Calling all Martins!

Okay. So I have a plan...I have a friend named Melaine. Melanie has a fiance named Martin, and we are going to make Melanie's fiance famous! Everyone will be using his name...but i need your help.

Your job will be to take a picture of every "MARTIN" you see from here on out.

We are going to publish a book, hand out fliers, do whatever it takes to make MARTIN a household name.

I want to hear people saying things like:

Oh my god, Becky, I got super drunk last night and totally went home with a MARTIN!

or

In theory I like black guys, but it seems like I always end up falling for a MARTIN.

or

Doug is such a MARTIN!

Once we get like 100 REALLY GOOD MARTINS we will make a book and distribute accordingly. I started making a list of "What makes a MARTIN."I will share this with you now...

Martins have floppy, goofy, or non-gender specific hairstyles.

Martins become concerned about strange things at odd times.

Martins may or may not wear glasses. (They're probably wearing glasses).

Are Martins ever really comfortable?

Martins dart haphazardly.

Martins enjoy possessing objects that require a users manual.

Martins are highly allergic to something common.

Martins ask for something not on the menu at a specialty restaurant.

Martins bruise easily and require odd creams to prevent reoccurring rashes.

Martins lack a certain social lubricant.

All Martins will wear a bee keeping mask at one time or another.

Martins make an odd clicking noise in the back of their throat when they are feeling anxious.

I see many volumes of YOU'RE SUCH A MARTIN being published for years to come.

What do you think of my flawless plan?

Can I count on you not to sell my idea to the Vatican and or the Claussen pickle conglomorate?

Hit me on my beeper.

Permanent Wrinkles

This is an excerpt from a collection of writings soon to be published entitled PERMANENT WRINKLES: An Anthology for the Infirm.

~a haiku by co-author Hazel Mermelstein~

I threw up on myself today.

I didn't mind.

It was kind of like a really wet blanket

coming out of the oven,

on top of me.

The great egg debate.

There was a man on the bus today explaining to no one in particular why he likes egg drop soup, but doenst like eggs. Sure he was bat shit crazy, but i can see his point...

THIS NEVER HAPPENED.

…because I am such a decorated gourmand I was treating myself to 3$ worth of food at the Taco Bell one afternoon when I noticed two unforgivably white trash, hillbilly types ragging on their girlfriends. You know the kind; unwashed, farm raised, alpha males who were mostly knuckles and teeth. They were telling their ladies how stupid they were for ordering the wrong things, made fun of them for ordering a huge amount of food, and were more than willing to toss around their criticisms loud enough for all to hear. Pretty much anything either of these two women did commanded some form of scrutiny from their betrothed. One of these girls looked like she was about 14 and pregnant…okay fine, maybe she was 26 and obese but it was still not right the way these guys were treating them. The whole scenario was just all too uncomfortably ignorant.

Feeling emblazoned, I decided to squash this whole hillbilly brain scramble before it gained any more momentum. I resolved to stop them dead in their tracks with a quip so clever it would make them 3% smarter just by considering its meaning…

“Hey fellas, stop picking on your big fat girlfriends. They seem nice”.

How could they possibly recover from that? So witty, so double edged. Thoughtlessly, I imagined they would respond with a brainless retort. What they ended up doing was responding with hitting. Well, rather what would have most likely turned into hitting had I not bolted from the Taco Bell, across a massive parking lot and ducked into the Super Target.

I slipped swiftly through the entrance and headed straight for the women’s undergarments. I figured that if they had enough conviction to take me down amongst bras and panties then it was probably worth any resulting chaos. For no reason in particular I busied myself seeking out the largest available leopard print thong and having found this moved on to house wears. From there stumbled over to the toys. After ambling through the store for a good 20 minutes I began to realize that the coast was probably clear. I spent the next few minutes fondling sweaters, simultaneously laughing and congratulating myself on a jest well played. Goosing those dweebs kind of felt like the right thing to do. Knocking them on their ear, getting them riled up and misdirecting their anger had not only gotten under their skin, it was bound to have a retrograde effects. This would get them talking, this would get them thinking.

By the time I walked back out of that Super Target I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. Imagine my state of alarm when one of the girlfriends comes out of nowhere, decks me in the jaw and shouts,

“Don’t tell our boyfriends we’re fat, you dick!”

Flight 1662

No need to mince words, Dorothy was ugly. Not that sort of unsalvageable ugly, but the kind that needed a distinct amount of attention that was long overdue. Dorothy served warm cokes on cheap flights from Des Moines to Minneapolis and did so without a smile. Her voice was coated in a bubble gummy airline fluff that made your stomach turn regardless of turbulence. She also had the ankles of an eighty-five year old wheelchair enthusiast. Despite all this, Dorothy did have the accuracy and persistence of a tenth grade math Olympian who had dedicated her life to the 4-H. She was more than enough stewardess for one plane and we all remained seated for the duration of the three hour flight despite our wavering bladders and irrational urges to stroll. Even after it happened, I doubt if anyone could have anticipated Dorothy’s tumble. From our urine soaked chairs we looked on in awe as she reclaimed the cabin and delivered the remaining beverages her thirsty passengers had ordered, never alluding to her spill. God damnit, Dorothy you’re tough. Are you Polish or something?

NAME...THAT...SNOUT!!

(Click to enlarge)

You can tell a lot about a person from the curve of their schnoz and the scheen of their whiskers...take a crack at this snout quiz. A score of 100% gets you a place in my Farm Quiz Hall of Fame. Go with your gut and...

NAME

THAT

SNOUT!

Two degrees of Louie Anderson

Picture me if you will, sitting next to an adorable little black lady on the bus today doing my best to ignore her nonsensical ramblings and simply bump corny white jams digitally into my own private ears. The truth is, this task proved too hard to master for ol' Squidge for two obvious---ish reasons. The first of which was that ol' girl was literally under 5 ft tall. Adding to her brain twisting appeal was what must have been two and a half full tubes of Krunch brand DEP designer styling gel that she had applied generously to her grapefruit sized head. Oh, and also she was fucking insane. Eventually I removed my headphones, conceding to her draw upon my attention at which point she began to tell me how last night she was at a party with "uh, you know, that white guy...uh, he's real funny...Louie Anderson, yup." Quite out of no where a tall, bony, long haired, gothtard boy boards our bus. In an instant she forgets all about Louie Anderson's Country Fried Buffet Party (safe assumption) and she screams out, "OH HELL NO! THAT BOY LOOKS LIKE A DRAG QUEEN, DON'T HE"?!

I started laughing pretty hard.

She offered me a bite of her half eaten tamale.

I declined.

Something tells me that she really was at a party with Louie Anderson last night though...also...didn't Louie Anderson die?