Smokey Robinson, Artiste!!

Hey, everybuzzy! It's happy times today! Fun and goodness and Skittles are in the air! And Cheerios, which are heart healthy, but also better for your teeth than Skittles!

Also safer, since there are no Cheerios-fueled riots. You have not known fear until you've been walking down the streets of midtown Manhattan munching on a falafel sandwich only to be set upon by crazed hordes of sugar-saturated business people trailing rivulets of rainbow-colored Skittle spit (or "Spittle") down their neckties and shirts. That's fear. And as I said, you have not yet been properly introduced to fear. Fear? This is my audience. Audience? This is fear. Come to New York and visit us today, because in addition to facing fear in person, Skittles are in the air, as I believe I mentioned a couple times already. PAY ATTENTION. Free Skittles for anybuzzy who wants them!

And WHY are Skittles in the air? Along with fun and goodness and happy times and smiley-faced balloons (not pictured)? I'll tell you why.

Really.

But not yet.

Okay, I lied. I'm about to tell you now.

Ready?

Wait, seriously, are you ready? I mean, it's not like you need to strap yourself in or anything, which would be ridiculous, but are you prepared for this kind of good news - the kind that will make you click your heels and pop your gum and fart "The Star-Spangled Banner?" Because that's the level of goodness of the news about which I am rhapsodizing. Skittles are in the air. Fucking SKITTLES, everybuzzy.

And do you want to know why?

It's because canning is making a comeback. BOO-YA.

Obviously, some of the harder-bitten existentialists here at Dole (I'm talking to you, Rex "The Supervisor" Hymen) don't really care, and have been trying to burst the rest of our bubbles all the livelong day. "Canning never went anywhere," they said, "we've been doing it for years. Now quit farting 'The Star-Spangled Banner,' dammit, and get back to work!" But to the doubting Rex "The Supervisor" Hymens of the world, all I have to say is this:

Nanner nanner.

Because yes, it's true, we haven't stopped canning for years now (not counting coffee breaks and national holidays). But only rarely - like maybe once every six months - has our work been favorably compared in the mainstream media to Baroque painting and Renaissance sculpture.

Check this out (emphasis added, but only slightly):

When tough times hit, it's said that people "go back to what they know." Across the country, some people are trying to find out what their grandparents knew. Old and young alike are trying to pick up a new skill and save a little money by learning the art of canning food.

-Jennifer Moore
National Public Radio (!)
June 20, 2009

I AM AN ARTIST! YES, I CAN! JENNIFER MORE FROM NPR SAID SO!

So stick that in Your Stigmata and smoke it, Jesus. You're dealing with Smokey Robinson the artist now! I'm so freaking stoked I could fart "The Star-Spangled Banner!"

But if you'll excuse me, first I have to do some work. Those bacon-wrapped cherries aren't going to make art out of themselves...

The Endless New York City Fashion Parade Continues

I will never understand how, in an era where the sidewalks of cities across the world are littered with bloggerizers armed with 32GB iPhone 3G S's that have cameras and internet connections and apps for that, how a grown man could let himself walk out of the house with the bottom half of his body clad in this...


...and not expect to be made famous (or infamous, perhaps?? Like a pirate? Yar? Who's with me?) by this blog, which you are the only person not reading.

Blue pants? Seriously? AND blue shoes that are not made from suede, but rather from some mass-produced, glossy, scratch-resistant polymer (sort of pictured, and also sort of not pictured)? Even the great Elvis Prestley would has his work cut out for him trying to rhapsodize about those shoes while keeping his rhymes and beats funky fresh, and Alvis Prasley is the greatest ever* when it comes to rhapsodizing about shoes while keeping his rhymes and beats funky fresh, right? Right?

Oh, and as for the blurriness, ha ha, yeah, thanks for pointing that out! See, what happened was that I was laughing, and also I took this picture on a moving train, and also, fuck you for noticing, you jerk. I suppose you're too cool to spend entire subway rides covertly snapping pictures of random strangers and their fashion faux pas, right? Why don't you go stick your head in a bucket of something gross and/or toxic. Who do you think you are, Alvin Praxley or something? You make me sick.

'Kay, bye! Thanks for reading!

*Okay, that's not true. Technically. Pretzly is good, but nobody beats Michael Bublé when it comes to songs about shoes and funky fresh beats.

A Brief, But Still Panoramic History of the Dole Fruit Plant, Part I

The Dole Fruit Plant is not associated with the Dole Food Company, Dole Food Company, Inc. or Castle & Cooke, Inc, currently headquartered in Westlake, California. Neither is the Dole Fruit Plant affiliated with the Hawaiian Pineapple Company, the historical forebear of Dole Fruit. This much needs must be made clear right at the start of things; despite appearances which were designed to fool the public into believing the contrary, the fine people at the Dole Food Company have done absolutely nothing to deserve having their names and reputations besmirched by any association with the scandalous and unsavory history of the Dole Fruit Plant in New York City. At various times though the years, Dole Food Company has attempted to sue the Dole Fruit Plant for trademark infringement and various other things (i.e. a 1978 nuisance suit over a particular Dole Fruit Plant employee’s bad breath), but the Fruit Plant has two distinct advantages in this regard: first, its internal legal staff has had surgical alterations to their brains to allow them to be extra-vicious and need less sleep than ordinary human beings; and second, said legal staff enjoys a close relationship with the governments of the United States, Canada, the Philippines, Vatican City, the Principality of Monaco, France, and an endive salad made in 1982 that rules most of northern Africa and the Middle East.

In short, they are not to be trifled with.

The Dole Fruit Plant was founded in New York City in 1921, at the height of a trend of fashionable political discord that the Fruit Plant’s Founder, Dr. Joseph Dmitri, wanted desperately to get in on. Dr. Dmitri was raised by his proto-fascist godparents in an obscure Greek corner of the Tyrolean Mountains, and he had always dreamed of being able to freely libel and slander anyone he chose for the express purpose of establishing them as villains in what he liked to think of as “The Great Comic Book of Life.” Given the state of world politics in the early 20th century and the seeming obsession with ideology-based “scares,” Dr. Dmitri perceived the time was right to create his own. So he set sail for America – America, the Home of the Brave And Also of the Highly Susceptible to Paranoia; America, the Land of Opportunity for Extreme Political Fear-Mongering. Dr. Dmitri saw America as a melting pot, but also as a seething cauldron of anxiousness and unrest ready to boil over if heat could simply be applied. And he saw himself as just the man to apply that heat. “America is a melting pot,” he wrote in his journal in 1919, “but also a seething cauldron of anxiousness and unrest ready to boil over if heat can simply be applied. And I am just the man to apply that heat.”

America was full of opportunity for scores of tens of dozens of hundreds of millions of thousands of pounds of immigrants in those days – and not just for extreme political fear-mongering, either. The American economy was festooned with plum, high-paying jobs in fields as diverse and satisfying as 18-hours-a-day-sewing and rock-breaking-from-sunrise-to-sunset. Some immigrant laborers earned entire, luxurious pennies every day.

Dr. Dmitri, however, did not need to seek his fortune. His family was already wealthy. His journey to America and his quest to capitalize on the “scare” phenomenon were predicated largely on boredom, the sort of deep malaise that had led so many other great men (such as Einstein and Hemingway) to lives of decadence and sloth and murder. So Dr. Dmitri spent some of his considerable family fortune purchasing a zeppelin, which he flew to America and then detonated for no better reason than it was simpler than paying for hangar space. Also, because it really impressed a girl he had picked up in Paris whose name he failed to learn before she perished in the zeppelin’s fiery explosion.

Dr. Dmitri was not a man who sensibly dispensed his considerable sums of money. It was well known in Tyrol that Josef Dmitri could get a bit slack in his guard on the old purse strings, particularly if you fed him enough feta cheese. Also, he had terrible luck with women. his combustible companion from Paris was neither the first nor last woman who would explode at his hands.

Dr. Dmitri quickly discovered that there was no money to be made from scares in the private sector. Government funding seemed to be the way to go. And in order to secure said funding, Dr. Dmitri quite sensibly approached the venture under the guise of research. “Far easier,” he wrote “to convince the American government to study the ill effects of a major social movement than to simply vilify and eradicate them, though extermination is obviously still the objective here. Muhuhahahaha.”

How Dr. Dmitri settled on existentialists as his choice of scare targets is, at this point, a mystery lost for the ages, a mere pebble dropped into a vast ocean of time and meatball parmesan sandwiches from one of the finer Italian restaurants on the eastern side of midtown Manhattan. Why someone would need to drop a pebble into such a ridiculous and confusing metaphorical ocean is beyond the power of scholars to understand because scholars are really nowhere near as smart as they’re always rumored to be. Also, it’s irrelevant, because the metaphor is really weak. An ocean of time and (really, really good) sandwiches? Even really good sandwiches have limits to their usefulness at some level, and this is that level.

The point is that Dr. Dmitri chose, as his scare victims, existentialists. That jerk.

Coming in part 2: Dr. Dmitri gets an enemy.

My Immortality, Realized

Bienvenue to my legendariness.

I have done it. I am now immortal. I am the Author of the One Millionth Word Ever in the English Language Ever, of All Time. And what's even better is that YOU ARE NOT the Author of the One Millionth Word Ever in the English Language Ever, of All Time. By the way, that is totally going on my next business card.

The One Millionth Word Ever in the English Language Ever, of All Time...

Is...

"Web 2.0"

[this was the placeholder for the One Millionth Word Ever in the English Language Ever, of All Time, which was not, as it turns out, "noob." But it totally could have been "blorkenheim" if enough people would just have believed in themselves.]

I don't want or need to get all preachy on y'all, but you know, the One Millionth Whatever totally could have been "blorkenheim" if enough people would just have believed in themselves. You would have manned up if I were Colbert, and you goshdarn well know it.

Anyway, congratulations. To ME!

Oh, and by the way, I'm not kidding.

Meet the new Jesus (this time with really awesome boobs)

Move over, Oprah Whimfree. Now there's something leaner, whiter, and more descended-from-the-loins-of-Jon Voight on top of the Hollywood Reporter's list of the 100 most powerful celebrities in celebrity-dom. That's right, it's Angelina Jolie. Yes, that Angelina. Yes, that Jolie. The coup has been staged, and thanks to the laser-guided incendiary missiles (not pictured) she had installed in her massive lips (yes pictured), Jolie is now more powerful than you, Oprah!


It's true, too. How else do you explain the fact that she's even on the list after the release of that piece of trash Wanted? (Which, for those of you keeping score at home, also starred the dude who played the half-goat in Narnia, the Witch, and the Kids in the Armoire - what was his name? Right, Morgan Freeman.) I'm no film expert, but I would think attaching yourself to that kind of box office poison would be enough to strangle the life out of most people's movie careers. But what does Jolie do? She maneuvers it into sequel talks. And her character died at the end! Spoiler alert!

In and of itself, that's not really enought to make Jolie more powerful that Oprah, with the book club, and the ability to induce poultry-related riots on a whim, and her daily strangle-hold over the consciousness of millions of suburban women that make up the backbone of this recession. You have to add in the lip missiles (not pictured). Then it's power. A sword would be cool too; just something to think about.

So no more letters to Jesus, because that dude's act is getting way old at this point. (Seriously, Son of Man, get some Band-Aids and put on some Your-Dad-damnned Nikes and a pair of jeans already.) And no more letters to Oprah either, because you're not number one anymore, Oprah, and also because the touchy Chicago courts are really, really narrow-minded when it comes to the definitions of "harassment" and "violating a restraining order." From now on, it's Jolie for me.

Dear Jolie,

Smite them. Smite them all. Unleash teh fury.

A sword would be cool too; just something to think about.

Yours in number-one-ness,
Smokey F. Robinson

P.S. Can you make it so we don't have to wait till January for the next episode of Lost? I NEED TO GO BACK TO THE ISLAND.

My Immortality

I have literarily just been given a golden opportunity to realize my potential and become world famous for something. I am going to the be the author of the One Millionth (1,000,000th) Word Ever in the English Language Ever, of All Time. In fact, thanks to some creativity, and a secret which I will now reveal to the world - on the condition that you all promise not to plagiarize my idea in any language or in any country of the world, from now until the end of time, come what may, E Pluribus Unum, amen - I am technically already the writer of the One Millionth Word Ever in the English Language Ever, of All Time.

Here's the scam, everybuzzy:

First, you has to read this article here.

Then you has to reed the millionth word, which is [insert MILLIONTH WORD here, probably "noob" at this point], and will appear also in a post which, thanks to the magic of the internet, I have scheduled to be published at precisely 10:22 AM on June the 10th.

Then, you has to look at the date 'n' time of the blog post published on 10:22 AM on June the 10th (hint: it will be 10:22 AM on June the 10th) and compare it to the date and time in the article I referenced above. Go on, be resourceful. And pay no attention to the fact that this article was actually written on May 7, 2009 at 6:17 PM. Or actually, pay all the attention that you want. Because it is now recorded for posterity, thanks to the swell folks at blogger.com (hi, guys!), and I therefore must be right. Because the internet - and in particular blogger.com - never lie.

Seriously, guys, this is like if someone told you the date and time you could get away with robbing a bank, only there's no money in it, and also it's much, much, much, much more nerdy than that. But whatever. I thought of it, and you didn't. And I didn't even need to spin the Frozen Donkey Wheel or leave the Island!

So there, Alfred Feinstein, or whatever yer name was. Stick that in your General Theory of Relativity and smoke it. And don't forget to tell all the other people in Hell that Smokey sez wassuuuuup!

By the way, if you do plagiarize my idea and scoop me as the million-word-writer, I will still be the guy who brought you The Idea to Become Famous on the Internet by Writing the Millionth Word in the English Language. And you, Mister or Miss Poopyhead who stole my idea, can go kiss your own poopy head. Also, I will write your obituary on blogger.com, and date it for JUNE 11, and then I will be famous (and possibly wanted) for being suspiciously, precognitively aware of the death of a complete Poopyhead stranger.

Also by the way, there are still 544 words to be accepted into the language before the Millionth, so if we work really hard and our timing is impeccable, and we can somehow choreograph a 25,000-person simultaneous media posting, we can all get together to make the Millionth something unexpected, like "blorkenheim," which so far appears nowhere on the Internet or in the media. Except here, I guess. So make that a 24,999-person effort. And I don't want or need to get all preachy on y'all, but you know, the One Millionth Whatever could totally be "blorkenheim" (24,998!) if enough people believe in themselves. You would man up if I were Colbert, and you goddamn well know it.

Blorkenheim! 24,997!

Finally!

There is no fight left to fight anymore, people. Satan has been killed. In Mississippi. Take a look:

Sort of an ignominious end for the Prince of Evil, isn't it? To be killed in Mississippi? I mean, shouldn't he at least have gotten gunned down while he was on Spring Break in Daytona Beach, passed out from drinking $2 "you call it" shots? This is actually sort of pathetic.

And frankly, if that chalk outline is to be believed, he's not quite as svelte as I would've thought either. I wonder how he charmed generations worth of people into sinning with a figure like that? He must've had a great personality or something, I guess.

Oh well. He's gone now, so I suppose we'll never know.

Thanks again, Jesus!

SPOILER ALERT

[Thanks, bits and pieces.]

Boo-Earth!

Today, as everyone knows, is Earth Day, which is earth's birthday, which means that according to the Jewish calendar (official calendar system of the blog), the earth is 5,769 years old. That means that if there were really a Mother Earth, she would have hit menopause and moved to Florida like 5,720 years ago. I bet she has a hell of a tan by now.

I know I've publicly celebrated Earth Day in the past, but that is so over now. I am taking a page out of the Republican playbook here - not the page where I actively campaign for the dissolution of the country that I claim to love more than you, or the page where I make eloquent defenses of the choice movement at Right To Life dinners, or the page where the people who expose the people who okay'd torture have their judgment publicly questioned while the okay'ers slink freely among the public. Wait, is that the hypocritical page? Okay, then yes, that is the page I'm taking out of the Republican playbook.

Because I am refusing to celebrate Earth Day this year. I protest!

I've been in kind of a protestical (not pro-testicle, you pervert) mood this week, actually. It all goes back to Monday morning, when I looked in my sock drawer and saw that among my scant choices were a pair of black socks that said "Wednesday" on them (in yellow). Initially, I recoiled at those socks. Oh no, I thought. I can't possibly wear Wednesday socks on a Monday... But then I started wondering exactly what repercussion would befall me if I just went ahead and shot the lock off, and put on the damn socks. Before I knew it I was yanking the socks out of the drawer and cursing at them, "fuck you, socks! You're not the boss of me! Why don't you swallow my foot and see how you like it?"

It felt so good that I followed that up by wearing my Sunday socks yesterday. On a Tuesday. Nobody pushes me around, see!

Which brings us to today. Earth Day, if that is its real name. Give me one good goddamn reason why I should celebrate Earth Day. Every fucking day is Earth Day, let's not kid ourselves. This isn't like that whole Mother's Day thing where we have to pretend that our mothers are actual human beings with feelings and take them out of the home for an entire excruciating day, this is for real. There is no alternative to Earth. We are being bullied into submission by a dictatorial planet so intent on keeping us here that you literally have to get your kinetic energy equal to the magnitude of your gravitational potential energy in order to reach escape velocity! Talk about clingy...

Besides which. Earth is responsible for giving us this:

Absolutely unforgivable, Earth. Shame on you. SHAME! I hope your birthday sucks and that you explode from eating poison cake.

This could be the beginning of a 6,000,000-page serial novel!

The premise of my next work of fiction, length undecided:

“So, um, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a trained killer.”

“A trained killer.”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’m really a trained killer.”

“Okay. So, um,… what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a trained killer.”

“That’s your story and you’re sticking to it?”

“Yes. That’s my story. I’m a trained killer.”

“And for whom do you kill trains?”

“Cute.”

“Sorry. For whom do you turn tricks?”

“I’m a trained killer, not a trained seal.”

“I was calling you a whore, not a trained seal.”

“Probably not the wisest thing to say to a trained killer.”

“If only I knew one.”

“Oh! Me, pick me! Hi, I’m a trained killer!”

“How do you, um, do it?”

“Like, what’s my method?”

“Okay, sure.”

“I poison people.”

“You poison people from the government, and they still let you have a profile on eHarmony?”

“I know. ExceptI don’t poison people for the government.”

“So do you work for?”

“A small private security company. I’m not at liberty to say more than that.”

“I think you’ve said plenty.”

“Well, I’m having doubts about it.”

“About your…career choice?”

“Yes.”

“Which you still maintain is that you professionally poison people.”

“Right. I’m having some doubts about that though.”

“Like, ethics questions?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Huh. Let’s talk.”

This Ex-stinks.

These two news items remind me of this great stegosaurus place I used to know on 9th Avenue, back in the Mesozoic era. Damn, I haven't been there in ages. Boy, could I go for a nice, medium rare stego-steak right about now...

Anyway.

Item 1:

A rare Worcester’s buttonquail (Turnix worcesteri), a probable female, which is also locally known as the Philippines quail, is shown being photographed while being held by a bird hunter in Caraballo (above).

The bird, thought to be extinct, was photographed for the first time in the Philippines, and then sold to a poultry market as food.

from cryptomundo via boingboing

Item 2:

Fishermen in the Philippines accidentally caught and later ate a megamouth shark, one of the rarest fishes in the world with only 40 others recorded to have been encountered, the World Wildlife Fund said Tuesday. The 1,100-pound, 13-foot megamouth died while struggling in the fishermen's net on March 30 off Burias island in the central Philippines. It was taken to nearby Donsol in Sorsogon province, where it was butchered and eaten, said Gregg Yan, spokesman for WWF-Philippines.

from Yahoo!, also via boingboing

Now, I realize I might have Easter on the brain (you should too, Christians...), but isn't this a little bit like if the apostles had tried to take a bite out of Jesus when he reappeared? It's like, "oh, hey, Son of Man, we totally thought You were extinct! We're so glad You're back! And have You been working out, because That Flank of Yours is looking pretty tasty... no, wait, come back!!"

They don't call him the Lamb of God for nothing, folks. Am I right? Who's with me?

What's with all that gathering lightning?

Dear Jesus,

Zap.


Marshmallows and lollipops,
The Smoke Monster.

Dude, the Day After Easter is Painful Enough As It Is

I don't know about anybuzzy else, but the day after Easter is not a happy day for me AT ALL. First of all, there's the realization that good ol' Jesus C. (Friend of the blog) has gone back to His spaceship with Elvis Presley and the Tooth Fairy until His birthday party in December, or at least until one of those fake "Christmas in July" promotions where retail stores give huge discounts on vacuum cleaners and Michael Bolton CDs (Jesus's two favorite gifts!).

And second of all, I'm always a little bit sluggish the day after Easter because of the massive amount of labor involved in obtaining my favorite Easter delicacy, chocolate-covered rabbits (not pictured). Because as any connosieur of chocolate-covered rabbits knows, it is really hard to catch a rabbit. And it is even harder to convince the rabbit to sit still while you dip it in a pot of molten chocolate. There may be more than one way to skin a cat, but that's cats, and that's skinning, and we're talking catching rabbits and dipping them in molten chocolate, which is quite the holiday undertaking, let me tell you.

I remember the days when Cadbury Creme Eggs used to be enough for me. But then I discovered that not only are they not real eggs, they're not laid by a real bunny either. Fakers! And I am all about the authenticity, folks, as you probably already know from a cursory critical examination of the lyrics to my hit song, "Tears of a Clown."

Anyway.

I always try and make a few extra chocolate-covered rabbits, sometimes to give out as gifts, and sometimes just for me. But these are lean times. The Great Repression is in full effect. So this year, I not only had to compete with the speed and caginess of my leporine prey, but also with the dozens of hungry Wall Street bankers who prowl the streets of New York nowadays in search of pigeons, rodents, and small game animals for sustenance. I'm not a competitive person by nature. I just want to collect my coneys and be left in peace, not harrassed and held at Blackberry-point by some down-and-out Lehman Brothers layoff-ee who rifles through my pockets and then laughs at me for carrying around Goonies trading cards. They're just there to give me luck with the hunting, you jerk.

God damn, was that woman mean.

And of course, that's all not to mention the disappointment that comes when you bite into the head of a chocolate-covered bunny and discover that the rabbit you worked so hard to catch and dip has somehow managed to disappear from its chocolate tomb, leaving you with nothing but a hollow, hare-shaped piece of chocolate. I know it's very thematic and Easter-appropriate and all, and I strongly suspect that Jesus somehow magicks them out of there as a prank on me (very funny, Jesus), but honest to Christ: if I wanted hollow chocolate, I'd buy it from a fucking store.

My point is that the post-Easter Monday is already fraught with enough exhaustion and heartache. So the last thing I needed to see when I looked at my Internet first thing this morning was this:


The Peekaru? Seriously? W.T. Fuck, America? Who's responsible for this? I want names. When Jesus comes back next year*, I'm totally ratting you guys out.

*That's assuming Barack Obama doesn't blow up the world before then, which is a pretty generous assumption considering how he's doing so far.

How Cheerios' Heart-Healthiness Was Put to Complete Shame

Looks like Lucky has a new marshmallow buddy:


This is not your breakfast cereal. This is like Jesus's breakfast cereal and Superman's breakfast cereal combined, only on steroids and methamphetamines and crack, and with surprisingly low nutritional value. Your breakfast cereal can't even keep you from getting hungry again before noon, though, because all it has are seven healthy grains, and not marshmallows with the power to manipulate time-space.

I hate to say it, Kix. You may be kid-tested and mother-approved, but we're talking about the ability to violate Einstein's laws here. Lucky Charms wins in a landslide.

The problem is that it's a gateway physics-defying cereal. I already have one friend who got looped on time-controlling Lucky Charms and gravity-defying Captain Crunch, and is now in suspended animation 300 feet above Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, just hanging there in mid-air with this horrified look on his face. It's pretty gruesome. But it's also a very visible cautionary tale for the children.

Gasp! Oh my Zod, I think I just figured out how they're going to end the hit ABC documentary Lost! With a cartoon leprechaun!

You're welcome, America, for once again doing your homework for you.

Spotlight on my junk mail (yes, again)

From: Elaine Masters [mastelaine@gmail.com]
To: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
Date: Tue, Mar 17, 2008 at 5:31 PM
Subject: My Honest Desire

Hello,

I am Elaine Masters now undergoing medical treatment for cancer. I am married to Dr. David Masters who worked with United Kingdom Embassy for ten years before he died in the year 2002.

Before my Husband died, we both made a deposit of a total sum $8.6M in a financial company here in U.K. Recently, my Doctor told me that I have few months to live due to cancer problem. Having known my condition I have decided to donate this fund to an honest Person. who will be trusted to assist me in my last desire to help the poor and the sick through charity.

Please assure me that you will act accordingly as I stated herein. Hoping to hear from you. Remember to send your response to this email address: mastelaine@gmail.com

In His Arms.

Mrs. Elaine Masters

***

From: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
To: Elaine Masters [mastelaine@gmail.com]
Date: Tue, Mar 17, 2008 at 5:33 PM
Subject: Re: Your Honest Desire

Dear Mrs. Elaine Masters,

Thank you for contacting me with your offer to donate $8.6 million to me. I'm sure there are a lot of people out there who wouldn't know quite how to respond to such an offer, or who might think that someone sending an unsolicited email offering to give $8.6 million to a stranger is too good to be true. Fortunately for you, I have a great deal of experience accepting huge random donations from people with limited functional English knowledge who have never met me.

So let's do this.

I'm sure the easiest way to arrange the transfer would be for me to forward my bank account information, including PIN numbers and online passwords and whatnot. But that's just what they'll be expecting us to do. So here's what I'm thinking instead: if you can arrange to get the $8.6 million in $20 bills, I will send you 430,000 stamped business envelopes, and you can mail the Jacksons to me one at a time.

I know this plan might seem inefficient and somewhat costly, but trust me when I tell you that you do not want the tax-related hassle of writing me a check, or directly depositing the funds into one of my many bank accounts. Too many questions. Too much paperwork. Too many sticky entanglements with the law. Too much marshmallow on my fluffernutter.

Besides which, I'm the one doing you a favor anyway. I'm not talking about assisting you in your last desire to help the poor and the sick through charity, I'm talking about the other favor I'm doing for you, which is to spare you the burden of being rich anymore. I'm sure you'll agree that this economic climate is not exactly hospitable to people who have lots of money. Why, just yesterday, Senator Charles Grassley (R-Iowa) called for fatcat AIG executives who approved bonuses to their Financial Products division to either resign or commit suicide. Suicide! Just for being rich!

It's times like this when you have to ask yourself what the point of the American dream is. Well, not you, since you're apparently in U.K. Also because you have cancer problem and will be dead soon.

Anyway, the money. Let me know if my plan is acceptable to you, or if you have a different suggestion about how to get me the money. I say "different suggestion" and not "better suggestion" because honestly, I don't see how you can top my 430,000-envelope idea. But go ahead and try if you want to, chuckle chuckle chuckle.

Yours in song,
Smokey Robinson.

And now, an offer for FreshDirect...

Dear FreshDirect:

You did it!

I am so excited and so proud of you for finally managing to deliver me my eggs without cracking any of them in the course of said delivery. I admit, I was less than optimistic when I opened up the box and saw one of the egg cartons lying on its side. Oh no, I thought. Here we go again.

Actually, that's not exactly what I thought. My inner monologue tends to be a great deal more profane than that. I think it's because one of my personalities is a sailor who swears like, well, a sailor, frankly. What I actually thought was, oh fucking no. Here we fucking go fuck a-fuck-gain. Fuck.

Please excuse the language. Also, please excuse the low expectations. (My sailor personality is also very jaded about 21st century customer service. Sorry.) I'm just being honest here, though, which I hope will give you greater insight into the FreshDirect customer experience, which, believe me, can be a profanity- and pessimism-inducing experience even if you don't have an alternate personality with a maritime background and a bitter streak.

Anyway, I just wanted to compliment you on finally getting the egg thing right. This is the third time I've ordered eggs from you, FreshDirect, but it's only the first time I've actually gotten all the eggs I ordered intact. Both of the other times, various amounts of egg breakage in my orders have resulted in my account being credited for the full value of all the eggs. In other words, I have not yet actually paid for a single egg.

Until today. And believe me when I tell you that I am fucking happy to do so.

As a matter of fact, I even feel kind of guilty, probably because one of my other personalities is an abusive parent with an overdeveloped sense of remorse. I feel guilty about everything.

But I especially feel guilty about having eaten so many free eggs. So, FreshDirect, in the spirit of quid pro quo (Is there a spirit of quid pro quo? What does that even mean?), I'd like to credit you $5.00 on my next order. If you could please just add a random $5.00 charge - not in return for a product, not for a service, but just because I asked you to - I would be very much obliged. It's my way of saying, "good job, fucking FreshDirect! Thank you for all the free goddamn eggs. Oh, and I'm sorry I hit you - please don't tell your mother."

Yours truly,
Smokey Robinson.

Conversations with Jesus about People Our Age: Alex Rodriguez

This is the year that yours truly, Smokey Falafel Robinson, the Motown Marauder himself, turns 33 years old. Now, some of the skeptics out there will say, "hey Smokey, that's impossible," or "hey, Smokey, you're a liar," or "come on, Smokey, quit stealing my gummi bears," citing the following evidence:

1. "Shop Around," my first chart-topper, was released in 1960,

2. According to my wikipedia page - I mean, birth certificate - I was born in 1940.

3. I have, in fact, been stealing gummi bears.

But what those skeptics do not know is that I was actually born on a small island named "Lost," which is the same island where they currently film the ABC documentary of the same name. So while it may seem impossible, trust me when I tell you that, as hard as it may seem to believe, I am only as old as Jesus was when He croaked.

Speaking of Jesus (a Friend of the blog, by the way), we here at YATOPNRTB managed to get Him to take a little bit of time out of His Busy Schedule to chat with us about some other luminary personalities who are celebrating their year of Crucifixion, only without the crucifixion part.

First up is Alex Rodriguez.

Alex, or "A-Rod, as he is sometimes referred to in the media," is a baseball player for the New York Yankers, or so we are told. And A-Rod, as he is sometimes referred to in the media has been having something of a rough go of it lately, ever since his fourth-favorite Chihuahua, Calcetin, died of a poison-related illness some weeks ago that I swear to Zod I know nothing about. To a lesser extent, A-Rod, as he is sometimes referred to in the media has been dogged by recently confirmed rumors that he is of Hispanic descent - something that would be hard for anyone to get over. (Right, Mom?)

Jesus and I sat down with A-Rod, as he is sometimes referred to in the media over a cold glass of steroid juice and some Growth Hormone sandwiches, which are a specialty of Jesus's.

Unfortunately, because of an unexpected wizard's duel between Jesus and A-Rod, as he is sometimes referred to in the media, and a memory charm that shot off sideways, I am unable to reprint the happenings of that meeting, because I can't remember them. But suffice it to say that it's probably not a good idea to say to Jesus that "at least I wasn't crucified, Dude," no matter how hard Jesus is laughing at your misfortune. Something to keep in mind next week when we sit down with Tiger Tiger Tiger Woods, y'all.