Smoke Up!

Painting at 5 am while Bob Dylan sings about going to find America.

We make America.

Right here on the stage.

You don’t need to hitchhike Bob. Just buy yourself a ticket. We’ll bring America to you.

Anywhere else you’d like to be? We can do that too. From ancient Greece to the land of Oz.

We’re the Virtual Travel Agency.

We all smoke. We smoke, but we say that we want to quit. That we’re going to quit.

That’s the cool thing. Guilt is in. Guilt is hip. It’s okay to do wrong, as long as you want to change.

It wouldn’t be hip to actually quit. To succeed in something all of your friends have failed at thus far. To walk around gloating your victory as they huddle outside of a door in sub-zero temperatures for a couple of December drags. Then where will you be? In the “No Smoking” section. All by yourself. Lonely. You’d have friends if you smoked. You could hang out and smoke with someone who you would never befriend under smoke-free circumstances. Smoking gives you a common bond that makes you part of an unspoken secret society of those who refuse to breathe easy. Do you really want to throw that away? Smoke up brother. Smoke up.

She Shook Me All Night Long

She was a slow machine,

Her motor was filthy,

And frankly, I've seen better.

She was however, an epileptic, and that is the only standard that I maintain. I like it when they go into a seizure while we're making whoopee. There's nothing like it. It makes me feel like my bedroom prowess is the cause of both her involuntary shaking and the foam that has formed around her mouth.

I feel like a real man.

The Grotto is Empty

One week ago today, Hugh Hefner's penis detached itself from his body and left the Playboy Mansion. It's current whereabouts are unknown. Just before exiting the home of the men's magazine mogul, witnesses claim the overworked piece of genatalia turned to Hugh and uttered the following:

"I quit. Seriously man, you haven't given me a day off in, like, sixty years. Fuck you, I'm retired."

In the week since Hugh began his penisless existence, the Playboy Corporation claims he has taken up needlepoint and Mahjong. Mr. Hefner also claims to have a new found appreciation for "The View" on ABC. As for the location of his penis, Mr Hefner says that he could care less.

"I feel like I've wasted most of my life having sex with extremely beautiful women. When you add it up, I've literally spent years of my life inside of various vaginas. I'm through with that. Now, I want to learn how to bake."

You Can't Go Back

I never did learn any of those old school hip hop dances in the 1980's. Sure, I can mention their names and identify with those who were around for "The Cabbage Patch," "The Running Man," and "The Roger Rabbit," but the moves of this era are not fossilized in my muscle memory. That is one of my great regrets.

The Kiss After

I imagine that if you kissed someone on the mouth after they tossed your salad that, while you might mean it as a sign of affection, they could view you as a weirdo who wants to taste his own feces and never want to see you again. You would probably be thinking, "This guy just had his tongue in my poop shoot, who is he to judge?". My advice would be to offer him a breath mint and get on with your life. He was all wrong for you anyways.

The Fat Kid

Every elementary class has one. He is the lowest of the low. He is a rung below the smelly kid. Even the poor kid has license to crack jokes in his direction. He is the fat kid. At an age where the foundation of self-esteem is being laid, the fat kid’s only friends are Betty Crocker, Sara Lee, and Little Debbie. While other kids dream of birthday parties at the skating rink, he longs for a party at McDonald’s where none of the cruel children from school are invited. Instead it’s just him and his new best-friend: Ronald McDonald. I was that fat kid, and to this day I still feel a slight sting when people refer to me as “big guy.” I know they mean it as a term of endearment, but to me, it’s just a polite, grown-up way of saying “fatty-fatty-two-by-four.”
My name didn’t do much to help my lard-laden plight. My first name is Jamie. This is a girl name. Many people will argue that it is a unisex name, but I challenge these people to find a girl named Jamie who has been made fun of for having a male moniker. It is quite difficult when you’ve got a name like Jamie, and, even though the good Lord has blessed you with a penis, you are still the first one in your class to grow a pair of boobs. By the middle of third-grade, I had a pair of mammary glands that were the envy of my teacher, Mrs. Burchitt.
My last name didn’t exactly help my cause either. Campbell is a name that is most commonly associated with a soup company. This wasn’t so bad, until they came out with a new variety: Campbell’s Chunky Soup. Now the name Campbell spawned both chunky soups and chunky boys. “Chunky soup, chunky boys, and chunky boobs,” I can still hear the chants at recess to this day.
It was near the end of third grade when I stumbled into a local grocery store and discovered that, no matter how big your boobs were, you had to be eighteen years of age to purchase Dexatrim. Luckily for me, I was caught the first time I attempted shoplifting, successfully ending my life of crime. The punishment my mother gave me was to write a letter to the manager explaining that I was sorry for what I did. Sarcasm reigned, as I penned an epistle explaining that I was not sorry at all. I had boobs. They had the solution, and they wouldn’t help me. I was forced to steal, and felt no remorse whatsoever. I received a lifetime ban from the Edmond, Oklahoma location of Walgreen’s. I was also grounded for two weeks, during which time I probably consumed eight pounds of Breyer’s mint-chocolate chip ice cream, my fleshy bosom growing exponentially with every bite.
My grandmother was the only one who seemed to understand me during my gluttonous youth. She actually encouraged me to eat. She constantly praised me and called me a “good eater.” I don’t know what it means to be a “good eater.” Eating is something that everyone does. That’s like saying “that guy breathes really well.” Still, being “tits Campbell,” I was starved for compliments and would take them where I could get them.
I remember the time when I graduated from “normal” to “fat.” It was when I grew into my first pair of husky-sized jeans. “Husky” is the term they give for the jeans that fat kids wear. I guess it’s a better marketing idea than “Lardass Junior.” I had never heard of “Husky” jeans and was still living in the denial that my mother spawned when she told me I wasn’t fat, but just “big boned.” The truth came out when I wore my husky jeans to school. I would like to take a moment to thank the genius at Levi-Strauss that decided it would be a good idea to print the size of jeans on the back tag. This man is responsible for the sneer that Ryan Lindsay gave me on the playground as he said, “Hey Jamie, I see you’re wearing husky jeans.” Such a simple statement, but it was the birth of a new era of terror and humiliation. At that moment I lost the ability to blend in. From that point on, I was “The Fat Kid.”

Golden Showers bring Mayflowers

The first group of colonists came to what is now the United States in an attempt to escape religious persecution. History books tell of strict puritanical sects of Protestants whose beliefs strayed from the religious ideals of the Anglican Church. One group of early settlers is often neglected in the textbooks used by the American education system. These people were known as "Porkists," named after their leader, Talthybias Pork. He and his followers believed in the healing power of sexual defilement. They saw the act of sexual abuse as a way to demonstrate their subservience to the Lord. Their Christmas and Easter festivals often included ritual gang rape and a selection of uplifting hymns. The idea was that, while you may be brutally invaded on Earth, your Heavenly Savior would never rape you. You could be a faithful Christian if you knew that your steadfastness would lead to a promise of an everlasting rape-free existence after your death. It was in this spirit that Talthybias Pork came up with an alternative to saying the traditional "Our Father" and "Hail Mary" prayers as a penance for sin. Instead of what he deemed an "arbirary means of atonement," Pork had his followers confess their sins publicly, then lie down to receive "the unholy communion," which would eventually become known as the "golden shower." Porkists would line up on Sunday mornings, walk to the altar, and shout out their various sins. Porkists would admit offenses such as, "I coveted my neighbor's crop," or, "I cheated on my income tax," and shortly after their sins would be absolved as urine would flow onto their faces from the urethra of a heavily hydrated Penelope Pork, the only daughter of Talthybias and his wife Vera.

Due to cultural taboos, the Porkists had to move their worship services underground and they soon disappeared from the public eye altogether. Talthybias and his family were eventually burned at the stake for "crimes unbecoming good Christians." It was believed that the Porkists had gone "the way of the dodo," until recently when information surfaced on the internet implying that this branch of the Protestant faith is alive and well. The practice of the "golden shower" has even had an impact among certain secular groups who seek to be urinated on not as a means of atonement, but as one of pleasure. Still, the practice of willingly being drenched in urine remains a cultural taboo, and it is doubtful that the concept will ever fully infiltrate the mainstream. Pun intended.

Down With Trees

You know what, FUCK THE ENVIRONMENT! I'm serious. You wanna hug a tree? Call Doc Brown and arrange a trip in the DeLorean and go back to the sixties where you belong! Ya fuckin' hippie! What do we need trees for? Seriously. Okay, they make oxygen. So what. I'm not impressed. We can make our own oxygen. I've seen the shit. They put it in tanks. My grandma was hooked up to oxygen when she was in the hospital. Did they strap a tree to my grandmother's face? I don't think so. That shit came straight out of a tank. Man-made. And I know you're gonna say that we need trees to build houses. Who the Hell are you, Abraham Lincoln? You never heard of bricks? And paper comes from trees, but we don't need that shit anymore thanks to the inventions of the Visa Check Card and the internet. I say we chop 'em all down except for the bonzai trees. And that's only because they're movie stars. They played a kick ass role in the Karate Kid movies. Besides, they're too small to chop down. You'd hurt your back with all that bending over. And you would need tiny axes. So, unless you find some leprechauns with tiny axes, the bonzai trees can stay.

And what the fuck is this global warming bullshit? Where were you last winter? Did you go swimming on Christmas? Work on your tan on New Years Day? I'll tell you where I was. I was freezin' my ass off waitin' for a tow truck because my Buick Skylark slid off the road and into a ditch. And you know what made my car slide? It sure as shit wasn't boiling water. No, it was "black ice." And I'm not being racist, that's what they call it. The globe didn't feel too warm to me on that frosty night, so you can take your global warming and stick it up your tree huggin', Al Gore-lovin' ass!

Love Handles

Why do they call them "love handles?" Nobody loves them. I've got quite the paire of amore grips myself, but none of you ladies out there seem to want to grab ahold. All they seem to do is get in the way of my pants. Sometimes, when I first put my pants on, they seem to fit rather snugly, so I boldly go forth without a belt. This unfailingly proves to be a mistake. As I walk throughout the day, I begin to sweat. It is common for those of us handle-owners to be heavy sweaters, and I am no exception. As I walk throughout my day and the unavoidable perspiration takes hold, it acts as a lubricant between my body and the pants that fit so snugly mere hours ago. These pants find themselves sliding down my legs inch by inch in what seems to be an attempt to free my love handles from their Levi-Strauss cage. No one wants to see this portion of soft, pale flesh, and I contemplate buying a girdle, but I wouldn't know where to purchase such an apparatus. Besides, I would rather spend my cash at a nearby Dunkin' Donuts where I can step into the air conditioning and try to hold the sweat at bay. I can't get my order to go, because my hands need to be free to hold up my pants. So now, I find myself succumbing to the sugary, lard based, carbohydrate-rich treat that acted as a seed to grow the love handles in the first place. As I inhale donut hole after donut hole, washing them down with a healthy, extra large Coffee Coolata, I dream of an attractive "chubby chaser" who I will meet on the street who actually loves my handles. She will own a catering company and employ me as a "taster" to try out her new recipes. She will, of course, have an incredible body without the slightest trace of love handle as I am a complete hypocrite, and will be sorely jealous of my horizontal protrusions, the sight of which will never fail to work her into a sexual frenzy.

From the time of my youth, my grandmother always said I was a "good eater." I'm not exactly sure what she meant by that, but I'll take a compliment where I can get it. So now the box of donut holes is empty, the sugar has been licked from the cardboard, and the Coffee Coolata has been reduced to the amount that makes an annoying sound when I suck through the straw. I sit in silence, slightly ashamed of the way I devoured the sweets. I guess you can't call it a "treat" when you eat this way every day. It's time for me to be on my way. Damn! I should've worn a belt.

Miscalculation

So the vodka bottle is empty, and I feel dirty - not that I touched anyone. Still, I touched all the dollar bills that I used to pay the bartender. And who knows where they've been. Under a male stripper's g-string, rubbing on his pieces and parts as he prays he doesn't get a papercut? Or rolled up on a business executive's mirror, used as a vessel to transport cocaine up his booger-encrusted nostrils? Perhaps transported from the hands of a man who's just dropped a "number 2" and forgot to wash his hands as a tip to the bathroom attendant who has sprayed him down with designer cologne? I usually carry hand sanitizer in my pocket for just such an occasion but, alas, I left the sanitizer on the counter and acidentally grabbed the calculator instead. I usually use it to compare prices at the grocery store. I'm a bargain shopper. Now I'm left with contaminated hands and a calculator who's screen reads 6-0-0-6-5. I like to type in that number. It spells out "boobs."

Pornotech Offers New Product

Although the American versions won't be out until 2008, Japanese consumers are already enjoying Pornotech's new Roboslut 3000. Pornotech has found a way for the age of technology to stretch (pun absolutely intended for you Magnum users!) to the new wave of pervert in an attempt to go way beyond surfing the internet for the latest in circus porn. That's right! For about the price of a hybrid car, Americans will soon be able to own their very own Roboslut 3000. Pornotech is taking advance orders on their website for custom-made versions of what they are calling "Artificial Fucktelligence." You can select the absolute dimensions of your computerized love machine, including skin color and body type, and you can even customize their voice to match that of your favorite celebrity. The dolls automatically adjust for a perfect fit for the consumer's anatomy and can be programmed to "share with a friend." The Roboslut 3000 also has a post-coital cuddle feature that can be toggled on and off based on your preference. Dolls are available in all nationalities and ages from 18-81. Also, only available in Amsterdam is a special model: the eight year-old Korean boy. It's expected to be a big underground hit with both members of the clergy and the U.S. Congress.