As a very humble person, probably the humblest of the humble (I make Ghandi look like Tom Cruise), I have often quarreled with myself over whether I should or should not admit the obvious. I have come to the conclusion that, after over 2500 years, it is time that the world knows the truth:
I, Pokey, invented Democracy.
There, I said it. I feel much better now. Like a weight has been lifted off my chest. No, wait, that was just my cat getting up from the nap she decided to take on my torso. At the least, admission is step one in the process of recovery. So how did it happen that I brought forth the one and only true form of government? (Sorry all you Dictators, Socialists, Communists, and Monarchs out there. You suck and you Dictators suck about 10,000 times more than the others. And Prince William is balding prematurely. So there.)
Well, here is how:
I was playing outside one day when I was seven. My brothers and sister weren’t around for some reason so I was attempting to play four-square on my own. Note to all: It doesn’t work. Anyways, so this old man pulls up next to me and says he has candy and puppies in his car.
The guy looked like the love child of Einstein and Della Reese, but had a friendly enough face. Of course, my parents had told me to never, ever get into a stranger’s car without first asking the secret code word we’d developed (Napolean – not Bonaparte, but rather a large shaggy mutt we’d inherited from my grandmother), but I’d had a hard day and needed a Snickers. So I climbed into his car. Before I knew what hit me, he plugged the year 508 BC into some machine on the center console and sped off at speeds that would have him taking the Pole at the Indy 500.
The next thing I knew, we were somewhere I’d never been, surrounded by men wearing bed sheets in the style of the Toga. Not normal for 1988, unless you lived in a Fraternity House.
“Welcome to Greece, don’t drink the water,” the man said.
I was talking with Cleisthenes one day. I’d been in Athens about 16 minutes by then. And he was expressing his desire to revamp the Athenian Constitution following the downfall of Isagoras and to establish a new form of government that would allow more people to participate in the decision-making process and to provide a platform for the development of competing media interests. I thought about it for awhile and realized that America in the future had such a form of government! Not only that, but we also had fast-food and an obesity epidemic. I figured that was exactly what Clei – as I called him – was getting at.
I suggested that he establish such a form of government in Athens because it was much better than anything else and, plus, the losers in each election could be fed to lions. (I added that because it seemed more exciting than a conciliatory speech). He loved the idea.
When it came time to name this new form of government, he originally wanted to call it “Cleimocracy.” I told him that sounded a little too egocentric and suggested “Democracy” instead.
Some people claim that the word is derived from the Greek word “dēmokratía,” meaning “rule of the people.” However, that is a misconception. It is really a product of my own mind and stems from my desire to make it exceedingly clear that all other forms of government are ridiculous. So, “Them other forms are crazy” was shortened to “Dem others crazy”, which was then shortened to “Democracy.” It’s a historical fact.
Thus, Cleisthenes eventually became known has the Father of Democracy while I got a swizzle stick and a pat on the head for my efforts. This goes to show that, no matter what, the people in power will get all the credit even though it is always the underlings who do all the work. I'm not bitter - much.
After Clei and I had worked out the logistics, the old man who had brought me there ran at me in a frenzy. He was holding two jugs of wine as he was being chased by shopkeepers yelling “STOP, THIEF!”
“Pokey!” he called out, “It’s time to go back to the future!”
As we jumped back into the car, I shouted one last word of warning to Clei, “Beware of the Ides of March! Oh, and don’t hire young female interns named Monica!”
As we arrived, safely, back in 1988, the old man dropped me off in front of my house. He warned me never to speak of this to anyone. I promised I would never tell a soul.
I guess I lied.
And now you know the rest of the story.
-Pokey
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Health Alert: 20 oz Soda Bottles that Are Too Hard to Open (AKA Why cans are better)
Let me start off by saying: I hate scare-media, in fact, I tend to do the opposite of what the Evening News tells me to do – for principle, naturally. While TV broadcasts and newspapers droned on and on about the Swine Flu or the Anthrax, I made it a point to lick handrails and open suspicious mail. However, this time I must make an exception. Read on.
It has come to my attention that there is a new health risk that directly affects 99% of non-Amish America: 20 oz. Soda Bottles. Indeed, horrific and sensational statistics developed from the mind of yours truly following minutes of careful and tedious reflection while watching Monday night football conclude that more Americans are injured by 20 oz. soda bottles than are eaten by gangs of angry mutant ninja turtles each year or than get their news from any other source.
The perils of 20 oz. soda bottle use are many. If shaken, the top could be blown from the base of the bottle all together. The trajectory of its launch could lead to eye loss. Worse yet, if the drink is accidentally/purposefully shaken too hard, the whole thing could go, creating a mushroom cloud above Cincinnati that makes Hiroshima look like a day in the park. The destruction from the explosion and subsequent firestorm is just too awful to describe. I just hope that there are no women with breast implants within a 20-mile radius of the epicenter.
Even worse, the bubbly goodness could fizz up as you open the bottle, causing the liquid to completely soak your shirt as you head to interview for your dream job, leaving you with a soiled appearance and no time to change. Long story short: You don’t get the job and within 6 months have to file for bankruptcy and spend the rest of your working life selling string door to door. The boy or girl you thought was “the one” dumps you and moves in with your former best friend. A la Bridget Jones, you wind up alone and eaten by wild dogs. No one finds you or even attempts to look for you until the stench permeating from your apartment becomes unbearable.
You might laugh and say, “Lol. O-M-G. That would never happen to me.” (Oooh, I rhymed!) That, my friend, would be a mistake. What do you think is the real reason there are so many out of work individuals in this country? Think about that the next time you watch the news, sponsored in part by Pepsi…
All those things would make a bad day worse. But the most horrific injury of all occurs when the factory attaches the cap too tight, making it almost impossible to twist off. You spend hours in agony attempting to open the bottle in order to indulge in the sweet, sweet nectar that is contained within. You grunt and you turn. You scream and you turn. Nothing works. You try switching hands or putting the thing between your knees, or you give up altogether and slam the top on the counter in a last-ditch attempt to knock the seal loose and are again denied.
You throw the whole zeug in the trash can (unrecyclable because it contains liquids), thereby killing the planet and wasting $1.49 + tax as well as the opportunity to win a free soda if your secret code (which you can’t see because it is located under the cap) is a winner. Any way you go at it, you wind up tearing off half of the skin on your hand and bleeding like a stuck pig. Congratulations, you also now must deal with carpel tunnel the rest of your miserable, caffeine denied existence.
I wonder: If the soda companies had placed a larger version of the 20 oz cap on the Gulf Oil Rig, would there have been a leak? Hmmmm. Deep thoughts.
It is time we stand up against this offense to humanity known as the hard screw. Demand that soda bottles come from factories reasonably able to be opened. Be vigilant and remain on the lookout for people attempting to open these bottles and stop them before it is too late! Do your part to make this great nation of ours once again safe for soda drinkers!
Join me, friends! I want to live in a country where I can enjoy carbonated beverages without fear of death or bodily harm! I want my soda! In a can!
-Pokey
It has come to my attention that there is a new health risk that directly affects 99% of non-Amish America: 20 oz. Soda Bottles. Indeed, horrific and sensational statistics developed from the mind of yours truly following minutes of careful and tedious reflection while watching Monday night football conclude that more Americans are injured by 20 oz. soda bottles than are eaten by gangs of angry mutant ninja turtles each year or than get their news from any other source.
The perils of 20 oz. soda bottle use are many. If shaken, the top could be blown from the base of the bottle all together. The trajectory of its launch could lead to eye loss. Worse yet, if the drink is accidentally/purposefully shaken too hard, the whole thing could go, creating a mushroom cloud above Cincinnati that makes Hiroshima look like a day in the park. The destruction from the explosion and subsequent firestorm is just too awful to describe. I just hope that there are no women with breast implants within a 20-mile radius of the epicenter.
Even worse, the bubbly goodness could fizz up as you open the bottle, causing the liquid to completely soak your shirt as you head to interview for your dream job, leaving you with a soiled appearance and no time to change. Long story short: You don’t get the job and within 6 months have to file for bankruptcy and spend the rest of your working life selling string door to door. The boy or girl you thought was “the one” dumps you and moves in with your former best friend. A la Bridget Jones, you wind up alone and eaten by wild dogs. No one finds you or even attempts to look for you until the stench permeating from your apartment becomes unbearable.
You might laugh and say, “Lol. O-M-G. That would never happen to me.” (Oooh, I rhymed!) That, my friend, would be a mistake. What do you think is the real reason there are so many out of work individuals in this country? Think about that the next time you watch the news, sponsored in part by Pepsi…
All those things would make a bad day worse. But the most horrific injury of all occurs when the factory attaches the cap too tight, making it almost impossible to twist off. You spend hours in agony attempting to open the bottle in order to indulge in the sweet, sweet nectar that is contained within. You grunt and you turn. You scream and you turn. Nothing works. You try switching hands or putting the thing between your knees, or you give up altogether and slam the top on the counter in a last-ditch attempt to knock the seal loose and are again denied.
You throw the whole zeug in the trash can (unrecyclable because it contains liquids), thereby killing the planet and wasting $1.49 + tax as well as the opportunity to win a free soda if your secret code (which you can’t see because it is located under the cap) is a winner. Any way you go at it, you wind up tearing off half of the skin on your hand and bleeding like a stuck pig. Congratulations, you also now must deal with carpel tunnel the rest of your miserable, caffeine denied existence.
I wonder: If the soda companies had placed a larger version of the 20 oz cap on the Gulf Oil Rig, would there have been a leak? Hmmmm. Deep thoughts.
It is time we stand up against this offense to humanity known as the hard screw. Demand that soda bottles come from factories reasonably able to be opened. Be vigilant and remain on the lookout for people attempting to open these bottles and stop them before it is too late! Do your part to make this great nation of ours once again safe for soda drinkers!
Join me, friends! I want to live in a country where I can enjoy carbonated beverages without fear of death or bodily harm! I want my soda! In a can!
-Pokey
Monday, September 27, 2010
Fan Mail: Andrew Zimmern
Dear Mr. Andrew Zimmern, Host of Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern:
Your food choices are as bizarre as the name of your show suggests. However, what I find to be more bizarre is the look you get on your face right before you shove live bugs, putrid maggot meat or cow dung soup in your mouth. At first I couldn’t put my finger on it, but after staying up for 72 hours meditating on the issue and cutting my toenails, I figured it out. It’s the same look that Hannibal Lector gave Clarice when he said, “I ate his liver with a side of fava beans and a nice Chianti.” Scaaaaaary. The food is already freak nasty enough – perhaps tone down the facial effects.
So you have totally made a career out of travelling to obscure locations and scoffing down so called “delicacies” that the Department of Health would ban from being served in the US. You have probably been exposed to more diseases than hours the media spent covering the dreaded Swine Flu. I am sure your intestines are a thriving cesspool of dysentery and salmonella. But you haven’t keeled over yet! Mad props.
I think it’s time to add another element to your show, though. The squeamish factor can really only get you so far. To make things a little more interesting, I propose that you and Samantha Brown have a smack down UFC style. Instead of normal things like mud, pudding or jello, you could hold the match in a pit of mezcal-soaked agave worms or skewed crickets! That way, when you pin her (or vice versa) you can shove those protein-enriched, low fat treats in her face!
Sure she’s like 5 ft. tall and probably weighs as much as your left arm (or less), but I hear the girl is freakishly strong. This one time she took down a whole tribe of Aborigines on a trip to the Australian outback – blind folded, with both arms tied behind her back while Irish Dancing to the Purple Rain Soundtrack. They tried to steal her Shrimp on the Barbie. In fact, she’s been known to pull broken down Tour Busses and regional jets full of complaining retirees wearing white Reeboks and counting the hours until the expiration of their here-and-now safely to mountain-top destinations. I believe she holds the record for on-time arrivals and doesn’t charge extra for checked luggage. (Take that airline industry.)
At any rate, my suggestion (in summary form): Less face, more fight. Samantha Brown is a must.
-Pokey
Your food choices are as bizarre as the name of your show suggests. However, what I find to be more bizarre is the look you get on your face right before you shove live bugs, putrid maggot meat or cow dung soup in your mouth. At first I couldn’t put my finger on it, but after staying up for 72 hours meditating on the issue and cutting my toenails, I figured it out. It’s the same look that Hannibal Lector gave Clarice when he said, “I ate his liver with a side of fava beans and a nice Chianti.” Scaaaaaary. The food is already freak nasty enough – perhaps tone down the facial effects.
So you have totally made a career out of travelling to obscure locations and scoffing down so called “delicacies” that the Department of Health would ban from being served in the US. You have probably been exposed to more diseases than hours the media spent covering the dreaded Swine Flu. I am sure your intestines are a thriving cesspool of dysentery and salmonella. But you haven’t keeled over yet! Mad props.
I think it’s time to add another element to your show, though. The squeamish factor can really only get you so far. To make things a little more interesting, I propose that you and Samantha Brown have a smack down UFC style. Instead of normal things like mud, pudding or jello, you could hold the match in a pit of mezcal-soaked agave worms or skewed crickets! That way, when you pin her (or vice versa) you can shove those protein-enriched, low fat treats in her face!
Sure she’s like 5 ft. tall and probably weighs as much as your left arm (or less), but I hear the girl is freakishly strong. This one time she took down a whole tribe of Aborigines on a trip to the Australian outback – blind folded, with both arms tied behind her back while Irish Dancing to the Purple Rain Soundtrack. They tried to steal her Shrimp on the Barbie. In fact, she’s been known to pull broken down Tour Busses and regional jets full of complaining retirees wearing white Reeboks and counting the hours until the expiration of their here-and-now safely to mountain-top destinations. I believe she holds the record for on-time arrivals and doesn’t charge extra for checked luggage. (Take that airline industry.)
At any rate, my suggestion (in summary form): Less face, more fight. Samantha Brown is a must.
-Pokey
A Rap Song in Memoriam of the Recent 14th Anniversary of the Death of Tupac Shakur (To the Tune of Bah Bah Black Sheep)
Tupac, Tupac
Are you really dead??
Yes, sir. Yes, sir.
T’was three bullets to my head.
One for P Master;
One for my dame;
One for my homies who roughed up Baby Lane.
Tupac, Tupac
You ain’t really dead.
You got me. You got me.
I’m undercover with the Feds.
I knew it.
RIP Mr. Tupac Shakur (June 16, 1971 – September 13, 1996)
- Pokey
Are you really dead??
Yes, sir. Yes, sir.
T’was three bullets to my head.
One for P Master;
One for my dame;
One for my homies who roughed up Baby Lane.
Tupac, Tupac
You ain’t really dead.
You got me. You got me.
I’m undercover with the Feds.
I knew it.
RIP Mr. Tupac Shakur (June 16, 1971 – September 13, 1996)
- Pokey
Sunday, September 26, 2010
A Rant: Prescription Commercials and Side Effects, What's the Point?
Let me just say that I find it ridiculous how prescription drug commercials must include all potential side effects in the 30 seconds the commercial is on TV. Even if such affects have never occurred but there could maybe possibly be a .0000000001% chance that it could happen to someone who was born with translucent skin and curly flourescent pink hair.
I seriously think I end up knowing more about the potential negative effects than what a drug is actually designed to do. We’ve all seen these commercials. They terrify me and not just because the acting is awful and the dialogue is on par with “Debbie Does Dallas,” but because I now fear pills – even Tylenol – because I am afraid I will wake up the day after taking one with some unrelated terminal illness. I had a headache and now I have the Ebola Virus and heartburn. Dun dun dun. Case in point:
A group of late 20-something women are at some big city elitist club, sipping their cosmos and having the same discussion I have at least 5 times a day, every day, with my friends about the horrific bloating and unrelenting cramping that accompanies our monthly cycles. Anyhoo, one of the women – who is always an M.D. – excitedly tells her friends that if they take X Drug, they will only have their periods one to three times a year with some spotting in between!! Sounds great! Wrong. The next 18 seconds are spent as the Dr. Doolittle calmly warns her friends that not only will X Drug curb the effects of Aunt Flo’s monthly visit, but could also lead to more cramping/bloating/fatigue/sexual inadequacy/psychosis/the growth of a second head/blackouts followed by public indecency. Then the name of the drug appears on the screen juxtaposed over a scene of the women booty grinding and with a further admonishment to consult one’s doctor before starting use. Of course. I should definitely consult my doctor because I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT THE DRUG IS ACTUALLY INTENDED TO DO!
So many of the side effects are either completely unrelated to the issue the drugs combat or are even more horrible. Seriously. Who wants to buy a drug to relieve, say, arthritis that can cause impotency? The worst is when the drug could potentially worsen your condition or even CAUSE the condition. “Take the Pill once a week to prevent pregnancy. Warning: May cause a Kate Gosselin style pregnancy and subsequent disconnect from reality.” There are even some side effects that can make an otherwise normal appearing person resemble a Star Trek character – one of the ugly ones with more limbs than sense. Though, thinking about all the cool things I could do with a third arm, like brush my teeth, make a sandwich and conduct an orchestra all at the same time, kind of makes me want to risk it…
Even things as benign as chewable vitamins for kids could cause chest hair growth and bowel irritability. Of course, I made this up, but it’s possible. Imagine your child popping those delicious Flinstones’ Chewables in order to get those essential growth vitamins denied to them by strict diets of Twinkies and Chicken Nuggets and subsequently resembling an incontinent Saskwatch. Forget potty training and buy stock in wax.
It’s no wonder that “performance enhancing” drugs aren’t widely advertised – at least on television. Talk about freak nasty. Such disclosures would require that commercials be rated and they would definitely be NC-17. It would, however, give women who are hit on by muscle bound Neanderthals the upper hand: “I would go out with you Billy Bob, but I happen to know that those muscles are completely unobtainable without scientific assistance. And I also happen to know that you are probably struggling with mood swings and a diminished libido and that the increase in the diameter of your forearms is directly proportional to the shrinkage in other areas. So, I just don’t think this is going to work out. Pun fully intended.” Ouch.
The saddest part of all is thinking about the poor lab animals that have developed the side-effects these commercial so indiscreetly detail. I get chocked up thinking about all the rats out there who thought they were there to be cured of the alcoholism they developed living in the basement of Studio 54 and law schools throughout the country. They may now be sober, but must live the rest of their days with five tails, a fear of anything that begins with the letter A and Betty Davis’ eyes. Tragic.
Basically, I think the FDA should allow drug companies to simmer down the scare tactics. I would much rather the 30-second spots in between episodes of The Middle and Modern Family be spent providing information about what the drug is supposed to do rather than the awful things it could do to .01% of the population, i.e. your Aunt Mildred. Trust me, if I choose to seek treatment for IBS or Peripheral Vascular Disease and am interested in a drug, I will consult my doctor, thank you very much. (Not only that, but I HAVE to consult my doctor to get a prescription at which time my doctor will be required to discuss those all to interesting side effects with me.)
Oh, and one more thing: I hate the word “placebo.” It just sounds dirty.
That is all.
-Pokey
I seriously think I end up knowing more about the potential negative effects than what a drug is actually designed to do. We’ve all seen these commercials. They terrify me and not just because the acting is awful and the dialogue is on par with “Debbie Does Dallas,” but because I now fear pills – even Tylenol – because I am afraid I will wake up the day after taking one with some unrelated terminal illness. I had a headache and now I have the Ebola Virus and heartburn. Dun dun dun. Case in point:
A group of late 20-something women are at some big city elitist club, sipping their cosmos and having the same discussion I have at least 5 times a day, every day, with my friends about the horrific bloating and unrelenting cramping that accompanies our monthly cycles. Anyhoo, one of the women – who is always an M.D. – excitedly tells her friends that if they take X Drug, they will only have their periods one to three times a year with some spotting in between!! Sounds great! Wrong. The next 18 seconds are spent as the Dr. Doolittle calmly warns her friends that not only will X Drug curb the effects of Aunt Flo’s monthly visit, but could also lead to more cramping/bloating/fatigue/sexual inadequacy/psychosis/the growth of a second head/blackouts followed by public indecency. Then the name of the drug appears on the screen juxtaposed over a scene of the women booty grinding and with a further admonishment to consult one’s doctor before starting use. Of course. I should definitely consult my doctor because I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT THE DRUG IS ACTUALLY INTENDED TO DO!
So many of the side effects are either completely unrelated to the issue the drugs combat or are even more horrible. Seriously. Who wants to buy a drug to relieve, say, arthritis that can cause impotency? The worst is when the drug could potentially worsen your condition or even CAUSE the condition. “Take the Pill once a week to prevent pregnancy. Warning: May cause a Kate Gosselin style pregnancy and subsequent disconnect from reality.” There are even some side effects that can make an otherwise normal appearing person resemble a Star Trek character – one of the ugly ones with more limbs than sense. Though, thinking about all the cool things I could do with a third arm, like brush my teeth, make a sandwich and conduct an orchestra all at the same time, kind of makes me want to risk it…
Even things as benign as chewable vitamins for kids could cause chest hair growth and bowel irritability. Of course, I made this up, but it’s possible. Imagine your child popping those delicious Flinstones’ Chewables in order to get those essential growth vitamins denied to them by strict diets of Twinkies and Chicken Nuggets and subsequently resembling an incontinent Saskwatch. Forget potty training and buy stock in wax.
It’s no wonder that “performance enhancing” drugs aren’t widely advertised – at least on television. Talk about freak nasty. Such disclosures would require that commercials be rated and they would definitely be NC-17. It would, however, give women who are hit on by muscle bound Neanderthals the upper hand: “I would go out with you Billy Bob, but I happen to know that those muscles are completely unobtainable without scientific assistance. And I also happen to know that you are probably struggling with mood swings and a diminished libido and that the increase in the diameter of your forearms is directly proportional to the shrinkage in other areas. So, I just don’t think this is going to work out. Pun fully intended.” Ouch.
The saddest part of all is thinking about the poor lab animals that have developed the side-effects these commercial so indiscreetly detail. I get chocked up thinking about all the rats out there who thought they were there to be cured of the alcoholism they developed living in the basement of Studio 54 and law schools throughout the country. They may now be sober, but must live the rest of their days with five tails, a fear of anything that begins with the letter A and Betty Davis’ eyes. Tragic.
Basically, I think the FDA should allow drug companies to simmer down the scare tactics. I would much rather the 30-second spots in between episodes of The Middle and Modern Family be spent providing information about what the drug is supposed to do rather than the awful things it could do to .01% of the population, i.e. your Aunt Mildred. Trust me, if I choose to seek treatment for IBS or Peripheral Vascular Disease and am interested in a drug, I will consult my doctor, thank you very much. (Not only that, but I HAVE to consult my doctor to get a prescription at which time my doctor will be required to discuss those all to interesting side effects with me.)
Oh, and one more thing: I hate the word “placebo.” It just sounds dirty.
That is all.
-Pokey
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Fan Mail: Lindsay Lohan, P.S.
Dear Ms. Lohan,
I see you have bested the legal system again and were released after 15 hours. I think I spent more time than that thinking of all the wonderful uses and designs for shanks. I had some I was going to share with you, but I suppose there is no need. I even developed the soon to be patented Ex-Hollywood Starlet Shank made from the blood, sweat and tears of a soiled career and an onion. I chose the onion because it smells like failure.
Alas. My hard work down the drain - much like your contract for the Linda Lovelace flick. C'est la vie. That's how upset I am. I am speaking in tongues - and FRENCH no less.
Well, at a minimum I hope those 15 hours were well spent and very formative. And I hope you forego any trips to Cannes before the big court date this go around...$300K is a lot of dough to drop for failing to appear. And, to be honest, you'll probably need the cash in the future.
-Pokey
I see you have bested the legal system again and were released after 15 hours. I think I spent more time than that thinking of all the wonderful uses and designs for shanks. I had some I was going to share with you, but I suppose there is no need. I even developed the soon to be patented Ex-Hollywood Starlet Shank made from the blood, sweat and tears of a soiled career and an onion. I chose the onion because it smells like failure.
Alas. My hard work down the drain - much like your contract for the Linda Lovelace flick. C'est la vie. That's how upset I am. I am speaking in tongues - and FRENCH no less.
Well, at a minimum I hope those 15 hours were well spent and very formative. And I hope you forego any trips to Cannes before the big court date this go around...$300K is a lot of dough to drop for failing to appear. And, to be honest, you'll probably need the cash in the future.
-Pokey
Friday, September 24, 2010
Fan Mail: Lindsay Lohan
Dear Lindsay Lohan:
May I call you LiLo? On second thought, I think I will stick with Lindsay. LiLo sounds like a spoiled French poodle with a bad perm and painted toenails. I think you should distance yourself from that moniker.
Okay, Miss Lohan. I am sorry that things didn’t work out with you and Samantha Ronson. In hindsight, your relationship was doomed from the start simply because it is impossible to merge Lindsay and Samantha without completely butchering both names beyond recognition. I tried. Think about it: Brangelina works. Brajennifer doesn’t. It’s science. If you really want to find true love, you should look for someone named Don or Donna. Lindon or Lindonna definitely have the makings of a lasting relationship.
So you failed yet another drug test and are going back to jail. You naughty girl, you. As you face the coming days and weeks and months of incarceration, some unsolicited advice: Make a shank. Shanks are important as they provide protection and can be a source of comfort. Shanks can be made out of just about anything from metal to paper. This one guy even made one out of Jolly Ranchers. Of course, he had a tattoo of a bullet hole in his forehead, but the line between genius and insanity is a fine one. If necessity is the mother of invention, then self-preservation is the mother of shanks.
Once you have made it, name your shank something nice, like “Sharpie McStabber” or “Ms. Cuts-a-lot” or “Debbie Deadmanmaker.” Shanks have feelings too, so don’t go naming it something stupid like “Apple Pantywhacker” or “LiLo.” Oh, and be creative and make your shank unique. Adding googely eyes or bedazzling it can really give your shank the necessary pizzazz to make a real impression when you drive it into the first person you catch trying to steal your tater tots (or your innocence). Don’t take my word for it, ask Martha Stewart.
Your shank will become your best friend and can be taken everywhere you go! Take it with you to the exercise yard and it can spot you while you bench press! Take it with you to the shower and you will no longer fear dropping the soap! Take it with you to the mess hall and no longer will you struggle to cut your government meat with a spork! You can even sleep with it at night and stay up late giggling and scheming how to become Inmate 56437832’s "you-know-what"!
What’s not to love about a shank? Shanks are so great that they even have their own verb that you can conjugate: “To shank, to live no more!” “I shank, therefore I am.” “I came, I saw, I shanked!” “I have shanked the maggots in the mind of the universe!” “I will shank you, but know it hurts me more than it hurts you!” Bottomline: A-list actors have bodyguards, inmates have shanks.
In all seriousness, you should really consider getting clean. Drug addiction is not a laughing matter. Drug abuse has caused the destruction of many lives and torn apart countless families. I once had hamsters. The dad got hopped up on moth balls and started staying out late, leaving his wife home alone with the kids. One day, he came back to the cage to find that his wife had eaten all the kids. Would it have happened if he hadn’t been out engaging in petty thievery to purchase his next hit? Probably. Hamsters are known for that (rabbits, wolf spiders and a host of fish are as well, but that’s beside the point). The fact is that drugs are bad and if you really try hard, you can free yourself from their grasp. I believe in you. And I believe that if you put your heart into it, you could totally finish a 12-step program in 10.
Yours very sincerely,
Pokey
May I call you LiLo? On second thought, I think I will stick with Lindsay. LiLo sounds like a spoiled French poodle with a bad perm and painted toenails. I think you should distance yourself from that moniker.
Okay, Miss Lohan. I am sorry that things didn’t work out with you and Samantha Ronson. In hindsight, your relationship was doomed from the start simply because it is impossible to merge Lindsay and Samantha without completely butchering both names beyond recognition. I tried. Think about it: Brangelina works. Brajennifer doesn’t. It’s science. If you really want to find true love, you should look for someone named Don or Donna. Lindon or Lindonna definitely have the makings of a lasting relationship.
So you failed yet another drug test and are going back to jail. You naughty girl, you. As you face the coming days and weeks and months of incarceration, some unsolicited advice: Make a shank. Shanks are important as they provide protection and can be a source of comfort. Shanks can be made out of just about anything from metal to paper. This one guy even made one out of Jolly Ranchers. Of course, he had a tattoo of a bullet hole in his forehead, but the line between genius and insanity is a fine one. If necessity is the mother of invention, then self-preservation is the mother of shanks.
Once you have made it, name your shank something nice, like “Sharpie McStabber” or “Ms. Cuts-a-lot” or “Debbie Deadmanmaker.” Shanks have feelings too, so don’t go naming it something stupid like “Apple Pantywhacker” or “LiLo.” Oh, and be creative and make your shank unique. Adding googely eyes or bedazzling it can really give your shank the necessary pizzazz to make a real impression when you drive it into the first person you catch trying to steal your tater tots (or your innocence). Don’t take my word for it, ask Martha Stewart.
Your shank will become your best friend and can be taken everywhere you go! Take it with you to the exercise yard and it can spot you while you bench press! Take it with you to the shower and you will no longer fear dropping the soap! Take it with you to the mess hall and no longer will you struggle to cut your government meat with a spork! You can even sleep with it at night and stay up late giggling and scheming how to become Inmate 56437832’s "you-know-what"!
What’s not to love about a shank? Shanks are so great that they even have their own verb that you can conjugate: “To shank, to live no more!” “I shank, therefore I am.” “I came, I saw, I shanked!” “I have shanked the maggots in the mind of the universe!” “I will shank you, but know it hurts me more than it hurts you!” Bottomline: A-list actors have bodyguards, inmates have shanks.
In all seriousness, you should really consider getting clean. Drug addiction is not a laughing matter. Drug abuse has caused the destruction of many lives and torn apart countless families. I once had hamsters. The dad got hopped up on moth balls and started staying out late, leaving his wife home alone with the kids. One day, he came back to the cage to find that his wife had eaten all the kids. Would it have happened if he hadn’t been out engaging in petty thievery to purchase his next hit? Probably. Hamsters are known for that (rabbits, wolf spiders and a host of fish are as well, but that’s beside the point). The fact is that drugs are bad and if you really try hard, you can free yourself from their grasp. I believe in you. And I believe that if you put your heart into it, you could totally finish a 12-step program in 10.
Yours very sincerely,
Pokey
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