Assignment Seven: Desperately Seeking No One

In Week Seven, you are asked to write a personal ad that is inadvertently unappealing. Feel free to get creative with the demographics of the author and those he or she seeks.

...oh, and another thing. Send some comments with your votes and make them funny. We barely had any last week. If I don't get some this week, I'm just going to play Def Leppard songs on the kazoo for 8 minutes.

Here are your entries for Week Six. Yee Haw!

Carmen Electra:

Dixie Chicks at War
(sung to the tune of the Dixie Chicks "Hole in my Head" )
(FYI - 2 of the Dixie Chicks are sisters)

Hole in my head, hole in my head.
I need a sis like you like a hole in my head
I need a sis like you like a hole in my head
I hate you so much I wish you were dead.

Big giant lies, Big giant lies
The only things much bigger are your thighs
The only things much bigger are your thighs
Damn chick, better lay off the fries

You took maw and paw's attention, and kept it all yourself
Now I really want to kill you
And send your soul to hell

Hole in my head, hole in my head.
I need a sis like you like a hole in my head
I need a sis like you like a hole in my head
I hate you so much I wish you were dead.

Klepto-maniac, Klepto-maniac
You took mom's diamonds and hid them in your pack
You took mom's diamonds and hid them in your pack
1 year later you "slipped" them back

You think she didn't notice, go-head lie to yourself
She blamed the cleanin' lady
and then her friends as well

Hole in my head, hole in my head.
I need a sis like you like a hole in my head
I need a sis like you like a hole in my head
I hate you so much I wish you were dead.

Stop Cryin Poor, Stop Cryin Poor
The 'rents reach deep and keep givin' you more
The 'rents reach deep and keep givin' you more
I'm so pissed off I wanna Roar

Master manipulator, There's nothin you wouldn't do
Too bad you're so damn ugly
You can't find a man to screw

Hole in my head, hole in my head.
I need a sis like you like a hole in my head
I need a sis like you like a hole in my head
I hate you so much I wish you were dead.

Curly Bill Brocius:

They Ain't No King (And They Ain't No Blue)

When you took me home the night we met
You said you were clean and I need not fret.
But five days later I started to itch
You gave me the cooties you trash talking bitch.

They ain't no king, They ain't no blue
They ain't no hermit and they ain't horseshoe.
I got the crabs, also called public lice
Had I known you had it, I woulda thought twice.

My trailer's infested. Anywhere you sits
Don't stay long or you'll get little nits.
The whole family's got it: Uncle Jeb and Bobby Sue
But worse than all that is Granny's got it too.

They ain't no king, they ain't no blue
They ain't no hermit and they ain't horseshoe.
I got the crabs, also called public lice
Had I known you had it, I woulda thought twice.

I finally saw the doctor. I said, "Doc I'm not well."
He gave me a lecture and then he gave me Kwell.

They ain't no king, they ain't no blue
They ain't no hermit and they ain't horseshoe.
I got the crabs, also called public lice
Had I known you had it, I woulda thought twice.

Mary, Queen of Scots:

Monkey's Uncle (By Marriage)

Now listen to this tale that I'm unearthin'
A tale of woe that to this day haunts me
We were gathered at St. Charlie's for the birthin'
The whole family had driven in to see

This was Jeannie Rae's eleventh little darlin'
Her pregnancy had given her such a time
She cursed for months like she was Gee-orge Carlin
She said the baby had been gnawing on her spine

CHORUS

Why am I a monkey's uncle...by marriage?
My in-laws' gene pool is much too deep to see
Why I'm a monkey's uncle...by marriage
My nephew's unbelievably hairy

Jeannie Rae pushed hard for sixteen hours and then some
When finally that baby's head did crown
The doctor said the little man is handsome
But he couldn't hide his nasty little frown

BRIDGE

They named the baby Billy Fred MacDougal
A family name and kinda nice I think
But if you go and look that baby up on Google
You'll soon find out that he's the missing link

CHORUS

How come I'm a monkey's uncle...by marriage?
My in-laws' gene pool kicked out a monstrosity
So now I'm a monkey's uncle...by marriage
My little lady's sister's kid's a chimpanzee.

When she got pregnant Jeannie Rae moved to a new place
The old owner was so nice and pleased to sell
She didn't know that she would give birth to a new race
Cuz she had nuke plant coolin' water in her well

Rowdy Roddy Piper:

Scarred for Life

We'd planned this evening out over a month ago.
But then the sitter called said she'd be a no-show.
So we called upon my in-laws to put the kids to bed.
But when we came home late that night I'd wished that I were dead.

Cuz we caught her parents having sex; they were rolling on the floor.
Her Daddy's butt was in the air, Mom was moaning like a whore.
I know it shouldn't matter cuz they are man and wife.
But when I saw them making love I think I was scarred for life.

Now the wife and I retreated, and silently closed the door.
We got back inside the car and went to the corner store.
We sat there in the parking lot, hoping that the image might fade.
Now the folks are in their 80's, and we think they need hearing aids.

Oh we caught her parents having sex; they were rolling on the floor.
Her Daddy's butt was in the air, Mom was moaning like a whore.
I know it shouldn't matter cuz they are man and wife.
But when I saw them making love I think I was scarred for life.

After years of therapy
That image is finally gone.
Until I was in their yard one day
and saw butt prints in the lawn.

Oh we caught her parents having sex; they were rolling on the floor.
Her Daddy's butt was in the air, Mom was moaning like a whore.
I know it shouldn't matter cuz they are man and wife.
But when I saw them making love I think I was scarred for life.

Harcourt Fenton Mudd:

The Korean Cowboy

I woke up this mornin
Much to my surprise
My old lady left me
And my poor doggy had died

Refusing to cry
I decided to eat him
He tasted sweet
But that fleabag gave me botulism

(Chorus)
And so it goes for this Korean Cowboy
And so it had to be this way
And so it goes for this Korean Cowboy
This Korean Cowboy's really bad Day

I'm not sure where I'm going
To get some help or die
My vision is blurred and doubled
Out of my ass things want to fly

I think the hospital near
But it really could suck
When I tell them I ate my dog
I think I might be totally fucked

(Bridge)
There it is I can see the building
This day has been a colossal flop
Oh shit! What's that sputter?
My Daewoo truck has fucking stopped.

(Chorus)
And so it goes for this Korean Cowboy
And so it had to be this way
And so it goes for this Korean Cowboy
This Korean Cowboy's Really bad Day

(Outro as opposed to an Intro)
I pumped the gas and turned the key
A lot of smoke came out so I couldn't see
I hoped and prayed that I could make it start
My Daewoo truck let out one final fart

So, I laughed away this whole day
That my old lady left me and I had puppy filet
I made mistakes and wasn't wise
In my Daewoo truck I up and died.

Valuable Tip for Spouses

If your significant other asks "Do you like my Reverse Survivor entry?" the correct answer is "Yes. It is fantastic. It should not only get you off the island, but it will probably win a Pulitzer." The Reverse Survivor entry is the new haircut.

Assignment Six: That's When the Tornado Hit the Trailer...

...and Now I Cannot Find My Left Boot. This week, you are asked to write lyrics for a brand new country song, in the "wry take on a calamity" mode. The nature of the calamity is entirely up to you: love life, natural disaster, wildlife exposed to gamma radiation, etc. Mix and match, if you like. At minimum, give us a title, two verses, a bridge and a chorus. Here's a slightly useful intro to lyric writing if you're having trouble getting started.

Here are your entries for Week Five: Plastic Fantastic. Enjoy.

Rowdy Roddy Piper:

Dear Barbie,

For 43 years you were the shining star of a toy empire. My life was dedicated to helping you and Mattel achieve world domination. For all those years, I was content to play along, fostering the rumors of our impending nuptials. While we both knew that was never going to happen, I went along with the charade, and kept my mouth shut. I thought we were soul mates, friends forever, and inseparable partners in the lives of young girls around the world.

I wasn't prepared to read about our "breakup" on the Internet.

Before I finished reading, tears filled my eyes, and everything around me seemed to blur. A pain in my chest grew to feel as if a wrecking ball had swung and hit me from another time zone. Life, as I had known it, was over. I felt cold; dead inside.

I turned off the computer and the phone and retreated to the basement of our Malibu Playhouse. As I sat in the dark, I emptied out the liquor cabinet, smoked a carton of those Swisher Sweet cigars you hate so much, and cuddled up with a Colt .45 GI Joe left behind years ago. I was swallowed by despair, and teetering on the edge of a breakdown.

After a few days of self-loathing at my own private pity party, I pulled the gun out of my mouth long enough to notice that a nasty funk had begun to take over the basement. I'm not sure if it was the cool, fresh scent from my soap, or the blonde hairball clogging the drain, but in the shower, my sadness turned to anger. I felt a mighty wave of vengeance, and my head filled with memories.

Oddly enough, it was GI Joe's gun that reminded me of the parade of action figure all-stars trouncing through your bedroom on an impossible quest to feed your insatiable vagina. I remember seeing GI Joe reduced to a tearful, quivering shell of a man when you told him you'd been seeing his brother. You thought that the Kung Fu grip meant he might be better with his hands. Despite all his cool accessories, when Hasbro changed him from a 12-inch model to a 3-inch, I knew he would be out on his ass in a hurry. I also know that Superman spent years in therapy because you taunted him about being a "Man of Steel" only with the help of a handful of little blue pills.

When you eventually came to the conclusion that male action figures weren't going to get you off, you began to experiment. I actually enjoyed the times when Wonder Woman came over (I always liked brunettes). But when she tied you up with that truth lasso, your screams of passion turned to vitriolic rants berating her skills in cunnilingus. She fled in tears, never to return. I wasn't surprised to see Larry the Cucumber from the Veggie Tales films; I always thought he'd be a good fit. But I was a little confused when you and Mr. Potato Head started hanging out. Since you and I were often together, he was wicked jealous, and always kept an eye out for me.

So on the basis of a rough outline and a few phone calls, tomorrow I will be announced as Harper-Collins' newest author with a 7-figure advance in hand. My working title: "Toys For Barbie: Real Life inside the Playhouse."

Your press release said that we "will remain friends." Yeah, right. I don't think so bitch.

No longer yours truly,
Ken

Harcourt Fenton Mudd:

Dear Barbie,

Honestly, I am happy that we can still be friends, but it is going to take a while before we can hang out or have lunch or anything like that. After 43 years together, it is going to be quite an adjustment for me. 43 years! That is 15,695 days, or 376,680 hours, or 22,600,800 minutes, or 1,356,048,000 seconds. Have you thought about that?

Plus, I saw your new look and it makes me wonder if I was holding you back. You are now wearing tiny shorts, a bikini top and those big hoop earrings. And you look more tan than you ever have before. It is enough to make an ex-boyfriend crazy.

I know I could have popped the question, but instead I bought you the Malibu Beach House and the Barbie Ferrari. I thought material goods and comfort were good enough. I thought I was giving you my entire heart, but I guess I needed to do more. Maybe I should have bought you your dream house. Oh that's right. I did.

Also, I heard about this Aussie you have been getting cozy with. His name is Blaine or something? While I thought Ken and Barbie just rolled off the tongue, Blaine and Barbie sounds much better. I can't compete with alliteration like that. So you see how tough this is for me? Even poetic devices appear to be stacked up against me.

I know that it's over, but it hasn't totally sunk in yet. I guess I just hope you are happy. Part of me still thinks that I am the only one who can make you truly happy, but that is something you will have to figure out for yourself. Or you can let that Australian Blonde Bimbo, Blaine prove it for me.

With all the love my plastic heart can muster,
Ken

P.S. Does Blaine have a sex organ?

Mary, Queen of Scots:

Bitch,

Did you think I wouldn't find out? All that crap about needing time and space--how dumb could I be? You sure had me fooled. You had them all fooled, for years and years, living your sordid little lie. And now you think it's safe, well, maybe you're right. Maybe they'll keep on buying. I sure hope they do because I'm going to sue your sweet little ass off and then sell my story to the highest bidder. I have nothing to lose; you used me all these years, and I deserve to be paid for all my trouble.

Of course, if you'd rather not go the public route, a small one-time payment of $10M will buy my eternal silence. Hell, I'll even tell them I dumped you and you can have the sympathy vote. Whatever story you want--just let me know.

I'll give you until Friday at noon to decide how you want to play this. I get the money; you get the photos. It's your call.

Skipper. Jeez. I never would have guessed. All those years. Make it $12M.

K.

Carmen Electra:

Dear Babs,

Where do I begin. It's over, finis, hasta-la-vista baby!! I've finally had it with your need for perpetual youth. I cannot be a part of your life anymore. I know we've been together and unmarried longer than Goldie and Kurt, but it's over. Face it Babs, you're over 50!

When we first met, I was awed by your beauty. 38-12-25, with a size 3 shoe. How could any woman look so good?? You were all natural, they didn't even have silicone then. GI Joe, Big John, GI Joe with the Kung-Fu Grip, they were all jealous of Ken. I was the big doll on the block. Little did they know the CRAP I had to deal with, because I was "with Barbie." I'll bet they never knew that it took you 2 hours in the bathroom every morning, or that you started getting ready for an 8:00 dinner at 5:30. Or that after grinding our plastic together, you ALWAYS needed to freshen up before we fell asleep. All I wanted was to bask in the afterglow with you.

When your golden tresses first started to turn brownish, oh the misery I had to endure. Normal lightening wasn't good enough for you. You needed professional treatment once a week. God forbid your blonde mane have one fleck of brown in it.

Then came the weight gain. Babs, all women gain weight in their 30's. It's a fact of life. You worked out hard and you looked fine. But that wasn't good enough for you. You needed to find the best and most discrete liposuctioner in the world. All of those trips to clinics in Geneva cost a pretty penny, but you were Barbie. . .it HAD to be the best. You got sucked more times than Ron Jeremy. What kind of an example did this set for Skipper and Stacey?? I was always making excuses for their sister who was off on a "fashion shoot".

Then came the face and boob-lifts. Why?? You were in your mid-forties and all of the other dolls still thought you looked great. I guess you were worried about the newer "Britney" and "Polly-Pockets" dolls. You have always been the queen of dolls, and these newcomers couldn't compete with you, but Vanity-be-thy-name, you just HAD to look like your 20-yr old "self".

Off to Beverly Hills to visit Dr. Ben Stone (writers note: who can guess the movie reference??) for the face and boob job. Once again I make excuses for you. When you returned, looking 10 years younger, with breasts that still pointed skyward at 45 years old, I made more excuses, "doesn't she look relaxed, boy she sure toned up during her trip!!"

The full-body chemical peel is the last straw. You're willing to immerse your body in toxic chemicals that will strip away a few layers of your skin?? For what, Vanity??? I'm finally drawing the line.

I will no longer make excuses for you. I will no longer tolerate the waiting for you to make yourself "perfect". I will no longer support your "surgical" lifestyle. We're toast.

I'm sure that no worries for me will cross your cold bottle-blonde heart, but you need not worry about me. I've fallen for someone who is the exact opposite of you. Someone who isn't afraid to act her age. Someone who would fight to the end for her man. I love the Trinity Action figure.

Don't even think of coming around and using your feminine wiles to win me back, or Trinity will kung-fu those lifted boobies back to their original state.

Bitterly,

Ken

Curly Bill Brocius:

Dear Barbie,

We must be careful in our communications. We don't want to get found out. Just to be sure, this will be my last communication for a little while.

Have you seen the papers? And the TV? We made it to CNN, MSNBC, and all the major television networks. Barbie, little do these idiots know that not only are we the most successful marketing geniuses on the planet, we can now say we have pulled off one of the greatest publicity stunts ever. Forget Madonna and Britney, Janet and Justin. We are brilliant!

Our timing was perfect, right before Valentine's Day, and the International Toy Fair no better place. Blaine is to be congratulated; he's playing his role perfectly. Please give him my special "regards" and tell him I can't wait to see him. To make this all work, however, we have to stick to the plan.

Your makeover as Cali Barbie is fabulous. I caught a glimpse of you in the news and I almost regretted the breakup. You're so tan! I love your pierced ears and those shorts are way hot. It's about time, girl.

You're wrong about something, Barbie. Back in the Saddle Ken is the way to go and I can't wait to debut. I can't give you all the details yet. I will be rugged, masculine and exude sex appeal, just like the Marlboro Man. This will be the story: Having been devastated by our breakup, I seek refuge in Montana where I work on a ranch. I'll be like James Dean in "Giant." Isn't he just delicious?

The icing on the cake will be in February 2006, when we get back together. The story will be that seeing me brought back all sorts of romantic feelings. And besides, being so buff and manly, you just can't keep away. You got terribly bored of Blaine (how could that be so, but never mind!) and you also realized that dating was not the same as it was 43 years ago. There's STDs, AIDS, not to mention a move towards going dutch on dates -- how dreadful!

Now I know you are hesitant to get married (and to think people say it's me -- just projection I guess!), but I truly think that's the next best move. Just imagine: We get engaged in a few years. It could be a great marketing opportunity. Think of all the brides to be out there and how much girls love to fantasize about planning weddings. We could set a date of our 50th anniversary of being together. You know it would totally eclipse Prince Charles and Lady Diana's wedding. Fashion designers would pay us a fortune to design your dress. Perhaps we could have a contest to choose from various designs. What do you think? We don't need to decide right away, but I do think we should be clear about our plan, which I truly think is excellent.

But for now, I am totally enjoying the publicity and renewed attention. If these humans only knew.

Enjoy the weather out there. I'm jealous!

Hugs and kisses,

Ken

Hugh Beaumont:

Dear Barbie,

Maybe I should have started this letter Dear John, but I honestly don't think you're smart enough to get the reference. I think that it's ironic after all the Valentine's Day Barbie Editions that have come out over the years that it's over between us.

I've stood with you through a lot Barbie, a lot! And now you want to just dump me in our middle age? I've been there for you through thick and thin (literally and figuratively) for so many years - through all the dramatic fashion changes (remember that lime green pant suit with the plunging v-neck, the HUGE bell bottoms and the metallic lime-green mesh cape that went over it?), all the mid-life crises (the times you wanted to be a reporter, an astronaut, a veterinarian, and maintain your modeling career at the same time?), and all the cars you've wrecked (the van, the motor-home, and too many years worth of corvettes to mention.)!

And through it all, I've been patient with you Barbie. I learned to love the beauty that is inherent in your vapid little head. I mean, how many women go to the lengths you have in order to have plastic surgery to make their feet look like that? I know, I know, I enjoyed the attention that others (pre-pubescent girls, gay men, and adult women with no lives) have showered upon you, and some of that attention has rubbed off on me as well, but our life together has to have amounted to something other than the acceptance of labia pink as an acceptable color to the unwashed masses.

Barbie, I could understand if I hadn't been able to make ends meet, and to sustain the lavish lifestyle you've come to enjoy, but I do have my own modeling career that provides for us nicely. And you know that if you would ever be willing to have the baby I so desperately want (yes, I know you think it will ruin your figure), I could support a family. I mean we have a home together! A friggin' mansion if you will. With a pool and a real, working Jacuzzi (okay it's from the 80s, but something is better than nothing).

I love you Barbie, and I know you know that. Why you think it has to end now I just don't know. But let me remind you of something Barbie - you will get old some day. Plastic surgery can only do so much for a girl (or a man). I mean just look at Michael Jackson's nose or Joan River's face for goodness sakes. Let's have a hard dose of reality beauty queen - it's called www.awfulplasticsurgery.com. Someday those perky boobs are going to fall to the floor - and who is going to catch them? Apparently not me.

Look, I can understand that you think this is over between us Barbie, but I just want you to give it one more chance. Just one more chance! Is that too much to ask for? I LOVE YOU BARBIE! I know that this letter has rambled a bit, but you know how to reach me, and I'm waiting to hear from you.

Love always,
Ken

P.S. And don't think that I'm above telling the public why Mattel keeps producing "new friends" for Barbie. I'm not ashamed to let your little secret spill. Let's just say I'm saving that as my insurance policy.

Words of Encouragement

Hello. Because I'm not only a deranged tyrant but also a caring nurturer, I thought I'd offer some words of encouragement to you, the people who have not been voted for as much. Think of yourselves as acquired tastes. You're not some big hamster-smelling oaky chardonnay that everybody and their uncle drinks at office parties. No, you're a subtly nuanced Chateauneuf du Pape or a spicy Syrah. Or maybe Mad Dog 20/20. Wait, I take that back. It's not very encouraging. At any rate, despite the fact that you're still here, facing increasing danger of mild embarrassment, and those four rotten showoffs have gotten off scot-free, there is a many-faceted bright side. First of all, I can honestly and without a hint of irony say that all of you have written entertaining stuff. As much as I run this game to provide Big Fun for all, I also do it to amuse myself, and the stuff you've written is highly amusing. To me, at least. Second, you signed on to have fun playing a game, and by staying on the island, you get to play more. Kinda like when I used to play golf. I got many more shots per dollar spent on greens fees. I used to call it "Value Golf." Third, the odds are still pretty good that you aren't going to lose. Win the least. Whatever. Still less than 20%. Not too bad. Fourth, the popular kids who are already off will not have the tremendous fun that will accompany whatever bizarre rule twists I might implement. OK, maybe that's not so encouraging, either.

Perhaps I'm not really a caring nurturer. I tried. Lemme make it up to you. Here's a little info nugget that might help you plan your strategy. We've reached a demographic inflection point. When we started playing, we had six men and four women. Like the herd animals we are, the men have succeeded in promoting the interests of their gender. At this point in the game, you have voted off three men and only one woman. This leaves us with six people, evenly split, gender-wise. Use that information as you see fit.

Assignment Five: Plastic Fantastic

On February 12, 2004, two days before Valentine's, Mattel announced that after 43 years together, Barbie and Ken were no longer a couple. Although the identities of dump-er and dump-ee were not disclosed, news sources reported that Barbie is now spending a great deal of time with an Australian boogie-boarder named Blaine.

Heartbroken, Ken writes Barbie a Valentine's Day letter. Make it a plea to come back, a vengeful hate gram, something philosophical, or anything else you like. It's up to you whether you want to incorporate Ken's 1993 walk on the wild side. Fewer than 600 words, please. Barbie has a short attention span.

Here are the entries for Round Four: N is for Neville, wherein you were asked to give us a reworking of Gorey's Gashlycrumb Tinies. There's some clever stuff here. Enjoy.

Mary, Queen of Scots:

A is for Amos who drowned in his coffee.
B is for Bonnie who choked on a toffee.
C is for Clive who got shot by a cop.
D is for Dylan whose chute didn't pop.
E is for Evan whose Hummer exploded.
F is for Frank whose aorta eroded.
G is for Gwendolyn, caught in a twister.
H is for Hamish, done in by his sister.
I is for Igor who shot some bad smack.
J is for John who got sent to Iraq.
K is for Kirby who ran out of air.
L is for Lee, strangled with her own hair.
M is for Muffy, run down by a Jeep.
N is for Nelly who froze in her sleep.
O is for Oscar, found strangled with nylons.
P is for Percy, run through by a pylon.
Q is for Quint who played Russian Roulette.
R is for Roy who blew up in a jet.
S is for Samuel who forgot to chew.
T is for Troy, much too close at the zoo.
U is for Uri whose train car derailed.
V is for Valerie. She got impaled.
W is for Winnifred, hit by a quoit.
X is for Xander, stabbed by Jon Voight.
Y is for Yul who fell into the dip.
Z is for Zachary, capped by a Crip.

The Mathemagician:

A is for Apathy and nobody cares.
B is for Boredom that stifles the air.
C is for Conflict extant every day.
D is for Depression lingering gray.
E is for Envy, a societal breach.
F is for Fear where the boogy men reach.
G is for Guilt hiding deep in the jug.
H is for Headaches that make you say ugh.
I is for Insomnia that keeps you awake.
J is for Jitters that force you to shake.
K is for Kinky when quality lacks.
L is for Loathing, oh how the hate stacks!
M is for Moody in a negative spree.
N is for Nightmares with floating debris.
O is for Obsessive caught in a stall.
P is for Paranoid fearful of all.
Q is for Quarrel, fight when it's dire.
R is for Repression we all require.
S is for Sadness that comes on in fits.
T is for Tortures the government commits.
U is for Used with severe mental strain.
V is for Victim with terrible pain.
W is for Worried and woeful with vice.
X is for Xenophobic prejudice.
Y is for Yearning for silence within.
Z is for Zoloft, the actual sin.

Harcourt Fenton Mudd:

The Altar-boy Diaries 2: Electric Boogaloo

A is for Adam who sometimes took off his robe
B is for Benjamin who often went to the priest's home
C is for Carl who received a hot beef injection
D is for David who preferred a day in detention
E is for Eddy who couldn't get enough of the wine
F is for Freddy who was frequently caught from behind
G is for Gary who didn't know better than his afternoon diddle
H is for Harry who had two suitors and was caught in the middle
I is for Ian who wasn't a catholic but it didn't matter
J is for Jimmy the tape over his mouth stopped his idle chatter
K is for Kyle whose mom couldn't be told
L is for Larry whose head bobbed up and down
M is for Mark who was far beyond laughter
N is for Nate whose ample behind the priests found softer
O is for Oliver whose buttocks needed a suture
P is for Peter whose name predicted the future
Q is for Quentin who thought he might be pregnant with a puppy
R is for Ryan who found confession for two just a bit stuffy
S is for Steve who always chose to spit instead of swallow
T is for Todd who at first wondered if it was marshmallow
U is for Ulan who often sat on father's lap
V is for Victor whose ass was often slapped
W is for Will who forever vowed his revenge
X is for Xavier who would never forget the way his head would descend
Y is for Yuri grew older and hated those cocksuckers
Z is for Zach who did us all a favor and killed those motherfuckers

Hugh Beaumont:

"The Hollywood Biggies"

A is for Arnold, the would be Pres,
B is for Brittany, the former Missus.
C is for Courtney, the widow of Cobain,
D is for Drew, the ET girl remains.
E is for Miss E. who watches her pressure,
F is for Freddie, a big time slasher.
G is for George, the ER heartthrob,
H is for Holly, she never gets mobbed.
I is for Ice, I mean as in Cube,
J is for Janet, who flashed a boob.
K is for Kylie, "Come into my world,"
L is for Leonardo, who has a big "sword."
M is for Madonna, the wannabe Jew,
N is for Norah, one beauty of few.
O is for the Olsen Twins they've moved to NYC,
P is for Pamela, who fights Hepatitis C.
Q is for Quentin, the maker of thugs,
R is for Robert, the taker of drugs.
S is for Sarah, she's had enough "Sex,"
T is for Tim, Susan will never be ex.
U is for Uma, so damn skinny,
V is for Vin, he ain't no mini.
W is for Weird Al, a Grammy winner again,
X is for X-rated, Justin's tear wasn't a strain.
Y is for Yao, who is really quite tall,
Z is for Zappa, is he ever not stoned at all?

Rowdy Roddy Piper:

A is for Avril hung by her tie.
B is for Beyonce killing men 'tween her thighs.
C is for Christina now providing STD's.
D is for Derek who blew out both knees.
E is for Eminem shot by his bookie.
F is for Fred who did it all for the nookie.
G is for Gwyneth a slave to fashion.
H is for Halle in a car gone crashin'.
I is for Ice Cube driving too fast.
J is for JLo swallowed up by her ass.
K is for Kato sliced by "The Juice."
L is for Liza who doles out the abuse.
M is for Mariah a butterfly that's been smashed.
N is for Nelly smothered by cash.
O is for Oprah who lost a battle with chub.
P is for P.Diddy gunned down in a club.
Q is for Quentin beat to a pulp fiction.
R is for R.Kelly and his child love addiction.
S is for Shakira who has developed hip dysplasia.
T is for Tyra who got the flu from Asia.
U is for Uma who killed Bill with her fist.
V is for Vijay hit by Tiger's Titleist.
W is for Winona whose trial went crappy.
X is for Xaviera a hooker not so happy.
Y is for Yanni a soundtrack for suicide.
Z is for Zsa Zsa who dropped tabs of cyanide.

Curly Bill Brocius:

A is for Al Qaeda, the terrorists we fight
B is for Barbara, who always is right
C is for Cheney, my second in command
D is for Democrats, those folks I can't stand
E is for evil, the axis I'm sold on
F is for faith, if you have it you're golden
G is for gays, a group I detest
H is for Halliburton, the company I blessed
I is for Iraq, which I confuse with Iran
J is for Jenna, of my pot-smoking clan
K is for Kanada, our drug-loving neighbors
L is for Laura, who bestows many favors
M is for missing, military and mean
N is for Norris, who's my favorite on screen
O is for Osama, whom we're trying to attack
P is for Powell, have you noticed he's black?
Q is for Qusay, whom we recently killed
R is for the Rangers, when I left they were thrilled
S is for Saddam, now we've got him in jail
T is for Texas -- "Executions Without Fail!"
U is for United Nations, who needs them I say
V is for victory, we'll achieve it my way
W is for weapons, I just know they are there
X is for xtremists -- Muslims, Arabs beware
Y is for Yale, where I goed to school
Z is for zealot, long may I rule

Carmen Electra:

"N is for Nineteen Eighteen"

A is for Aparicio, who fell rounding third
B is for Buckner, need I write another word?
C is for Carter, a Met who could hit
D is for Dent, whose homer was for shit
E is for Eephus, What was Spaceman doing?
F is for Four Bagger, that's why Perez was moving
G is for Gibson, in '67 he mowed us down
H is for Hendu, in '86 he tried to lead us to the crown
I is for Interference, Let's just go ask Pudge
J is for Johnson, He screamed, but the ump wouldn't budge
K is for Kuhn, who nixed a big-time trade
L is for Little, who Theo made go away
M is for the Monster, it gives and takes away
N is for Nomar, Let's keep him here to stay
O is for Oil-can, who clearly was insane
P is for Pedro, prima-donna, but Hall-of-Fame
Q is for Quintana, who never made the grade
R is for the Rocket, whose blisters cost the game
S is for Stanley, whose wild pitch cost it all
T is for Torrez, whose pitch went over the wall
U is for Umpire, who calls can make us cry
V is for Victors, always the other guy
W is for Wilson (Mookie), E-3 landed him on first
X is for Ex- Red Sox, they have the rings, and that's the worst
Y is for Yastremski, who played long and hard, and was 0 for 2
Z is for Zimmer, who is and will always be a gerbil through and through

Assignment Four: N is for Neville.

Let's take a little break from the deathless prose. All those sentences. All that writing. Ew. This week, give us a reworking of Edward Gorey's Gashlycrumb Tinies. Don't concern yourself with illustrations, and feel free to change names or anything else. You don't even have to kill everyone off, unless you really want to. However, please don't change the alphabet. I'm going to have to insist that we treat the alphabet as a given. 26 lines, one for each letter, in order. Off you go.

Round Three Entries

Sorry for the delay, but I had to de-louse them for directional quotes and dash characters. Word users, please repeat after me: Tools - Auto Correct - AutoFormat As You Type. Deselect "Straight Quotes with Smart Quotes" and "Special Characters with Special Symbols."

Looks like we've got quite a range of angles here. Good luck and enjoy!

Hugh Beaumont:

I don't usually drink bourbon before 10 a.m. but it was 8 p.m. local time in Islamabad, and there I was at a party with a few other agents, relaxing for the first time in what felt like years, with some black market alcohol. Now, when you're working in a Muslim country, there are of course many things that are taboo - like bacon, liquor, and the company of a beautiful woman (who isn't your wife) - but that doesn't mean you can't gain access to them. So one agent scored the bourbon, another let us use his rented "compound", and a third arranged for the three pretty girls. Pork would have been a miracle, so we settled for some spicy chicken and rice.

As Smith was telling me that these girls were each costing him only 1000 rupees per hour, I started thinking about what was going on at home. What time was it there? I did the math and figured it was just about 10 a.m. and that my wife Cindy had probably just gotten home after dropping the kids off at school and was sitting down to a cup of coffee and The View. I looked around the room and realized I was a long way from Kansas Toto. If I was there right now, I'd be sitting in my NSA office, doing my daily translation quota, thinking about which sandwich to have from Blimpie.

Like I said, I don't normally drink bourbon - my usual drink is Absolut Citron and cranberry juice with a twist of lemon or a screwdriver as a second choice. My brain was starting to feel fuzzy. I looked over at these girls and wondered how they managed to stay so pretty under those burqas. I kept looking at that one with the haunting blue-green eyes.

I made my way over to her and started to chat with her. First I tried English and she just smiled, then I tried Punjabi, only to have her respond back that she only spoke Pashtu. Ah, so she was from Afghanistan, I asked her. Yes, she said, she was from Afghanistan, but lived here now. When I asked her where she was from, she said she did not know the name of her hometown; she had been kept at home her entire life, because her family was afraid her beauty would tempt men on the street. And now she was working doing this? Yes, she said, her family escaped over the border during the invasion and in order to survive had now been forced to "make arrangements."

I sat there listening to her for a few more minutes, a cloudy haze over my brain, thinking about my poor wife who had no clue where in the world I was, when I grasped that this chick's Pashtu was better than any other Afghani woman I had ever met. In fact, she sounded down right college educated - not like the type that was kept home her entire life. And before I could blink twice I recognized that this chick wasn't your ordinary prostitute, but probably an agent for somebody, looking to pick up info. Something smelled stinky here and it wasn't the spicy chicken and rice. I wasn't looking to have my G level demoted any time soon or start any issues with my credibility as a US government employee questioned.

I bid everyone good night and started to make my way back to my hotel. As I lay on my lumpy mattress with the ceiling fan creaking overhead, I realized my credibility was no longer an issue.

Curly Bill Brocius:

I don't usually drink bourbon before 10 a.m., but what the heck, I was in town for my father's funeral after all. And besides, I was still on East Coast time, so it really was after noon, I told myself.

And boy, did I need the drink. In an hour, I would be sitting in my father's lawyer's office face to face with my siblings for the reading of my father's will. It promised to be a tense reunion.

My siblings had never forgiven me for my grandmother's decision to leave her entire estate to me. They had actually contested the will, claiming that I must have tricked her into writing them out of it. They were close with her, I was not, they argued. Yes, her memory was failing and yes, I had been with her shortly before she died, but the judge found no solid evidence of illegal activity on my part.

My brother, a successful, frightfully arrogant psychoanalyst, was, I supposed, still living in Manhattan with his psychotic wife, also a psychoanalyst, and their two screwed up children. Our only contact since Gramma's funeral was his annual Christmas letter that never failed to mention how hard it was for him to send his kids to private school since his inheritance was "stolen" from him.

Last I heard, my sister, a "recovering" drug addict, was living in Seattle and working in a bookstore. It had been a year since we had contact, so it's entirely possible, and even likely, that she had moved somewhere completely different and had embarked upon yet another occupation. Her periodic requests for her "rightful" share of Gramma's estate had abated, at least for now.

My father left us in 1972. Without warning, he announced to my mother that his needs were not being met and off to California he went. Years went by without a word, or a penny, from him. He became a highly successful screenwriter and was married several times. He had remained very close with Gramma, which accounted for my estrangement from her.

My brother saw my father once a year or so, usually when he had his psychoanalytic conference in LA. My sister hit him up for money occasionally, each time convincing him of her new project, new direction, new whatever. I had seen him only once since 1972, ironically just a few months ago. I was in San Francisco for business, and on a whim I drove down to LA and surprised him. And indeed a surprise it was.

I knocked back a second drink and left my hotel for the attorney's office. When I arrived, my brother was already there. Figures. The oldest can't help but want to be first all the time. We exchanged awkward greetings and then waited in painful silence. At ten past eleven, my father's attorney came in. He was pressed for time and he would have to proceed without my sister. Just as he finished his preliminary remarks, my sister entered. Just like her. Last to be born, and late for everything since. I could tell she was high.

The attorney cut to the chase. "I, Richard Conley, do declare this to be my last will and testament. I leave my entire estate to Alden." The father with whom I had contact only once in over thirty years, had left everything to me. I looked up and felt the shocked, hostile stares from my siblings. I smiled. Now they were sure, but they would never be able to prove a thing. At least my credibility was no longer an issue.

Carmen Electra:

I don't usually drink bourbon before 10:00 AM, but it seemed like a good idea after my beloved Red Sox lost to the damn Yankees last night. I had lost a bet, and had to wear a Yankees hat and Derek Jeter shirt all day at work.

I thought that I'd start the day with a little "spiked" coffee. I felt like crap, even after the caffeine and booze, but at least I felt better than Grady Little, why didn't he take the ball away from Pedro?? I'll bet anything he gets canned. Why can't the Sox be more like the Patriots?? I bet the Pats will win it all this year, even after their slow start. Lawyer Who???

Frickin Traffic ......... I'll just have another little swig. This Ramsmtein CD is good, and bourbon goes well with industrial-strength rock. My tummy and head feel warm!!!

"Good Morning Carmen!!" says a happy admin. "GOOD!!!, didn't you see the game last night!!!", I snarl.

"Yes, I did ...... I LOVE the Yankees, and Derek Jeter, he's sooooooo cute!!"

I slam my office door ............. MORE BOURBON!! ....... yummy. What do I need to do today?? Oh Crap!!!! I have to present my ideas for marketing some stupid children's educational software, THAT I FORGOT TO PREPARE FOR BECAUSE I WAS WATCHING THE FRICKIN' SOX!!!!.............MORE BOURBON!!

Knock, Knock .......... "Come in!!!" ............ "Hey Carmen, a bet's a bet .......... here's your Yankees hat and Jeter shirt, .............. oh boy, you look cute in that YANKEES HAT hahahahahaha"

I slam my door again ........ MORE BOURBON!!

10 Minutes till the meeting ........... what am I gonna say?? ................ I know...... MORE BOURBON!! OK, get it together, you know your stuff. Kids need education, yeah that's it, we'll just build it up from there. OK, good to go!! .............. One more big swig of bourbon and off to the meeting. I'm hot...must be the shirt and hat.

"Hey Carmen ...... Nice Hat!!! ...... Aren't you a big Sox fan?? ....... This must be killing you ....... Derek???? ...... hahahahaha ....... are you hot in that extra shirt?? You're sweating profusely"

Too many questions, I slump down in my chair. OH NO ............ It's the MD of Marketing, coming to hear MY ideas. I wish I had some more bourbon.

Damn, it's hot in here!!!..............

"Well Mr. Jeter ....... (laughter) ............ we'd love to hear your ideas"

I stand up, I feel all wobbly and hot.......what was I supposed to talk about??? ... Software??? Kids????.

"Well sir..........Kids, they need to be educated, otherwise they'll be (long pause)......uneducated, and our software is just the thing to educate them!! I guess that Grady Little didn't have our Software or an education, because if he did, he'd have pulled Pedro and not let him keep pitching after 135 pitches!!.......(laughter....I should Talk more about the Sox ....... I'm on a roll). And Frickin Nomar........what was he, like 1 for 15 in the series, Too bad he was thinking about nailing Mia instead of concentrating on the ball, that's education I tell Ya!! And Manny, what an uneducated asswipe, ooh, mommy I'm too sick to show up for my job at the park hitting baseballs, but I'll be happy to booze it up all night long at the bar!!! These Guys suck I tell ya. We've been waiting since 1918........1918!! And for what......for them to Blow it in the 7th game AGAIN!!! Sure, they can lead by 14 games at the all-star Break, but they STILL Lose to the Yankees. Curse of the Bambino??? SCREW THE BAMBINO!!! I'LL TELL YA WHO TO BLAME!!! Pesky, Lonborg, Spaceman Lee, Bill Buckner............and Now Frickin GRADY LITTLE!!!!!!......... AAAAAGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!"

I feel woozy, and sweaty ....... I think I'm slurring my words ........... I better Sit Down before I fall down.

I wake up 2 hours later in an empty conference room in my chair .......... Needless to say, My Credibility was no longer an issue.

Leisure Suit Larry:

Chicago, 1948

I usually don't drink bourbon before 10 AM. It burns my throat as I visualize today's paper hitting the newsstands. "Dewey defeats Truman." Incredibly, the headline is not true.

The returns started rolling in to the newsroom last night around 9 PM. The phones rang off the hook as precincts from all over the country called in their results. Totals were tracked on a huge bulletin board. The reporters milled about, looking for patterns to confirm what they already knew: Thomas Dewey would defeat President Truman.

Most of the reporters and editors barely acknowledged me, the lowly fact checker. Last night, my job was to make sure that they got all of the numbers straight. Most of them had already written their pieces. They just needed to stick around long enough to plug in the final results.

The East Coast returns came in first. No surprise here as reliably Democratic states like Massachusetts polled strongly for Truman. Some of the writers were excited about a third party candidate from the newly formed Progressive party, but he was unable to garner more than three percent of the vote despite pre-election polls indicating much more support.

By 10 PM, Truman was on top, but we all knew that there were many Republican states yet to be counted. By midnight, we learned that Dewey had lost Ohio because of lower than expected voter turnout. Still, no one doubted the final outcome.

I asked my boss if he thought it possible that Truman might actually pull it off. He laughed out loud and made a joke about my alma mater.

At 1 AM, I pulled together a quick summary of voting results, allocated the undecided delegates to each candidate, and showed that Truman could win by carrying just three of the remaining undecided states. My boss shook his head while I presented my analysis. He referred me to Edgar, the Tribune's statistician whose forecast model was still projecting an easy victory for Dewey. When I pointed out to Edgar that two of his model's assumptions - high voter turnout and a strong showing by the Progressive party - were no longer true, he asked me how an English major knew so much about statistics.

I was incredulous. No one in the newsroom had voted for the Republican Truman, yet they all seemed to be willing him to victory.

One of my favorite writers took me aside and with a condescending tone, explained how this election was just like the one in 1912, when Woodrow Wilson beat the incumbent Republican and the popular third party candidate, Teddy Roosevelt. "Don't they teach history at Youngstown State?" he sneered.

By 2 AM, my stomach churned as I watched the printing presses begin to roll. The few reporters who bothered to stick around sauntered past Edgar. "Genius!" they exclaimed, noting that the inevitable shift to Dewey hadn't yet manifested itself in the vote totals.

Of course, it never did. By 8 AM, with most of the West Coast reporting, it became clear that Truman would win the election.

I quietly turned in my resignation at 8:45. No one seemed to notice. Everyone was scrambling to put together the mid-day edition.

As I swallow my second shot of bourbon, I look outside the bar and witness a frenzied mob at the newsstand, buying up the morning edition. The bartender turns up the radio. An excited voice declares what I already know: Truman wins.

Gradually, it dawns on me that the Tribune would survive last night's colossal error. The mistake itself had become news.

At least my credibility was no longer an issue.

Mary, Queen of Scots:

I don't usually drink bourbon before 10 a.m., but I wasn't in a position to refuse. Miller poured two glasses and handed one to me. The crystal looked ridiculous in my filthy, nail-bitten hands. How Maestro would have berated me for those hands. "Respect your tools, Maria!" He would bellow. I blushed with remembered embarrassment and the surprising force of a ghost's voice. Miller noticed but misunderstood. His smile approximated warmth.

"Yes. I am generous with those who choose to help me. You have been helpful, Mary."

"Thank you Mr. Miller."

A young clerk placed a plate of fruit and bread in front of Miller. I despised the way my stomach knotted as if it could see the food. I didn't want anything these people had...but to smell that bread, to see the lush reds and purples of that fruit. I drank some bourbon, trying to mask my need. Fire coursed down my throat and straight into my head. Miller tore off a bit of bread for himself. We'd done this before. How many times? A dozen? A hundred?

"You need to take better care of yourself, Mary," Miller suggested like a kindly family doctor. "This war won't last forever. You have people who will need you."

"When can I see my family?"

"Your boys are doing well at an academy in the North. Your husband leads a work crew at another facility. They are well. The boys are growing strong."

"I need to see them."

Miller feigned surprise. "We can't just move people around willy-nilly, Mary. You know that. It's been a long war. Fuel is scarce. The war is expensive. Perhaps I could have a note from you delivered to your sons. Can you write?"

He knew I could. "Yes. Please. Give me paper. Please."

"Patience, Mary. All things in due time." This was the routine. Miller never asked explicitly, but I knew he'd give me nothing more until I told him something.

"Your boys will love to hear from you."

"Do you have children, Mr. Miller?" My voice almost left me saying his name. I'd never before presumed to ask about his family. The muscles in Miller's jaw pulsed just once.

"I had two sons. They died in the first year of the war. In battle. They were heroes."

I knew my sons were dead. I knew this as surely as I knew anything. They had no use for little boys. Miller laid a sheet of paper and a pen on the desk, just out of my reach. I looked at Miller, and then at the paper. This is what he does. We are not friends sharing a drink. He's at work. I'm his asset. But even so...there could be an academy in the North. My boys could be waiting for another letter. My letters might be their only hope.

"There is a man in my group who does extra work to cover for the sick ones."

Miller arched an eyebrow. "How could that be, Mary? Your crew is under constant supervision. You're making it up."

"Please, Mr. Miller. His name is Elias. Watch him. You'll see. Just watch him. Will you get a letter to my sons? Please?"

Miller smiled like a teacher pleased with his pupil. He pushed the pen and paper to me. We barely even played the game anymore. My credibility was no longer an issue.

The Mathemagician:

I don't usually drink bourbon before 10 a.m., and my flask was almost dry.

We were in a hidden bunker deep behind German lines and our mission was to take out a main bridge. We had to wait for the order. We had been here waiting for nine days. Tension was high. I had managed to save my last flask, hoping to use it in celebration, but I just couldn't wait.

Early on there had been a rumor that one of us was a spy. Of these twenty men, being Navajo, I wasn't so much a suspect as I was just disliked. We had been assembeled from all over, piecemeal, for just this assignment. We hadn't had time to get to know each other's personalities before we came over the border. There was bound to be some suspicion.

A message was coming in.

"What's he yappin about over there," Reily said motioning toward me. Only I understood the messages over the squawkbox. The men resented me.

"Yappin's about right!" someone else agreed. "I think he's drunk."

"Shhh" I hushed them.

"Shush yourself! Why do we need a damn Indian anyways?"

"The Germans," I repeated the message I was getting, "The Germans know about us. They know where we are."

Nobody moved. Nobody blinked. It was as if I hadn't said anything. "How can that be?" asked Fletcher. "We've been here over a week. Cars drivin by, people walkin by, nobody has paid us any attention at all. Hell, we could have a pep rally right here and they would't have a clue."

Our Leuteniant shifted his weight.

"Fletch is right," said Frank. "If they'd have noticed us we'd know by now."

"A spy! You Idiot!" I was almost screaming through my teeth. "One of us revealed our position on purpose!" Were it not for the burbon I would have been panicking.

"I don't believe it," said Franklin. "There's just no...."

I interrupted, "The Message is repeating... quiet! It's confirmed, they know our position and they are closing in. They are just over the hill."

Sammy casually looked out of the Bunker "I don't see nothin." as he settled in and reached for his pack of cards. I didn't know Sammy very well. He was a young jewish kid from the Bronx. The only thing he hated more than me was the Germans. His hair was brown, thin and his eyes were innocent. With a loud crack his helmet went flying across the bunker and blood dribbled out of his right ear. More shots came in all around us. The Germans were just outside and, suddenly, my credibility was no longer an issue.

Harcourt Fenton Mudd:

I don't usually drink bourbon before 10 a.m.

Of course, I don't usually drop a hump on your mom either, but exceptions must occasionally be made. I am only kidding. Or am I?

I needed bourbon before 10 a.m. on a day like today. Being a "privileged" prisoner on death row has its advantages. Every guard can either play to my every wish like a second-class whore, or he can be scared that he will one day have to walk into his place of residence to find the people, or pets he loves, dismembered, disemboweled, disfigured, stomped-in, liquefied, or made permanently fucking dead by some means. I am not sure if I even have the power to do that anymore, but as long as THEY don't know that, I am in good shape.

Cigars, delicacies that would never see the light of day in a mess hall that uses ice-cream scoops to serve food, and comfortable socks are about the only thing a man normally needs in a place like this. Of course, I could also use some good sex too, but the options in here are certainly not appealing if you know what I mean.

Simon, my favorite guard of late, doesn't seem to worry too much about losing anyone close to him anymore as a result of knowing me. He has been here with me for the last 7 years. If the circumstances of our interactions were different, I might even consider him a friend. Of course in that other world, the definition of friend can be obliterated like a cat with a hand grenade shoved up its ass. I think deep down he still knows better than to cross me.

And even still as I sit here a day from my impending death, we converse about the weather and sports as I enjoy the last of the goods that I procure outside the lines of allowance here on death row. We never talk about the upcoming meeting of my ass and a switch-triggered lightning bolt. I am sure it allows Simon to talk to me, knowing I will soon get what I deserve. When you know a guy is going to die for his crimes, I imagine it really decreases any chances of a moral dilemma.

So, what did I do to deserve this fate? It doesn't really matter. Who am I leaving behind? That's a little more painful. I am just glad that I am going to die a happy man. I don't feel guilty for hurting the people I have hurt intentionally. They probably deserved it.

The other people who ended up getting wounded by the collateral damage that my life caused? Those are the people I worry about. I have left a family. I have ruined their reputations with my last name.

So how is it that I can die a happy man?

I know that in death I can do for them what I couldn't do alive. Once my reign of indiscretion is over they can move on.

In life I ruined everything.

In death...
My credibility was no longer an issue.

Rowdy Roddy Piper:

I don't usually drink bourbon before 10 a.m.

However, today was my first day on the shoot - my first real movie, and a shot of courage from the small flask in the glove box had a certain appeal. Yesterday, returning back to Iowa for a career on the family pig farm was looming in my very near future. Today, I'm an actor, and I ignored Jim Beam's calling.

I say I'm a "struggling" actor; but I suppose even that's optimistic. Other than some meaningless work on failed TV pilots, my career had consisted of "acting" polite while working tables at Masioli's in Studio City. While I believed many of those performances Oscar worthy, the self-loving so-called "power brokers" with their botox nightmare wives or their silicone Barbie "fuck-of-the-month" club "proteges" rarely gave me a second look, except to ensure I put a blind eye to their indiscretions.

Ironically, it was one of those silicone Barbie's that approached me near the end of my shift.

"Excuse me - are you Rodney?"

In the darkness of the restaurant, I had dismissed her as another surgically enhanced bottle blonde bimbo. But now I found myself nose-to-nose with a natural beauty definitely uncommon in LA, and more reminiscent of the Iowa farm girls I knew back home. I felt myself drawn in by her azure blue eyes and silky blonde hair. I couldn't breathe.

"Are you Rodney?" she asked again.

This time I was jarred into reality. "I'm sorry" I stammered as I regained my composure. "Yes, I am. Can I help you?"

"Marco tells me you're an actor. He says you're really good." Marco was my best friend, workout buddy, and also a waiter here at Masioli's.

"Well, Marco's a good friend, and yes, I work when I can."

She pulled a business card from her purse. "My name is Amber Michaels, and I could use someone like you on a shoot I'm doing tomorrow morning" and she pushed the card into my hand. "Be there at 10, and we'll put you to work."

I glanced down and saw the word "Vivid" on the card and briefly thought "yes, this is a vivid dream".

For a brief moment, I stood there staring at the card. "Thank You!" I said quietly.

With a wink and a knowing smile, Amber turned and headed for the darkness of Masioli's back room.

Today, as I walked up to the door of the palatial estate the card indicated, the door suddenly opened. Standing in the doorway was a short, fat, scruffy looking troll of a man with headphones around his neck and a clipboard in his hand.

In a hurried manner, he said "Hi. Are you Rod?"

"It's Rodney. Rodney Pippenhoffer, and I'm looking for Jake."

"I'm Jake - I'm the Director." We shook hands and I came into a house full of video equipment.

"Thanks for coming on short notice Roddy. We're working really fast today, so come on in and take off your clothes."

Suddenly it all became clear. Amber Michaels. Vivid. Video. Holy shit. This is a porn shoot.

Jake obviously sensed my epiphany. "You've never done this before have you?"

I shook my head. What am I doing here? I knew that actors who work in the Adult Industry lose all credibility in the mainstream industry. I was at a crossroad. Images of failed auditions, rejection letters, collection agents, the restaurant, and the pig farm flashed in my mind.

"It pays $1000 a day." Jake said.

Just then Amber walked into the room. She was more beautiful than I remembered. "Hi Rodney." She was nude. "Are you ready to go?"

My credibility was no longer an issue.