Comic Genius

Two of my favorite people on television today are Larry David and Ricky Gervais. Both are masters of uncomfortable humor, yet their approaches are distinct. David is a classic misanthrope, grumbling and questioning the rules of polite society. You get the feeling that if his character in "Curb Your Enthusiasm" hadn't married, he would rarely leave the house. Gervais, on the other hand, is all misdirected enthusiasm. His characters crave acceptance and recognition. There is a desperation in David Brent and Andy Millman that is absent in Larry David, who's reaction to the world is closer to exasperation and apathy.

Considering the characters they portray, the differences make sense. David plays a fictionalized version of himself. He is successful, respected, wealthy and married to a beautiful and incredibly understanding wife. Brent and Millman, however, are powerless, middle-aged loners who preserve their dignity only by managing to believe, against all proof, that they are one opportunity away from being universally adored.

The net effect is that Larry David's comic foibles are hilarious, but inconsequential. No matter how much he is attacked, misunderstood or maligned, you know he'll never change, because he doesn't need to. Gervais' characters -- as they stumble, are rejected and force themselves to smile -- betray a sadness that is closer to tragedy.

Once you watch a season or two of Curb, you can see Larry David's influence all over Seinfeld. It's just hidden by the talented, ensemble cast, who make his writing fuller and more empathetic. What both of his shows have in common are a complete lack of genuine emotion. That was one of my favorite things about Seinfeld: No very special episodes. However, "Curb" strips David to his essentials; and with fewer characters to offset his personality, it's a nastier show.

But just the opposite is true with Gervais. In the ensemble show "The Office," Brent comes across as boorish, petty and insensitive. There is a heart to David Brent, but it's often difficult to see amidst the suffering he inflicts upon the people who work under him. As he loses power in the second series, he becomes more likeable, and by the Christmas special we find ourselves rooting for him.

However, in "Extras" there is a change of perspective. We see the world through Andy Millman's eyes, which enables Gervais to give us a truly sympathetic character. Millman is more human than Brent could ever be. He has good friend in the hapless and naive Maggie Jacobs, who is played brilliantly by Ashley Jensen. He has a genuine sense of humor that others appreciate. He even manages to act heroically by coming to Maggie's rescue on a few occasions, though he usually only makes matters worse.

Of course, Millman's flaws are similar to Brent's: He is self-deluded, awkward and has an inability to stop himself from talking his way into situations that embarrass everyone around him. But lacking the emotional detachment enjoyed by Larry David's character, Gervais achieves something beyond uncomfortable humor: He offers a glimpse of the uncomfortable humanity beneath.

Having said all that, "Extras" has a ways to go if it is ever to match the brilliance of "The Office." But I'll be watching "Extras," and rooting for Andy Millman, for as long as it's on.

My high school English teacher was an asshole.

Have a seat. Don't get too comfortable. Like I said in the title, this is going to be a short post. Really short. Because I have nothing to say. Nothing interesting, anyway. Sometimes when I have nothing to say I do a quick scan of the news for some mildly entertaining story. Then I link to it and say: "Isn't this ridiculous?" That's really lazy posting though, don't you think?

Tonight I'm too lazy even to find such a story. Politics is too predictable. Sports? Nobody who blogs gives a shit about sports, except people with sports blogs, but, Jesus, who wants to read about what some guy thinks about the Yankees losing? They did lose, by the way, but that's old news. Fuckin' Yankees. This is what we're paying Jeter for?

I know what you're thinking: "He's trying to turn having nothing to say into something interesting, so at the end he can write: 'Gee, I guess this turned out longer than I thought it would.'" And you'll say: "Clever." I won't do that. I was thinking about doing that, but I realized it would be too predictable, and not very clever. Are you still reading? Were you ever? Who are you? Get the hell off my lawn!

This post has taken a turn for the worse. I think I'm going to change the title from "Welcome to my short post" to "Welcome to my terrible post." Or would that be confusing? After all, I start out saying how short it's going to be. It wouldn't really make sense. But then again, it's really not accurate to have the short-post title considering how long this has become. Screw it, I'm gonna do it.

There. Now it really is an awful post.

This is stupid. I should just stick to my original title. I always do that; I start something, then lose confidence in what I'm doing and make all these changes. Then before I know it, I just give up and never finish. It's like my high school English teacher told me: "You never finish what you start."

There, I changed it back to "Welcome to my short post." It's succinct, it's pithy, it's what I started with. Done and done.

I just changed it back again. Who cares? My English teacher was a douche bag. He used to talk to my social studies teacher about professional wrestling. I'm gonna listen to a guy who watches that shit? Take his sage advice? Not bloody likely. He was such a dick, all superior in the classroom. But you know what they say, those who can't do, right? Jackass.

Fuck it, I'm changing the title again.

My life from 1994 to present, part II

1994-1999: Raleigh, NC
I moved to Raleigh in the fall of '94 and got a job as a waiter. Later, graduated to bartender. Friends from college had moved down that summer, so we hung out and did whatever 20-something slacker kids do. We listened to music, drank and wandered around the city.

Two of my friends, Jim and Dave, were in a band called "The Feebs." Jim played guitar, Dave played drums. They played with a few local bass players, but Jim hated them -- not as musicians, but as people. So Dave convinced me to try the bass. I picked it up and for a short time played with The Feebs. I learned about a dozen songs.

Our career consisted of occasional practice and one actual gig, an outdoor party at the house of some rich guy Dave and I had met at a Dead show in Charlotte. I was using a tiny white Sears bass that Jim's brother had owned as a kid. It had a “White Lion” sticker on it and no shoulder strap, so I had to sit down when I played. I sat in a lawn chair during the party gig. Halfway through our set it started to rain and everyone went inside to eat pizza and listen to the rich guy play piano.

I dated around back then. A younger girl who had just moved from Indiana with her mom. An older woman who was staying at the hotel where I bartended. A crazy woman who made my roommate Bob cry. A rich girl from Texas who said she grew up next to Ross Perot.

I was running about five miles a day, playing disc golf in the afternoons and getting to work by 4:15pm. Life was simple.

Around 1996, I started writing articles, got a few published. One on Citysearch.com, which was a new outfit at the time.

In 1998, I wrote to a UK publishing company and told them I had a great idea for a book about homebrewing. They said they were interested in learing more, so I spent the next two weeks in the library, trying to come up with a great idea. I had a shitty 386 PC back then, which was too old and weak to handle AOL. I’d wait three minutes for the homepage to load. I used this glorified typewriter to peck out my book proposal, and there were a few panicky moments when I thought I'd lost a chapter of work, simply because I forgot where I'd saved it.

The publishing company bought the book idea based on an outline and a chapter treatment. I quit my job at the restaurant and became a full time writer for the next six months.

Five months into the writing, the publishing company sent a photographer over from England and we shot all the photos for the book in two weeks. He was a brilliant. We faked a whole kitchen setup in my garage using the top of a junk range, a piece of countertop and some heavy paper. It all sat on the garage floor and I would kneel and stick my hands over the range to simulate someone standing and working over a real range in the kitchen. This gave him more room to light the set and shoot down on the process. We shot full-color pictures of the entire homebrewing process, and even scored a few free dinners at local brewpubs, whose owners were eager to have their beers photographed for the book.

The book, Fearless Brewing, finally came out in January of 1999. The publisher sent me a box of copies. I remember opening that box on the kitchen table and seeing ten hardcover editions of my own book. It was then that I realized I could make a living as a writer. A week later, my girlfriend of two years broke up with me.

Looking back, I'm glad she had the guts to do what we both knew we needed to do -- to not be together. She never really understood the whole writing thing. I think she viewed it as a waste of time. She would ask what I did all day while she was at work. “Writing,” I’d answer, and she’d look at me out of the corner of her eye. She was an administrative assistant, and I didn’t really understand what she did all day, either. I’d ask and she’d pause and tell me it was kinda complicated. It had something to do with helping out the sales team and filing contracts, but by the time she finished I was usually wondering if a Simpsons rerun was on.

After the book I started working for a tiny (three person) direct marketing agency that was run out of the owner’s garage. I had just finished a book for the guy, called "Go Postal for Profit!" I still shudder at that title. I tried my hand at selling the services for a short time. I was a terrible, awful salesman, and sold nothing. He let me go. I was happy about that.

I was restless. I had no girlfriend and no job. I looked for work in the classifieds, but the only writing jobs available looked like this:

Technical Writer Needed
Expert knowledge of Framemaker +SGML,
Some networking/switches and systems
management experience is preferred,
Strong background in PC/server HW and
SW technology. Must be a team player.

I had no idea what any of this meant. But I didn't want to go back to waiting tables. Not after having written two books. It was time to make a major change in my life. I had a friend who lived an hour from NYC who said he'd put me up for a couple of months. I decided to go.

News for nerds

Turns out Chewbacca was an alien. An illegal alien. But no more. British-born actor Peter Mayhew, who portrayed the lovable gorilla Chewbacca in the 70's film "Star Wars" is finally getting his US citizenship.

Here's a picture of him showing off the sinewy physique that clunked a thousand storm troopers' heads together. And yes. That was his actual voice.

My life from 1994 to present, part I

I just wrote a long email to a friend I haven't spoken to in over a decade. I figured it might make a good post. It’s a recap of the last twelve years of my life, but it’s also sort of about how became a professional writer.

I’ve lengthened it even more and am presenting it in a few installments.

Here's Part I.

1994: Go South, Young Man.
I moved from Syracuse, NY to Calabash, NC in May. Found a job as a waiter at The Crab House, a seafood restaurant just north of Myrtle Beach. Learned to write my name upside down in crayon on the butcher paper we used as tablecloths, which is how I introduced myself to guests.

“Hi, I'm...BRIAN…and I'll be your waiter. Can I start anyone off with some sweet tea?”

All the waiters at The Crab House wore nametags that stated where they were from: Tom from Dallas, Texas; JoAnn from Cleveland, Ohio. We ranged in age from twenty to twenty-four. We kept doggie bags in the dish room so we could take home portions of king crab that the customers didn’t finish.

Outside, the dumpsters overflowed with shells, bits of potato and desiccated lemon wedges. You had to hold your breath when you went within forty feet of them.

One day a blue crab pinched a line cook while he was taking it out of the crate. He smashed it to pieces with his boot. “That’s one fuckin’ crab that’s not making it to the pot.”

I was staying with two friends, Paul and Mike, at Paul’s mother’s house. She was living on the west coast through the summer. Neither of my friends had jobs, so I offered to put in a word at the restaurant.

Paul lasted halfway through group training. I was working the lunch shift at the time, and he looked at me from across the room, smirked, and shook his head. When I looked up again he was gone. Mike made it through a whole day as a busboy and never returned.

The restaurant manager asked me: “Got any other friends you want to send our way?”

I started homebrewing at the house. For my first batch, I decided on Irish Stout. After transferring the fermented brew to two dozen bottles, I noticed there was still some beer left in the bucket. I was all out of bottles so I searched the refrigerator for some sort of container and found a half-full MD 20/20 bottle, cleaned it out and poured the remaining beer in there. I capped all the bottles, screwed the cap back on the MD bottle and stored everything in my closet.

The next night I came home from work and Mike told me he’d heard a loud noise, like a pop, come from my room.

“Did you check what it was?”

He curled back into the sofa. “I was afraid to.”

I went into my room and opened the closet door. The MD bottle had exploded under the pressure of the beer, taking out a half dozen other bottles and lacquering the closet walls with sticky brew. I had to pick out bits of glass from the shag rug.

It was a good summer.

I hung out at the beach a lot. Did a keg stand once at an outdoor party and woke up with grass in my teeth.

I had an ’83 Pontiac Grand Prix that didn’t go in reverse.

I played strip poker with a girl name Sheri, but she wouldn’t let me kiss her.

I read a book called “Going Crazy,” which is about the process of going crazy. After I finished the book, I worried that I might be going crazy.

I pulled a fire alarm at an apartment complex at 3am and denied that I did it, then confessed.

I awoke on my friend Eric’s couch to find a policeman flashing his light in my eyes. Someone said they saw us shooting a BB gun at lights outside the apartment. Eric came out of the bedroom and denied it. Then they found the box for the new gun under a table.

One night my roommates and I came home from a bar, turned on the TV and watched a white Ford Bronco crawl down a California highway, while people cheered from overpasses.

September came and the town went to sleep. Nothing but golfers and old people. I decided to move to Raleigh.

The first time I ever got drunk.

Was with my brother on Christmas. I was fifteen, which would put the year at 1984. We were in the living room, watching TV and my brother was describing what it's like to be drunk. "It's not like you lose your mind or anything. You know what you're doing, you just feel different."

"Like what?"

"Like drunk."

I kept laughing. I was curious. "Just try a drink," he said. "One drink. I'll mix it weak. You'll hardly taste anything."

My parents were downstairs, watching TV. It was freezing outside, and the falling snow was small and hard, scratching against the windows. It was the middle of wrestling season. I probably weighed 126 pounds.

He mixed me a vodka and some kind of juice, maybe Kool-Aid. It tasted sweet, but with a hardness right down the center.

I'd tried wine and beer before that, but those were odd, alien tastes. A few years later, I would learn to transfer beer from the front of my mouth to the back of my throat, bypassing my tongue as quickly as possible. But at fifteen I drank everything like it was soda, swishing it around in my mouth, over my teeth and tongue. Finishing a whole beer was a challenge back then, and it was usually warm and flat by the time I drained the last bit. But this wasn't too bad. This was familiar.

The buzz crept up on me. I couldn't really pinpoint when I was drunk, simply because I never had been drunk and had no experience to go on. So I just kept sipping them back until my brother, in his eighteen year-old wisdom, had me switch to wine coolers.

"Am I drunk?"

"I don't know. How do you feel?"

"I don't know."

"You look a little drunk."

"Yeah?"

I took a gulp and stood up, laughing. I was muttering something to my brother like: "I think I could take you." And then I put my hands up in a wrestler's takedown stance and started pawing at him. "Hey, tough guy," I said.

He pushed back. "You got beer muscles!" He was chuckling, amused and probably a little relieved to see his little brother finally take a step out of adolescence.

We heard the basement door open. My brother hid the bottles behind the couch just as my dad came in. He sat down on the couch next to my brother. I stood there, unsure of what to do. How does a sober person act? Should I sit? Should I leave the room? I was trying to figure out what to do that wouldn't tip my dad off to the fact that I was spinning drunk.

So I stood there and talked. Fast. I don't remember what it was about, but I talked and talked, figuring this was the best way to hide my drunkeness. My dad said nothing, but had this look of surprise that grew with each sentence I sputtered out. I could see my brother watching me out of the corner of my eye. I don't think my dad knew I was drunk, but maybe he did. He finally got up and went to bed.

I asked my brother:

"How did I act?"

"You were OK. A little loud, though."

"I was loud?"

"You were yelling a little."

I went to bed a while later and awoke the next morning with no hangover. The hangovers would come later.

Finally, some real news.

Katrina? That's so September. And the earthquake and avian flu stories have been played. Just when I thought the media was losing its grasp on what we really want to know, they deliver the following bombshell:

According to several news reports, pop icon Michael Jackson fell down in public. No news yet about the singer's condition, but let's all take a moment and pray that he is OK.

My addiction

Every night I need my “fix.” I try to tell myself I’m through. But my resolve weakens under the overwhelming desire for the object of my addiction. So I put on my jacket and into the night I scuttle. When I arrive at my “dealer’s” establishment, I look right and left – then pop inside.

I survey his merchandise, which is laid out for me to see. As I assess the goods, he watches me with a knowing smile. A strange powder covers his fingers. I know I should just leave, but I imagine the rush, the sweet high. Defeated, I take out a crumpled $20 bill and hand it over. He puts my “drug” into a nondescript bag and says: “Come again.”

Like a thief, I steal into the night. Beads of sweat cross my brow as I approach my home. I know I should just toss the bag into the garbage, but my hands grasp it with a steely grip.

I enter my apartment and open the bag, reach in and remove the contraband. This is my last chance. I could just toss it in the garbage and eat the apple that sits on my countertop, but I am too weak. I open my mouth and finish the whole thing, then lean back in my chair and tell myself this is the last time. But somewhere in the night, my “dealer” is laughing. I know I should quit.

But I just love smoking crack.

I am sorry for throwing up on your wedding dress.

Dear Marta,

First of all, thank you so much for inviting me to your lovely wedding. You and Todd looked so great together up there on the altar that I just know you'll have many, many happy years of marriage together.

I am sorry for throwing up on your wedding dress. I don't know what it is with me and strawberry daiquiris. Something bad happens every time I drink them, but I just keep coming back for more!

Were you able to get the stain out? I know that strawberry is hard to remove, and the arugula salad with blood orange vinaigrette couldn't have helped matters, either. Was your father-in-law able to get his tux dry cleaned?

Believe me, Marta, had I known I was going to be sick, I would never have insisted on the group photo. I guess I was just so excited that I wanted to preserve the moment. Mission accomplished, huh? I don't suppose I'll ever forget the look on your brother's face when he looked up at me just before the camera flashed.

Have the other photos come back? I'd love to see them sometime! Your sister looked adorable in her maid-of-honor dress. Really. Just like an angel.

Did I take my top off on the dance floor? I seem to remember dancing the Electric Slide, and all of a sudden your grandmother was pointing and looking at me funny. Then someone threw a tablecloth over me and asked me to leave. Sometimes, I think I should just learn to call it a night!

Well, I suppose you want to know how I made it home that night. So do I -- JK! After I left with that bartender guy, we went over to the Win Dixie parking lot. Things got kind of hot and heavy on some guy's car and then I was at a club. There was more dancing and this guy gave me some kind of a pill. I remember lots of lights and a weird spinny feeling. I think I might have taken my top off again! Anyway, more flashing lights and when I opened my eyes I was in a 7-11, where some jerk was telling me to put the pretzel machine down. Next thing I know the sun is shining and this policeman is saying that my daughter's here to pick me up, my daughter's here to pick me up -- over and over again. It's like, OK, I get it! My daughter's here to pick me up! Now can I get some breakfast in here? LOL

Well, again, I'm so sorry about the wedding dress. Say hello to Todd for me and tell him I didn't mean it about his face. It's a handsome face, Marta.

Congratulations!

Love,

Janet

Your one-stop porn shop

From time to time I like to visit my "site meter" to check out statistics about my blog. How did the few people who have visited here, get here? Mostly it's been people I know. I check out their blogs, they check out mine. Occasionally, someone will Google me and find my blog at the top of the list. (Like my childhood buddy Mark -- check out the 3rd comment in my October 1st entry).

But my favorite stats are those concerning people who stumble onto this blog accidentally. They usually come from Google or MSN searches -- like the person who found Q'ner Industries after searching MSN for "TIMMY INDUSTRIES." I wonder what this person was actually looking for? A page that had something to say about how Timmy relates to industries in general? I would imagine the two words don't often occur in the same sentence. Could there be an actual company that calls itself Timmy Industries? What would they manufacture? Little Timmys? Is that anything like Little Debbies? Perhaps my industries could merge with Timmy's and we could form a conglomerate.

Another recent visitor was apparently searching for legitimate X-Files fan fiction and found my entry into the genre. I only wish that he (and I assume it was a he) had left a comment about my work. It deserves a mention, dammit.

However, the unquestionable winner in the "how did I get here?" contest is the guy (and again, I assume with confidence that it was a guy) from Riyadh, Saudi Arabia who found his way to Q'ner Industries by entering the words "gush pussy teen" into MSN search. Now, while I have a feeling I know what he was looking for, a few questions remain:

1. Why did my site come up in the results list? I mention each of the words only once: "teen" and "pussy" appear in the X-Files entry and "gush" appears in my very first post. So how did my blog catapult to the top (number three, I checked) of MSN's "gush pussy teen" list? The irony, of course, is that I've now included these words so many times here that I'm going to start getting hits from every guy out there looking for a little hot "gush pussy teen." And you know I do love rich, delicious, fancy-pants irony!
   
   
2. What exactly was this guy looking for? I can understand the intent behind two of the three search words, but "gush?" Did he perhaps mean to type in bush or gash? If not, what specific fetish was he trying to satisfy in the three-word string that the mere entry of "teen" and "pussy" simply would not provide? What was he hoping to see gush forth from the other two words?
   
   
3. Was this guy a true blue Saudi or an American stationed there? If he was the latter, isn't it about time for some R&R? If he was the former (and I do hope he was), what does this mean for the country as a whole? Imagine that he is a religious man, home after a long day of prayer. He sees the wife off to bed, then settles in behind his computer for some heretic enjoyment that only "gush pussy teen" can provide.
   
   Think of it. After all the needless war waged by our administration in the Middle East in the name of peace, what if the entire fundamentalist movement is ultimately dismantled because the Internet provides access to something our own fundamentalist administration is seeking to censor -- the universal desire to get an eyeful of a little "gush pussy teen." Ooohhh! More delicious irony!
   

I find it interesting that three words on my blog, used in unrelated contexts, are assembled and given a new meaning through the strange algorythms of MSN and one man's desire. It's all very meta and postmodern, two buzzwords I've been known to use while holding a cocktail. How many more people out there, in their midnight search for "gush pussy teen," will happen upon my site, assess the content and move on? To those who do, I am sorry but you will not find what you are looking for here. I only hope this momentary diversion does not soften your resolve. There is plenty of legitimate "gush pussy teen" out there. Godspeed on your continued search.

Daredevil subway rider

The threat of terrorism has turned our lives into mundane feats of derring-do. Going to get groceries, working in a tall building, riding a bus. These are becoming as risky as jumping a canyon. This latest scare concerns the New York subway system, which even during the best of times is a somewhat risky mode of travel. Now everyone who stands on a subway platform -- say, leafing through the Voice while awaiting that rush of urine choked air that signals an approaching train -- is at risk of exploding. Thanks, terrorists: My endless morning commute is now a boring daredevil stunt.

Science

In an attempt to appear more in touch with the scientific community, President Bush announced that he recently read an article in Scientific American about the Butterfly Effect, a complex physics theory which posits that the flapping of a butterfly's wings in Guatemala could ultimately cause a hurricane to occur in another part of the world.

The president said that he was shocked at the news, and is acting quickly to assemble a special task force to kill all the butterflies in Guatemala "to ensure nothing like Katrina ever happens again."

A bottle in front of me and a frontal lobotomy.

Is the president hitting the sauce again? The National Enquirer seems to think so. I know. It's the National Equirer, not the New York Times. But that might simply mean that they have again scooped a story earlier than the rest of the media.

I believe the Enquirer." What's more, I commend the tabloid's aggressive style of journalism. It's a hell of a lot more respectable than the mainstream media sheep who dare not rattle the president during a press conference lest they lose their seat at the next white house dinner.

I'm not saying he is. I'm not saying he isn't. All I'm saying is that he might be holding a glass that looks something like this.

Bushoxofin

Do you ever feel low after reading about the latest developments in the war in Iraq? Does the threat of terrorism make you anxious? Are you concerned about the economy? Skyrocketing gas prices? Melting ice caps? The mounting national debt? Do you ever feel as though civilization is a fragile, unattended levy that holds back the floodgates of anarchy?

Worst of all, do you suspect that President Bush and his administration are to blame?

It could be that you suffer from a psychological disorder. Luckily, there is help. Bushoxofin(R) is a new antidepressant that unleashes a gentle, scrubbing action deep within your brain to eradicate feelings of fear, repulsion, betrayal and moral outrage -- before they ruin your day. At the same time, it allows sensations of national pride and blind faith (known as the Fox Effect) to wash over you like a warm shower, until nothing you read, see or hear about ever bothers you again. But don't take our word for it. Let's hear from a satisfied customer:

"I used to be critical of the Bush administration's consistent lying, manipulation and transparent greed. But with Bushoxofin, I just don't care. I mean, he's our president. We should just trust his judgement. And if you don't like it, you can always move to France. You fucking baguette-loving pinko."

Understand that there are side effects to taking Bushoxofin. For example, you might walk around in a haze of false euphoria while others around you suffer. You might lose your ability to respond to environmental disasters, social upheaval or blatant lies. A few users reported a compulsion to refer to people as "fucking baguette-loving pinkos." Don't take Bushoxofin if you are pregnant, plan on getting pregnant or are even feeling a little horny. Bushoxofin is highly addictive. In fact, the rural Midwest has been hooked on Bushoxofin since 2000.

A day in the life of a direct marketing copy writer.

10:35-10:40: Arrive at work. Drink first Red Bull.

10:41-11:07: Check personal e-mail. Read movie reviews on imdb.com.

11:08-11:45: Complain to office mate about all the hack writers working in Hollywood.

11:46-12:01: Work on new headline for a postcard about software productivity. Drink second Red Bull.

12:02-1:37: Write new blog entry. Re-read it several times. Check to see if anyone commented.

1:38-2:30: Lunch

2:31-2:32: Counter post-lunch insulin fog with a third Red Bull.

2:33-3:30: Sit and stare at screen. Check blog for comments. Hit refresh several times. Continue to stare.

3:31-4:05: Sign off on readers. Complain to account team that you are too busy to spend more than 20 minutes on this.

4:06-5:00: Concept a new tri-fold brochure. Also, come up with ideas for a possible sitcom.

5:01-5:30: Talk to older copy writer about the time he got to work on a TV campaign.

5:31-6:00: Sit and worry that you're going to end up like the older copy writer.

6:01-6:45: Reorganize iTunes playlist. Make a few long distance phone calls.

6:46-6:48: Leave office and get on elevator. Complain to co-worker about always leaving work late.

X-Files Fan Fiction: Fox and Dana fall in love

Fox and Dana Fall in Love
By X_FAN42903

Moments after realizing that Mulder's seemingly paranoid theory about aliens abducting that troubled teen was, despite all of her evidence and scholarly skepticism, right, Scully raced to the skating rink where the teen worked. But would she be too late?

Upon arrival, she went inside. There was Mulder, hovering 10 feet above the ice. The troubled teen was an alien!

"Get me down!!!" Yelled Mulder.

"I am an alien!" The teen yelled. His eyes were green when he looked at Scully.

Scully reached into her purse and pulled out a gun. "Put him down" she yelled.

The alien teen said "no!"

Scully shot him but he dissapeared! Mulder fell and landed with a bump on the ice. "Are you OK?" yelled Scully. "Yes!" yelled Mulder. "But now you believe me about the aliens, right?" he yelled.

"I'll never doubt you again," yelled Scully in a whisper.

"Hey, let's go to my apartment so I can show you some other x-files," said Mulder.

"OK," Scully said.

Mulder's apartment was a mess, as usual. But Scully just laughed and said it needs a woman's touch, that's all. They sat down on Mulder's bed and looked at each other. Mulder never noticed how beautiful Scully was. She was really pretty, with red hair and great eyes. Plus her body was hot.

"What about those files" Scully said.

"That was just a lie to get you to come to my apartment. Are you mad?" said Mulder.

No

"OK, good." They kissed. It was like a whole fireworks show dancing in front of their eyes. Scully's lips were so soft and hot. She took off her shirt and bra and Mulder grabbed both of her breasts. "I'm going to do you," he yelled.

"Do me! Do me now!"

Mulder took out his throbbing manhood and put it in her pussy. "Oh, yes!" she yelled.

"You don't know how long I wanted to do this," said Mulder. "I've dreamed about you since the first season. You're so hot."

"I like you, too!" she said. "I like smart guys, not jocks."

After that they got married. By an alien!

The End.

Three Hail Marys and a lap around the Rosary.

Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been three weeks since my last confession. Here are my sins.

I wouldn't let my brother play with my toys, even though I was done playing with them.
I said the s-word twice after my mom made me clean my room.
I shot and killed a Jehovah's Witness.
I took a nickel off my sister's dresser to buy a sour ball.

What's that, Father? I said I took a nickel from my sister...Oh, the one before that? I killed a Jehovah's Witness. Yes, with a gun. But it was my gun. Let me make that clear. I have a permit and bought it with my allowance money and everything, so it's all legal.

Why did I do it? Who can say? Bad day, I guess. My mom made me clean my room in the morning, then the stupid store was all out of sour balls. So then this guy comes up to me when I'm walking home and he's all Jehovah this and Savior that, and I just popped a cap in his ass. Oops, sorry:

I also said "ass" to a priest. Add that one to the pile, Father.

I'm sorry for killing him. Really. I guess I just wasn't thinking, like the time I pushed my friend because he made me laugh while I was drinking milk. Looking back I realize that I shouldn't have pushed Timmy and I shouldn't have shot that Jehovah's Witness in the throat. My bad on both counts. But like you said last Sunday, every "slip up" is a chance to "grow up," right Father?

So what do I get? Six "Hail Marys?" An "Our Father" or two? Don't be shy about dishing out penance, Father. Seriously, I'll knock those out in a few minutes. I can say the whole "Our Father" prayer in eight seconds. Wanna hear it? OK, another time then.

One more thing, Father. How do you get blood out of cotton? That Jehovah cocksucker bled all over me and I don't want my mom on my ass for ruining another shirt. Will holy water work, you think? Or maybe Tide? Also, can you hide this gun for me? Just until next Sunday. OK, no prob.

Thank you, Father. InthenameoftheFatherSonandtheHolySpiritAmen.

So long, little buddy.

Thirty-eight years after being rescued from a desert island that ironically bore his very name, Gilligan died today at the age of 70. Sit right back and read his tale.

In the fall of 1964, a young shiphand who simply went by the name of Gilligan took a first mate's job on the S.S. Minnow, a tiny ship. According to his boss, the Skipper, it was to be a quick jaunt from the tropic port and back. In fact, said the Skipper, considering the small size of the vessel, the brevity of the trip (it was to be a three hour tour, max) and the fact that only five passengers were to set sail that day, a first mate wasn't really needed. He just thought Gilligan could use a few extra bucks.

It was to be a fateful trip. As luck would have it, two tropical storms converged and overtook the Minnow as it began to return to port. Within minutes, the weather started getting rough and the tiny ship was tossed. Later, Gilligan would tell reporters and biographers that if it were not for the courage of him, and to a lesser extent, the Skipper, the Minnow would have been lost. Probably capsized or smashed up against some rocks somewhere.

After what must have been a trying hour or so of wild spinning, the ship took ground on the shore of an uncharted desert isle. All crew and passengers made it out alive, including: Gilligan, the Skipper too, a millionaire and his elderly wife, a youngish female actor, an adjunct professor and Mary Ann.

Knowing they would be there for a long, long time, the first mate and his skipper, too, resolved to do their very best to make the others comfortable in the topic island nest. It was, to say the least, an uphill climb. A quick search of the island confirmed that there was no phones, no lights, no motor cars -- indeed, not a single luxury. Using rocks, bamboo and some palm fronds, the Skipper and Gilligan built several huts and put a picnic table out in a common area for meals and meetings and such. It was as primitive as can be.

Time took its toll. Every week, the castaways would nearly escape from the island, only to have their hopes dashed at the last minute by some unfortunate (and easily avoidable) incident. The only breaks from their routine were the many minor celebrities who found their way to the island over the years.

Finally, after three years, they made it off the island. Then, in an ill-advised move, all crew and passengers decided to celebrate their return to the mainland with a short boat trip. Unbelievably, another perfect storm formed and overtook the tiny vessel. Even more incredibly, they were washed ashore on the very same, still uncharted, isle. The irony was not lost on the Skipper, who allegedly lost control and told Gilligan that he was going to kill and eat the other passengers. Fortunately, they were rescued before the Skipper could act on his plan.

In later years, Gilligan regularly experienced vivid flashbacks of his time on the island, usually on weekdays at around 10:30-11am and weeknights at 9:45-10:15pm.

You'll be missed, Gilligan.

Google thyself.

An old work buddy, Bryan Murphy, recently started a blog called ilovebryanmurphy.com. Though only weeks old, it's already full of cool stuff and great writing. Check it out. You'll love him as much as he does.

His latest entry is about something all guys do at night, when we're hunched over our computers with our pants off and there's a wad of Kleenex in our hands. We google people from the past. The pantslessness is for comfort at the Kleenex is to catch the tears of joy when we find an old friend's address.

I google a lot. I look deep into that invitingly minimalist search page and think: "Who was that one girl I used to stare at in 11th grade?" Then I type her in name and am relieved when I see her name pop up and find out she teaches kindergarten and is unmarried. It's nice to know that ex-crushes from high school are unmarried. It pleases my inner 15-year old, who still thinks he's got a shot.

I also like to google myself now and then. OK, a lot. There aren't too many Brian Kunaths out there, and most of them speak German. So I've got a front seat on Google. Anything I do online launches me right to the top of the list. Like this article I wrote for an online employment Website. I got paid $100 to write that in 1999, which wasn't a lot of money back then either.

There are also about a thousand links to my book, Fearless Brewing. Check out the glowing customer reviews. Six of the seven reviewers are old friends and the seventh only kinda liked the book.

Last night I found a new one. Turns out that in 2000, a Senate Subcommittee, headed by actor Fred Thompson, prepared a report on Day Trading that referenced an article I wrote for a financial magazine in 1999. That made me feel vaguely important and connected for a few minutes. Until I remembered what a lousy job I did on that article, and how much I hated earning $28K a year and getting paid once a month to interview bajillionaire money market managers about the viability of completing a institutional trade transaction in a single day. I get angry just thinking about it. Great, now I'm angry. Thanks a lot, Bryan Murphy

A great program for crazy people

So she finally dumped you and is now living her own life, free of you for good. But you can't have that, can you? You have to know what she's doing, who she's talking to and where she goes at night. But who has time to stalk these days?

Creepy ex-boyfriend, meet Loverspy. Created by Carlos Enrique Perez-Melara, the handy program lets you remotely track and control her every online move. That is, it used to, before Perez-Melara was indicted for allegedly violating a handful of U.S. federal computer privacy laws. If convicted, he could be fined up to $8.75 million and spend 175 years in jail. So naturally, he's on the run.

Terrible as he might be for having offered Loverspy, Perez-Melara did pack a lot of value into his product. For just $89 -- the price of a black-market handgun -- you were able to monitor a chosen individual's e-mail, passwords, chat sessions, and Web site visits. Plus you could remotely control your victim's computer and even quietly turn on any connected Web cameras to get a sneaky-peek of them from afar. Compare that to the $200 you spend on a basic version of Microsoft Word and you start to wonder who's the real criminal. The answer, of course, is Perez-Melara. But it got you thinking, right?