State Human Rights Commission.

"The employees on duty are made to strip before an officer before leaving the office to ensure that they do not carry anything in their underwear," said Chavara Gopakumar, the union leader. "It is humiliating and an insult to human dignity."

The state's human rights commission agreed.

Authorities at the shrine, which is dedicated to Ayyappa, a south Indian deity, said on Friday they would end the practice and have begun looking into electronic surveillance systems.

Think about it:
Your workplace might suck, but you've never had to fight for your right to wear underpants.*

*NOTE: This assessment does not include porn stars or personal assistants to high profile pervs.

INOFFENSIVE PICTURES THAT MANAGE TO OFFEND ME

There are a few paintings/pictures that you see over and over again in cheap Italian restaurants and nondescript cafes. They are meant to be benign enough that they will not disturb diners as they masticate their manicotti. They are rarely chosen for their artistic merit. They are often purchased because they:

A. match the booths
or
B. feature the country of the restaurant's cuisine

But they really piss me off.

The first is by photographer Ruth Orkin. It's called "American Girl in Italy, 1951". Now, the photo is excellent. It depicts a miserable girl walking through the streets of Rome. She is surrounded by clusters of leering men who are making her deeply uncomfortable. But what gets me is how people seem to overlook the point of the photo, and just think it captures the charm of "the old country". They sit there, eating their crappy Italian food, thinking that photo is a quaint view of 1950's Rome. I've even heard one woman say to her husband "Isn't that cute John? We really need to visit Italy one of these days."

Fuck those spaghetti munching idiots.

The second is a colorful painting by John Vettriano called "The Singing Butler". It depicts an obviously wealthy couple dancing in the rain. They are impeccably dressed, and in their own world. The butler and the maid are holding umbrellas, trying to shield the couple. However it seems that the couple is unaffected by the weather. The elements only seem to be battling the underclass. Naturally, the rich couple don't give a shit. This just shows how rich mother fuckers get every stupid whim indulged while the peons just have to suck it up. Brings me back to my CNN VJ days.

Fuck those rich assholes.

Now, while my next target isn't seen in restaurants or cafes, I'm throwing her in there too: anything by Anne Geddes. Fortunately, she has gone out of favor. But back in the late 1990's and early 2000's, you couldn't go anywhere without seeing one of her creepy babies trapped in an unfortunate, often foliage-related scenario. The worst was the one with Celine Dion holding a baby in a pair of pantyhose. Why is this adorable? The poor baby is trapped in a pair of fucking pantyhose. Worse, that pair of pantyhose is being held by Celine Dion. What does that even mean?

Fuck those pantyhose.

And while I'm fairly certain it is an Anne Geddes knock off and not the real deal, there is a kitchen supplies store near me with a huge picture of a fat little baby in a saucepan. The baby looks both horrified and gaseous. (This was my first clue that it was a knock off and not an actual Geddes.)
But the point is:
IT'S A BABY IN A SAUCEPAN.
Reminds me of that old beef industry ad campaign:
"Baby. It's what's for dinner."

Huh.
Anyone else want to bitch about mass produced art that pisses you off?

SEXUAL OFFERS NEVER SEIZED

Today I'd like to celebrate an Israeli spitfire who did what I wish I had the courage to do:

WELLINGTON (Reuters)

Road workers in a small New Zealand town got their wish granted when a woman stripped saying she was fed up with their wolf-whistles.
The Israeli tourist was about to use an ATM in the main street of Kerikeri, in the far north of the country, when the men whistled, the New Zealand Press Association reported.
She calmly stripped off, used the cash machine, before getting dressed and walking away.
The woman told police she didn't take too kindly to the whistling from the men repairing the road.
"She said she had thought 'bugger them, I'll show them what I've got'," Police Sergeant Peter Masters told NZPA.
"She gave the explanation that she had been ... pestered by New Zealand men. She's not an unattractive looking lady," Masters said.
"She was taken back to the police station and spoken to and told that was inappropriate in New Zealand."


This woman is a goddess. I only wish I knew her name.

I'm pretty sure all you female Peons have endured a charming stroll past a construction site as a chorus of male voices shouts out enticing sexual offers/requests, detailed assessments of your physique and even comments on your clothes. Before moving to New York, I had no idea so many construction men were secret fashion mavens.

I have often wondered what would happen if I actually acknowledged these guys for once. If instead of crossing my arms over my chest or walking to the other side of the street, I turned around, threw down my purse and said,

"Yeah. Oh yeah baby. That's the best offer I've had all day. Gimme some of that. Right now! Pull out that great big cock you keep talking about and let's put it to use! C'mon big boy. Right here. I just want to get all up in those hairy armpits of yours. I just want to drink the sweat leaking into your butt crack. Take it all off baby. But you can leave your construction helmet on."

But no--I'd never do that. Which is the very reason these men will continue to catcall.
They know they can shout out whatever the hell they want because we women won't engage them in conversation. It's an unspoken pact. They can holler things you'd never say in a bar or a football game or any other environment where men and women interact.
In fact, much like women usually dress up for other women, men catcall in front of other men to impress their buddies. It's a way to show how virile and heterosexual you are, without having to prove it. They know damn well we'll never challenge them.

And at least in New Zealand, even if we try to take a stand, we get hauled down to the police station for it.

CALLING BILLY MAYS

Look closely at that top photo, for it is quite possibly the greatest invention known to mankind.
And it no longer exists.

It is a combination toothpick/earwax spoon.

Apparently, "experts found a tiny gold toothpick and earwax spoon, believed to be more than 385 years old, during the search for a shipwrecked Spanish galleon off the Florida Keys."

How could these multi-purpose marvels have gone out of fashion?

How?

It isn't as though modern technology has delivered us from the combined annoyances of ear wax and bits of gristle in our teeth after a satisfying meal. And the fact that this one is solid gold means you can safely conduct basic hygiene routines while impressing everyone with your wealth.

It seems to me that in this fast paced world we need this combination toothpick/ear wax spoon more than ever. Why isn't Ronco on this?

Picture turning on your TV and hearing this at full volume:

Billy Mays here for the astounding, one of a kind Pickerspooner!
Never before have you been able to both pick your teeth and scoop out ear wax with the same product!
Well with this special offer, available only on TV, those days are over!
Use it in your car!
Impress your friends at a party!
Make mom happy on Mother's Day!
Show your boss how you can multi-task!
You'll never have to endure the embarrassment of excess earwax or unsightly tooth refuse again!

Call now!

A SHITTY EXCUSE

Jackass of the day:

NORWALK, Conn. - A New York woman has filed a $100 claim against Norwalk saying a family outing to the Maritime Aquarium was ruined by dog feces. The woman claims her child's shoes, along with the entire outing, were ruined when her 1-year-old stepped in dog feces outside the Maritime Garage.

City attorney M. Jeffry Spahr said the official response is that her claim is denied and in his words, "poop happens."

Kelly DeBrocky, of Mahopac, N.Y., wants the city to reimburse her for $54 she spent replacing her toddler's ruined shoes and the expenses for parking and aquarium admission on April 5.

Honestly--
I've come to the conclusion that some people's lives are just one long hunt for an excuse to be irritated.

AND TANGO MAKES THREE

Just woke up to this revealing glimpse of the modern American psyche:

NEW YORK - A children's story about a family of penguins with two fathers once again tops the list of library books the public objects to the most.

"And Tango Makes Three," released in 2005 and co-written by Justin Richardson and Peter Parnell, was the most "challenged" book in public schools and libraries for the second straight year, according to the American Library Association.

This is unbelievably ridiculous.
And consider that the ALA defines a "challenge" as a "formal, written complaint filed with a library or school requesting that materials be removed because of content or appropriateness."

So parents are going to great lengths, taking precious time out of their days just to oppose this book. All because they believe it is furthering the dreaded "homosexual agenda". Oh the horror! (P.S. Where can I get a hard copy of this "homosexual agenda"? I keep hearing about it, but can't seem to get my hands on a copy.)

It doesn't matter that this book is based on fact. Roy and Silo are two gay Central Park zoo penguins who have been inseparable for several years. In 2004 this duo adopted and raised little Tango for two and a half months. They kept her warm and fed her until she was strong enough to go out into the world on her own.

What's more family values-friendly than that?

ROMANCE AND REFRIED BEANS

Happy Cinco De Mayo everyone!

Today's celebration reminds me of an experience I had with my Viking mom at a Mexican restaurant in Atlanta. This was several years ago, so the place may or may not still exist. It was called Jalisco, and was (like most places in Atlanta) ensconced in a strip mall. Worse, it was one of those strip malls where the architects try to fool you into thinking it's actually an "olde" Southern town square. You know what I mean? They slap up some fake gaslamps and a "quaint" clock and hope that people pull in and say,
"Well, isn't this just adorable Tom! A sweet little town square right here off of I-85. What a charming piece of Southern history. And there's a Lens Crafters too!"

Anyway, we were there, enjoying some burritos, when a couple sat down next to us. It was a small restaurant, so when I say next to us, I mean right next to us.
Now, I'd like to add that the food at Jalisco was good, but it was not a particularly attractive or interesting place. There were no flickering candles or delicate flowers or anything remotely romantic about this place. Plus, the smell of fresh tar from the parking lot would waft in every time the door opened.
So, this couple starts looking longingly into each other's eyes. This leads to massaging each other's hands. Then thigh squeezing commences. Then tongues start slurping. Sweet nothings are whispered. Hair is tossed seductively.

Finally my mom decides she's had enough. She bellows in that harsh Finnish accent of hers,

"Enough already! This isn't Casablanca. This is a shitty Mexican restaurant. Just eat your refried beans and go home."

FLAT STANLEY

I recently heard about the Flat Stanley Phenomenon.

Apparently, "students make paper Flat Stanleys and begin a journal with him for a few days. Then Flat Stanley and the journal are sent to another school where students there treat Flat Stanley as a guest and complete the journal. Flat Stanley and the journal are then returned to the original sender. Students can plot his travels on maps and share the contents of the journal. Often, a Flat Stanley returns with a pin or postcard from his visit. "

It seems that kids are now sending Flat Stanley to relatives too. It has become quite an involved process, with people packing Flat Stanley in suitcases and taking photographs of him on vacation. Flat Stanley leads a jet set life.
Recently, a Peon Confidential reader received Flat Stanley from a nephew.
This reader is the same person I traveled to Las Vegas with.
Now, what I find interesting, is that while this person has yet to send me beautiful pictures of us from the trip, I woke up this morning to find photographic evidence of Flat Stanley in front of the Bellagio fountains.

Damn Flat Stanley.
Nothing but a no good publicity hound.

VERBOTEN AIRPLANE ATTIRE

While at work yesterday, I stumbled across this rather inane article:

WHAT NOT TO WEAR ON A PLANE

I can tell you I have repeatedly ignored at least three of those recommendations.
Flying is bad enough (what with the lack of food) and you're denying me my heels too?
No.
Now, I understand that if I have to go down that rubber slide the shoes come off-but I'll take that risk before arriving in London or Cairo looking like the dwarf that I am sans heels.

So, I came up with my own inane list:

TOP TEN THINGS PASSENGERS SHOULD NOT WEAR ON A PLANE

1. Spandex pants.
I should probably amend this category to include any item of clothing which: a.) does not disguise a boner and b.) encourages camel toe. The reasoning here is that both visible genital protrusions are quite obtrusive to fellow passengers.

2. A sombrero.

3. Leather pants.
These are probably uncomfortable on long flights and make weird farty noises on the leather seats, if you are flying 1st class. (This is not an issue for me, of course.)

4. A clown suit.
Cliched as this sounds, statistics prove that 99% of the polulace fears clowns. The other 1% are assholes, and not worthy of consideration.

5. One of those circa-1990 Madonna cone bras.

6. A toupe.
No reason here except that should the plane go down, your toupe makes your death just a tad undignified.

7. KISS boots.
Really, it's not so easy to go through security in thigh high studded platform boots.

8. Some stupid t-shirt with a stupid phrase on it such as "I HEART TO FART"
If I am sitting next to you on a flight to Bogota, I will be forced to read and reread that phrase for several hours. Have some respect for your fellow passengers.

9. Pantyhose.
Trans-Atlantic flight+pantyhose=rank cooch

10. Yesterday's underpants.

Did I miss anything?

LANA SHIELDS: GODMOTHER OF ALL COUGARS

So-
I was watching a little Three's Company yesterday, since it was a rainy Sunday and...what?
Oh please. I don't have to explain anything to you people.
Anyway, I was struck by a profound notion:
Lana Shields, the over-sexed, on-the-prowl divorcee who moved into the gang's Santa Monica building during the 1979 season was perhaps first cougar ever depicted on the small screen.
Actress Ann Wedgeworth played her as a sultry minx whose attempts to ensnare Jack in her web of ripe sexuality were routinely thwarted by the bumbling Ralph Furley.

I say Jack missed out.

Lana would probably know just how to please him as they rolled around on that multi-brown/beige/orange sofa. And while Jack's souffle burned in the kitchen, things would be gettin' even hotter in the living room as they knocked over each and every one of Janet's plants and that hideous wicker table.

IN MEMORIAM

One of our beloved Peon Confidential readers passed along this bleak missive today.
In compliance with our policy of anonymity, I have removed her name. Nonetheless, the grief can be shared by fellow Peons who have a shred of compassion in their hearts...

It's with great sadness that I deliver the news that my sweet Hymie is no longer with us. I wish that I could say he, maybe she, passed peacefully, but it appears that Hymie got stuck between a rock and a tank and couldn't get loose.

Hymie is survived by his sister/brother/maybe lover Toots and its guilt-ridden mother, who instead of wishing her babies a good morning, would simply say, "you need to die by end of April because Mommy needs the outlet to plug in her A/C, not your filter." If nothing else, Hymie was obedient.

Hymie was also an outgoing turtle, with an appetite for adventure and Repto-Min (turtle food), who grew to twice the size of Toots! Perhaps that's why a) he/she got stuck or b) perhaps Toots finally had enough and murdered her nemesis.

God speed Hymie "da Hym" (LAST NAME REMOVED).
You'll be missed, briefly.

Hymie
August 2007 - April 2008

PENIS THEFT PANIC HITS CITY

I'd really like to take credit for that title, but it is a direct headline from Reuters. I was drawn to it like the sweet, elastic-waistbanded fat lady in Human Resources is drawn to cute holiday decorations for her desk... and Girl Scout cookies.

Read on:

KINSHASA (Reuters) - Police in Congo have arrested 13 suspected sorcerers accused of using black magic to steal or shrink men's penises after a wave of panic and attempted lynchings triggered by the alleged witchcraft.
Reports of so-called penis snatching are not uncommon in West Africa, where belief in traditional religions and witchcraft remains widespread, and where ritual killings to obtain blood or body parts still occur.

Rumors of penis theft began circulating last week in Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of Congo's sprawling capital of some 8 million inhabitants. They quickly dominated radio call-in shows, with listeners advised to beware of fellow passengers in communal taxis wearing gold rings.
Purported victims, 14 of whom were also detained by police, claimed that sorcerers simply touched them to make their genitals shrink or disappear, in what some residents said was an attempt to extort cash with the promise of a cure.

"You just have to be accused of that, and people come after you. We've had a number of attempted lynchings. ... You see them covered in marks after being beaten," Kinshasa's police chief, Jean-Dieudonne Oleko, told Reuters on Tuesday.

Police arrested the accused sorcerers and their victims in an effort to avoid the sort of bloodshed seen in Ghana a decade ago, when 12 suspected penis snatchers were beaten to death by angry mobs. The 27 men have since been released.

"I'm tempted to say it's one huge joke," Oleko said. "But when you try to tell the victims that their penises are still there, they tell you that it's become tiny or that they've become impotent. To that I tell them, 'How do you know if you haven't gone home and tried it'," he said.

Some Kinshasa residents accuse a separatist sect from nearby Bas-Congo province of being behind the witchcraft in revenge for a recent government crackdown on its members.

"It's real. Just yesterday here, there was a man who was a victim. We saw. What was left was tiny," said 29-year-old Alain Kalala, who sells phone credits near a Kinshasa police station.

This is the greatest piece of journalism ever.
A few thoughts:

1. What a perfect excuse if you have a small dick.
Picture it...
You take a fine lady home for some fornication. She looks disappointed when you get naked. All you do is act wistful and whisper, "I used to have a big, throbbing member (pause for dramatic effect) until that ruthless penis snatcher accosted me one night."
Jackpot!
Bingo!
She feels sorry for your mini-weenie status and you get the best mercy fuck of your life.

2. "12 suspected penis snatchers were beaten to death by angry mobs."
(Should we assume that these angry mobs consisted entirely of penis-less marauders?)

3. Can you imagine the Neighborhood Watch program for this crime?

4. "[Rumors of penis snatching] quickly dominated radio call-in shows, with listeners advised to beware of fellow passengers in communal taxis wearing gold rings."
(I might even consider learning to drive if my work commute involved talk radio like this.)

5. I'm pleased that the reporter also chose to tell us that Alain Kalala sells phone credits near the police station.

MASTURBATION IS GOOD FOR YOU!

Men, don't listen to your priests...at least about masturbation anyway. Turns out it's good for you!
The BBC recently reported that, "Frequent masturbation may help men cut their risk of contracting prostate cancer, according to Australian researchers."

So don't worry about hairy palms or eternal damnation--start slapping that sausage around.
As for you women, you might as well get in on the action too. No health benefits to diddling with yourself that I can see, but name me one other activity that:

A. Has no cover charge
B. Is pleasurable
C. Can be done while watching TV Land reruns of The Love Boat. (Although I actually wouldn't recommend that. I've tried it and can't seem to sustain interest in myself. Who can concentrate on cooch when there's a galaxy of 1980' s superstars like Patrick Duffy, Donna Mills and Loni Anderson?)

SEXUAL EUPHEMISMS: THE DEFINITIVE LIST

Last night I was out with a former CNNer. We were at my favorite Italian restaurant in the neighborhood. I expect you're thinking, "Ah, VjDutton's local Italian restaurant in New York. This establishment must have delightful truffle-infused duck sausage ravioli, understated yet sumptuous decor, opera music at just the right volume and charming waiters direct from Rome."
Well, no.
This red sauce joint is better than that. There are dusty fake plants and colored Christmas lights lining the place, iceberg lettuce salads with gloopy dressing, neon green garlic bread, seven different types of lasagne and...they play the radio over the sound system. As a bonus-- the waiter sings along in his falsetto voice. Debbie Gibson never sounded so good.

The point is, this is how we wound up listening to some Grocery Store Rock staples, one of which has the glorious line:
"I know forever we'll be doin' it, doin' it, doin' it."

So then we decided to name all the euphemisms for sex that we could. Here's what we came up with:

1. The Horizontal Mambo
2. Gettin' Busy
3. Knockin' Boots
4. Hot Beef Injection
5. Makin' the Two-Backed Beast
6. Tipping the Velvet (just learned this one recently)
7. Bumping Uglies
8. Doin' it

Well, then the food came and I tore into my pasta, splattering red sauce all over myself and literally setting my napkin on fire.
So now I need your help. You know what a cunning linguist I am. Let's make the definitive list.

ALTERNATE USES FOR SARAN WRAP

So-
The previous post about the hotness of the Land O' Lakes lady inspired much conversation amongst assorted cohorts. I won't bore you with connecting the dots, but this particular subject somehow brought us to the topic of spooging on a woman's face.
A pal of mine admitted that he once asked his girlfriend if he could express his love for her in this exuberant fashion. She refused. He begged. She refused. He begged. Finally she capitulated. However, there was a caveat: he could cum on her face, provided he put a sheet of Saran Wrap over her pretty mug.
He agreed. And yes, he enjoyed himself.
And there was no muss, no fuss.
Easy clean up for everyone involved.
Now-
My question is this:
Does the Saran Wrap company know that their product is being used for other things besides wrapping up leftover tuna casserole?
I mean, I recently found out that resourceful guys in the 1950's used Saran Wrap for make-shift condoms.
Then I found out that some people who are into watersports and "scat" also use this reliable household product.
And it got me to thinkin':
Is there a way the Saran Wrap company could capitalize on this? Advertising on porno sites and such? Hiring Ron Jeremy as their spokesperson?
I mean, people don't cook at home as much anymore, let alone wrap up leftovers.
The Saran Wrap company big shots might want to consider their options...

LEADERSHIP SHOES

So-
I'm not a huge fan of polls. I once had to help conduct a poll for Political Science class. I was so uncomfortable with bothering strangers at home that after my third cold call I just started making up names like "Eunice Smiley" and gave them all intriguing answers such as,
"I hate all them thievin' politicians. I think we should cut their balls off and feed 'em to the wolves."

I can only hope that whomever was helping to conduct the following poll did something similar. Because if these results are true, I'm screwed:

NEW YORK (Reuters) - Got a passion for buying sneakers? It could be a good sign, with a poll finding that people who buy three pairs of sneakers or more a year are far more likely to be a leadership type than other people.
Mindset Media, a media company that examines personality traits of different consumers, found that people who buy more than three pairs of sneakers a year are 61 percent more likely to have the qualities of a modern leader. These qualities were defined as having ideas and vision, and a style with others that is both inclusive and decisive.

What does it mean if you've bought one pair of sneakers in the last three years? And I didn't even buy them. My boyfriend was horrified by the previous pair I'd purchased from K-Mart in about 1998. So he inflicted new sneakers on me.

And what does it mean that I am 100 percent more likely to buy three pairs of shoes per year like those in the above picture?

I'm doomed...
Doomed to work the window at Wendy's while wearing ridiculous shoes.

BLIND ITEM #11

A Peon Confidential reader sent in this juicy nugget from Blind Item Rehash:

"WHAT top cable news executive is repeatedly cheating on his wife with younger women? He even recently made a play for one of his on-air babes."

This item originally came from The New York Post. As any devoted reader knows, The New York Post (owned by News Corp, parent company to Fox News Channel) seems to delight in stirring up shit about CNN. Which is why I'm guessing CNN for the cable news element of the item...but who is the executive? And who is the on-air babe?

HELP ME PEONS!

So-
The theme for the next Mama D's Arts Bordello is "Guilty Pleasures". We'll have four writers both penning and performing a segment of a smutty, delicious, sex-filled, cat fight ridden, glamorous Jackie Collins-style story. We will also have burlesque dancers, go-go dancers and a trivia contest, where you will be able to win various guilty pleasures to take home.
Now-
I am compiling the soundtrack to this delightful event, to play before and after the show. Naturally, the music has to be all guilty pleasures.
This is where you come in...
What are your favorite musical guilty pleasures?
And before anyone adds this one:
JUMP IN MY CAR
Believe me, I've already got it on the list.

SUNNY SIDE OF LIFE

Just read this today, after leaving the bathroom:

WELLINGTON, New Zealand - A New Zealand man got the fright of his life when a runaway SUV crashed into his house and knocked him off the toilet, a newspaper reported Friday.

See, already my day has improved. I had no idea that I should be grateful for the luxury of having an uninterrupted morning poo.Forget about walking a mile in another man's shoes. Sometimes you have to shit on another man's toilet to really see how good you've got it in this life.

THE PANDA'S REFRAIN: NOT TONIGHT DEAR, I HAVE A HEADACHE

Today I learned that pandas are not exactly promiscuous. Apparently, bumping uglies holds little appeal to them. Not content to leave the pandas alone in their asexual, bamboo-munching state, workers at the Beijing zoo are resorting to drastic measures to hornify them:

BEIJING (AFP) - China's notoriously sex-shy pandas are being put through a rigorous "sexercise" programme in a new effort to encourage them to mate, state media reported on Tuesday.
The Chengdu Panda Breeding and Research Centre in the southwestern province of Sichuan is making male pandas walk on their two legs to strengthen their pelvic and hip muscles, to better prepare them for sex, the China Daily said.
The move, which is achieved by luring male pandas up with an apple, looks remarkably like a dance routine and is aimed to boost the animal's sexual stamina, the report said.
Giant pandas are known to be sexually inactive, but the new measure follows several other initiatives taken to try and encourage breeding, including panda pornography.

PANDA PORNOGRAPHY!

Top 5 List of Panda Porno Names:

1. Tian Tian Jones and The Temple of Poon

2. How Mei Xiang Got Her Tube Packed

3. Su Lin Does Beijing

4. Bearly Legal

5. Black and White Cock Down

BONUS: Two Pandas, One Box

AWAITING NY GOV. PATERSON'S LESSER REVELATIONS

New York's new governor, David Paterson, really seems to have a penchant for volunteering information about himself. I guess he doesn't want to literally be caught with his pants down like disgraced former governor Spitzer. It's admirable I suppose, the way he keeps raising his hand saying, "But wait! There's more!"
Still, all this airing of dirty laundry is starting to make me laugh:

NEW YORK - New York's new governor, who disclosed last week that he and his wife both committed adultery several years ago, said Monday that he used cocaine in his 20s and smoked marijuana when he was younger.
In reference to cocaine, Gov. David Paterson, 53, said in a television interview that he "tried it a couple of times" when he was "about 22 or 23...And marijuana probably when I was about 20," he said on the NY1 cable news station.

So-
Now that the sex and drug secrets have been disclosed, I am awaiting the lesser revelations. How soon before he calls a press conference to admit the following:

1. Sometimes, on any given Wednesday, I pick my toes in bed while my wife is asleep.

2. I'm not overly fond of chickpeas. And I only pretend to like cornish game hens.

3. Flossing isn't always top priority.

4. Call me crazy, but I still think Drakkar Noir is a nice clean scent.

5. There are several Hootie and the Blowfish songs on my i-pod.

MESSAGE FROM 1986

I woke up today, my apartment still smelling of Easter ham, and read this headline:
"1986 Message in Bottle Drifts 1,735 Miles".

Intrigued, I read further:

SEATTLE - Merle Brandell and his black lab Slapsey were beachcombing along the Bering Sea when he spied a plastic bottle among the Japanese glass floats he often finds along the shore of his tiny Alaskan fishing village.
He walked over and saw an envelope tucked inside. After slicing the bottle open, Brandell found a message from an elementary school student in a suburb of Seattle. The fact that the letter traveled 1,735 miles without any help from the U.S. postal service is unusual, but that's only the beginning of the mystery.

About 21 years passed between the time Emily Hwaung put the message in a soda bottle and Merle Brandell picked it up on the beach.

"This letter is part of our science project to study oceans and learn about people in distant lands," she wrote. "Please send the date and location of the bottle with your address. I will send you my picture and tell you when and where the bottle was placed in the ocean. Your friend, Emily Hwaung."

Now, apparently, Emily did not write the message. All the kids used the same type-written message and simply signed their names to the letters.

THIS IS A CRYING SHAME.

I'd much prefer to read the contents of personal 1986 messages from 4th graders, to give some real flavor from that year.
Some of them might read like this:

1. Corey Feldman rules!

2. My friend Trish has a Care Bears Trapper Keeper. She is such a dweeb.

3. Mom got me a Walkman and the new Cyndi Lauper tape for my birthday. She's way cooler than Madonna. You can totally tell she's the one who people will still like even when we're in high school and stuff.

4. Our teacher said that in the future, they will put like, a whole library of stuff on like, one computer chip. There's no way, right?

5. There's this boy Ryan who totally likes me. And me and Jill played MASH, and it said that me and Ryan are gonna get married and live in a mansion and drive a Ferrari. It could happen.

A NEW ANUS FOR EVERYBODY!

A Peon Confidential reader just sent me a link to this headline:

"Woman Goes for Leg Operation, Gets New Anus Instead"

And no, this story wasn't from The Onion. It was from The Daily Telegraph. This actually happened at a hospital in Germany. The reason given was a "paperwork mix up" between two patients.

Now-
A few questions:

1. Admittedly, I'm not sure what a healthy anus looks like. Maybe broken down anuses and tight anuses look very much the same. But if this is not the case-why didn't the doctor see that the patient's old anus was in functioning order and not in need of repair? Did he go to on-line medical school or something?

2. How about the term "new anus"? I realize this implies some type of anal tune up. But imagine if this sorry woman got a donor anus! Can you picture a stockpile of replacement anuses?

3. How much would you love to be the medical professional who had to deliver this news to the patient:
"Uh. Yeah. Your leg is still fucked up. But check out your new anus! Why don't you give it a test drive? Pretty sweet huh?"

4. Where is the sad, incontinent patient who is still awaiting her new anus? Does she feel cheated? Did she get the leg operation?

5. What are the odds that Hallmark is designing a line of cards specifically for this situation:

Just a little note to say,
I heard about your anus today,
You were scheduled for a leg operation,
Instead your sphincter is a new sensation
We hope you enjoy your multi-million dollar compensation

AMERICAN IDOL REVAMP

So-
I'm not an American Idol fan. The last episode I watched featured Kelly Clarkson, so clearly the magic faded a long time ago.
However:
I could be persuaded to tune in again if instead of the same boring old "Motown Night" or "Disco Night" or "Broadway Tunes Night" American Idol offered up some of these intriguing themes...

1. Yoko Ono Night: Imagine an entire hour where each contestant caterwauled like Yoko.

2. Songs Mixed By Music Producers That Madonna Blew Before Getting Her Big Break Night: Not sure which songs we'd hear, but it could be fun.

3. Hidden Masturbation Reference Night: This would include Billy Idol's "Dancing With Myself" Cyndi Lauper's "She Bop" and The Vapors' "I Think I'm Turning Japanese".

which leads me to...

4. Tipper Gore's PMRC Censorship Night: The kids would belt out hits such as Prince's "Darling Nikki" and The Scorpions "Rock You Like A Hurricane".

which ultimately brings me to...

5. Songs About Hookers Night-A Tribute to Fallen Politicians: We'd be entertained by the likes of The Police's "Roxanne" and Patti LaBelle's "Lady Marmalade".

Any others?

TORNADO TOWN

PHOTO: AFP/GETTY IMAGES/Gavin Averill

Taking a bit of a break from the humorous posts today to express my concern for anyone who was in downtown Atlanta during that horrendous tornado. The photos are shocking, as are the reports of furniture and luggage flying out of busted windows from the Omni Hotel.
I hope any Atlanta CNNers who were working that night are doing well. If anyone has any first hand accounts of what it was like to be in the newsroom, please let us know...

COCKSURE CRIME STOPPPING

I woke up this morning to a touching AP story starring a fellow New Yorker:

YORKTOWN, N.Y.
Careful with that coffee! Police say a man placing an order in a suburban New York doughnut shop's drive-through lane didn't have any pants on.
They say a Dunkin' Donuts worker saw John Greco's exposed genitals in the Feb. 27 stunt and then noted the make of his car and his license plate number.
Police say the 46-year-old Croton-on-Hudson resident was arrested last week and has been charged with misdemeanor public lewdness. He's due in court March 27.
Police released a statement Thursday saying it was "unknown how Mr. Greco took his coffee that day."


A few comments...

1. Did Mr. Greco choose Dunkin' Donuts in particular? Does he, like Rachael Ray, savor the taste of their fresh ground coffee? Or did this Dunkin' Donuts simply have the misfortune of being on his pants-free route that day?

2. Honestly, if I had been working the window at Dunkin' Donuts and saw Mr. Greco's equipment, I'd be more likely to call a former CNN Peon to giggle about it than I would the police.
I know...
It appears those "McGruff the Crime Dog" ads I saw as a kid had no impact on me whatsoever. I just don't think I could "take a bite out of crime" in this instance.

3. I'm not sure which policeman came up with that savvy statement, but whoever you are, you're my hero.

5 MISSED CELEB MARKETING OPPORTUNITIES OF YESTERYEAR

It seems to me that today's celebrities are always branching out, seizing marketing opportunities wherever they can. This has resulted in Donald Trump's Signature Collection, Rihanna's umbrellas, Rachael Ray's garbage bowls and countless crappy celebrity perfumes cluttering up the shelves at Walgreens. (My current favorites are Antonio Banderas' "Diavolo So Sexy" and Shania Twain's "Starlight".)
Pity the stars of yesteryear who did not have the foresight to embrace this trend.
Imagine how much money could have been made off of:

1. Bill Cosby brand sweaters (see above)

2. Burt Reynolds brand mustache groomers

3. Suzanne Somers brand nude pantyhose, to be worn under Suzanne Somers brand shorty shorts

4. Duran Duran brand mousse and gel collection

5. Seinfeld brand suburban dork jeans

The possibilities are infinite...

BAN THAT SONG!

I just read that Shaun Clancy, the owner of an Irish pub in New York called Foley's, has decided to ban the song "Danny Boy" for the entire month of March. The thinking is that it's a sad song, and not particularly St. Pat's friendly.
Good PR ploy of course, and a nice respite for his regulars.
But it got me to thinking:
What other songs, which have been overplayed in certain situations, should be banned for good in said situations?

Here's what I came up with:

1. No one should ever have to hear The Beach Boys' wince inducing song "Kokomo" or any Jimmy Buffet ditty sung by an acoustic guitar player clad in a Hawaiian shirt at an all-inclusive tropical resort. Part of the all-inclusive experience should include the right to snatch the acoustic guitar and shove it up the singer's ass (wide end first) upon hearing these songs.

2. No wedding DJ should ever subject a wedding party to Abba's "Dancing Queen" or Kool and the Gang's "Celebration" or the BeeGees' "Stayin' Alive". How I fucking hate it when the opening chords of "Stayin' Alive" come over the sound system and the roar of joyous recognition erupts as people start doing the whole finger-pointing up-and-down business with hand on hips. Then they laugh at how hilarious and "ironic" they are. Oh ho ho! Hee! Disco is so funny!

3. Midtown bars need to ban any and all songs which inspire stupid drunk chicks to sing to each other. This irritation is compounded when they sing into their bottles of beer, pretending the bottle is a microphone. I realize this ban might result in a music-free bar. But I don't care. These "Good Time Kaitlyns" and their micro-bottles are an abomination.

4. Any song by U2 at a political rally. Is it just me or does it seem like every politician chooses U2 to appear socially conscious but hip? Actually, I think it's just me. But fuck it. I don't like it.

5. That irritating Gypsy Kings album that I swear has been on rotation at nearly every Mediterranean restaurant in every city since it was first released. Who decided this was great background music in which to enjoy hummus? Did all the Mediterranean restaurant owners get together at some type of tribunal? Even the tiny Mediterranean restaurant on Whidbey Island that I worked after school played it. I cannot understand this. When will it end? A person has the right to enjoy baklava without hearing that shit.

If anyone else wants to step in and offer up a banned music recommendation, feel free...

YET ANOTHER COUNTERFEIT MEMOIR

It's happened again. Some mendacious writer decided to do some slumming by proxy, and claim the experience as her own. Worse, she justified her lies by stating, "I thought it was my opportunity to put a voice to people who people don't listen to."
Read on.
And naturally, I've got commentary...

ASSOCIATED PRESS-
A memoir by a white woman who claimed she was raised in poverty by a black foster mother and sold drugs for a gang in a tough Los Angeles neighborhood has turned out to be pure fiction, a newspaper report says.
In "Love and Consequences," published last week by Penguin Group USA imprint Riverhead Books, author Margaret B. Jones writes about growing up as a half-white, half-Native American girl in South-Central Los Angeles in the foster home of Big Mom. One of her foster brothers, she writes, was gunned down by Crips gang members outside their home. Jones also writes of carrying illegal guns and selling drugs for the Bloods gang.
The publisher has recalled all copies of the book and has canceled Jones's book tour, which was to begin on Monday.
Margaret B. Jones is a pseudonym for Margaret Seltzer, who is white and grew up in a well-off area of San Fernando Valley in California with her biological family, the Times says. She attended a private Episcopal day school and never lived with a foster family or sold drugs for a gang.
Jones admitted to the Times that her memoir was fully fabricated. Many of the experiences recounted in the book, she told the newspaper, were based on the experiences of friends she had met while doing anti-gang outreach in Los Angeles.
The "Love and Consequences" scandal follows last week's discovery that the Holocaust memoir "Misha: A Memoire of the Holocaust Years," by Misha Defonseca, was a fake. Two years ago, James Frey, the author of an Oprah Book Club selected memoir, "A Million Little Pieces," admitted he had made up or exaggerated details about his drug addiction and recovery.

As a person who would love to have been published by Riverhead books and be off on a whirlwind book tour, my thoughts on this new literary embarrassment are:

-When the hell is the publishing industry going to wake up and realize that "real life" rarely has a juicy narrative arc?
-When the hell are today's readers going to dispense with the notion that non-fiction books best reflect human experience?

If you look at some of the books have taught us the most about ourselves, that have accurately described the times in which we live, they are novels. "The Great Gatsby" beautifully depicts the social whirl of the 1920s, and the emptiness that ensued. "The Man in the Grey Flannel Suit" perfectly describes the boredom and displacement felt by the men who were returning from World War II. All these years later, "Catcher in the Rye" still evokes teenage angst in a way that transcends generations. And some of Stephen King's works practically define America's late 20th century fears-technology run amok, the disintegration of the family, the perils of fame.

These stories did not have to be true to convey authenticity. Of course elements were drawn from real life experience; that's intrinsic to any writer's work. But these books were obviously never sold as real life accounts. They were just superbly written, and readers could identify with the characters, because the stories felt real. If there is honesty in a novel, the truths revealed can be far more powerful than a stack of memoirs. But unlike the real world which they seek to reflect, novels can cut out the dull details, and whisk us away from our shitty subway ride or cubicle lunch break.

Oscar Wilde once said, "What art really reveals to us is nature's lack of design, her curious crudities, her extraordinary monotony, her absolutley unfinished condition."

It's no wonder memoirs turn out to be riddled with lies. The daily grind just isn't up to artistic standards.
Life, it turns out, isn't ready-made for best sellers.

TACOS, DILBERT AND PEACE

Those of you with gmail accounts are well aware of how gmail places ads based on the content of your e-mails. It creeps me out a bit. And as my e-mails include words like pubic hair, crotch rocket and lime jello, I get some rather odd items pitched in my direction.
The most recent one was this: TACO STANDUPS.

Note the description: "Preparation is twice as fast because now you have both hands free. No more balancing act -- no more taco fallout. You'll serve your family and friends your delicious tacos in a visually pleasing, appetizing new way. Everyone absolutely loves new Taco StandUps and I promise that you will too...No kitchen is complete without them."

No more taco fallout! This is the breakthrough I've been searching for.
But it gets better. Intrigued, I checked out the testimonials, where I found Shelly from Kansas, who offered up this glowing review:
"This is a great product. I use them and don’t know how I ever got along without them."

You see that? Now that she has experienced the sheer culinary joy, the incredible life-affirming usefulness of Taco StandUps, Shelly from Kansas cannot fathom a world without them. Pity the poor people in developing nations who have never heard of Taco StandUps. Shed a tear for the downtrodden folk like me, who have been struggling through each day without the aid of Taco StandUps.

But consider this:
Within this website is the key to winning the war on terrorism. When your citizens more interested in Taco StandUps than political and religious zealotry, you have a peaceful nation. When your nation's people are bored and fat, peace is the natural result. When all the nations that are breeding grounds for terrorism find the majority of their citizens are gainfully employed, sitting in cubicles, counting the minutes, putting Dilbert cartoons up on their laminate walls, posting testimonials for shitty products that they don't need and getting paid for wasting company time--that dear readers, is the pathway to peace.