Magi 1: Where’s Gaspar? He’s always late.

Magi 2: He had to stop. Said he forgot a gift.

Magi 1: Seriously? Some Magi. This is the third time. Remember China’s immaculate conception? Showed up empty-handed.

Magi 2:  I know, I know. But he’s funny and he makes awesome travel  jerky. You know this.  And remember that stew?

Magi 1: That was delicious.

Magi 2: Right? That’s why I don’t mind waiting a few extra. Anyway, what’d you get the little baby Jesus?

Magi 1: Oh I got him some really nice gold.

Magi 2: (Stares in disbelief)

Magi 1: What? He’s the savior. I went big. This doesn’t happen every day you know. What’d you get him?

Magi 2: … Frankincense.

Magi 1: Did you say Frankincense? Jesus, Bal.

Magi 2: Hey! A little early to start using his name in vain, don’t ya think? And frankincense smells lovely! And babies smell! The boy might not like it but Mary and Joseph will thank me.  You can take that to the bank. Obviously, banking isn’t a problem for you.

Magi 1: Was that a shot? That sounded like a shot. Listen, we’re talking about our lord and savior here, not your cousin’s kid.

Magi 2: What about my cousin’s kid?

Magi 1: Nothing. Listen, you’re missing the point. I’m saying…

Magi 2: No, no. What about my cousin’s kid? Are you saying something about…

Magi 1: Not the point, but if it makes you feel better, that kid is not the thickest book on the shelf, Bal. You’ve seen him do the thing with the goat. That’s not normal. Honestly, he creeps me out a little. Do you feel better now that you know that?

Magi 2: Ok, the kid is creepy, but I just can’t believe you bought a baby gold. What’s a baby going to do with gold?

Magi 1: Invest. Build a portfolio. You can never start too early these days.

Magi 2:  Oh, this is precious. I’m sure this is the grand plan for the boy. “Go forth, earn interest, gain wealth and retire in Pompano Beach.”

Magi 1:  Oh look who’s talking Mr. I brought you tree sap?

Magi 3:  Boys, boys. What’s the problem? Here. Jerky it out. I brought extra.

Magi 1: About time.

Magi 2: He’s being a bitch.

Magi 3: I see that.

Magi 1: So I understand you forgot a gift? I hope you rectified that.

Magi 3: I did. I picked up some really nice myrrh and…

Magi 1: Did you say myrrh?

Magi 2: Oh here we go…

Magi 3: Yeah. Myrrh is awesome. It smells nice and babies need to smell nice.

Magi 1: Wonderful. Everything a growing boy needs.  God’s going to be so pissed.

Magi 2: Not at us. If anything, he’ll find your materialistic gift off-putting and our humble offerings in the true spirit of this momentous event. So suck it.

Magi 3: Yeah! Suck it!

Magi 1: I hate you both.

Magi 2: This jerky is delicious, Gaspar. It tastes different.

Magi 3: I used a little cinnamon. First Christmas and all. Thought I’d go all out. Try something different.

Magi 1: It is really good. Let’s go. Who’s got the map?

Magi 2: Gaspar?

Magi 3: Ummmmmm…..

Magi 1: (smacks forehead)

Magi 2: Let’s just follow that star. It’ll be fine.

I’m not entirely sure when Adrian Zmed became the focus of our private jokes. I think it began around the beginning of “the boyfriend game,” in which we would see someone on TV or in a photo and say, “That’s your boyfriend.”

So far, a running TJ Hooker is the best you can do. A Rip Taylor throwing confetti is excellent, a Carrot Top in any setting is a winner, and I would even say that Andrew Dice Clay has now made the list of pretty good ones. I think you get the point of the game.

My sister's boyfriend

You can play it with your friends if you want to and I won’t even charge you royalties or nail you with trademark infringement, because I don’t know if that works and it’s not trademarked and I don’t even know what a trademark is. That said, I probably won’t figure out how to sue you, even though I will try, so just have fun with it.

But this post isn’t about the game at all. It’s about the weirdest fucking gift I’ve ever received in my life. It’s the creepiest, most bizarre… I don’t even know what in hell these things are. I don’t understand them. I stare at them and wonder, “What the fuck are these things and why do I love them so?”

Every time I look at them, I sing a little song in my head and I can’t help it. It’s hard to put into words, mainly because I know so few. Let me just show you what they are, and then I’ll write the lyrics down… you can put it to music.

“We come from the ground with tea and song… la di da… la di da…”

As you can clearly see, these things are totally creepy things. They are people growing out of the ground and their eyes scare me. I can’t help but be transfixed each time I glance in their general direction. I love them. I hate them. They cause me turmoil, yet I need to see them. I am lost. I am found.

I don’t know what any of that means. They’re just so weird. I enjoy them for their oddness, and my mom actually gets the credit for their initial spotting, but it was my sister who decided I should have them. And I should, though I don’t know why.

I imagine there are people who love them, because to them, they aren’t at all strange. I want to meet those people. And then there are the people who said, “You know what I’m going to make? Bohemian half-people who play music and serve beverages. You know, so you can stick them in the ground and enjoy them. It’s like, ‘Hey, party people. Now that you’re in the yard, let’s sing folk songs and drink herbal tea.’ I’m going to make them right now. Why are you looking at me like that? You’ll see.”

I don’t know. There could be a whole industry or collectors of these things, and if that’s the case, why? I would also like to have more of them. Does that make sense? Probably not. Anyway, if you see any, please get them for me and I will likely reimburse you.

I want a whole field of half-friends waiting with smiles and biscuits and stuff. I want an entire army of creepy, ceramic half-lings with all sorts of snacks and drinks to offer. I want hundreds of little creepy eyes greeting my guests, and when people arrive I want them to say, “Those things are fucking creepy. Why are they everywhere?”

And then I’ll say, “They just want to make you happy. Can’t you see that?” And then I’ll start reeling off their names and a menu of what each is serving while I stroke their hard hair and giggle. I have goals, is what I’m saying. Help me get there. I can’t do it without you.

It was obviously some kind of bribe to get me to withdraw from the contest, because I’m a well-respected, even feared member of the scientific community. I take aeronau… astro… rocket science very seriously and it was time for the people to recognize my expansive knowledge on space stuff. 

I would challenge her to a science-off, relentlessly tweeting to her such facts as “plants eat carbon dioxide and poop oxygen” and throwing around terms like “gravity” to intimidate her. Wisely, she would choose not to participate. 

It didn’t matter, though. We were both involved in a conspiracy and NASA would take the gold regardless of who actually knew more about rocket stuff. Whatever. I am but one man with limited resources. NASA has deep pockets, rocket scientists, laboratories, test tubes, those security cards that open doors, doors and many other sciency things I could never afford. So due to my limited funding, I’ve abruptly decided to take off my astrology hat and throw myself into the field of marine biology.

This is mainly because I watched a program about it, and like many of my scientific endeavours, this one begins because the show was pretty cool.  I can now say I am rather well-versed in the fields of archaeology, alienography, and river monsterography.

I’ve always been fascinated by anything that can eat me whole and without much trouble. My concern began with alligators and sharks, because as a boy growing up in Florida,  I had more than my share of encounters with these scary fucking things.

In essence, these are dinosaurs. Tiny dinosaurs that survived whatever killed everything else and have now evolved into the world’s most efficient killing machines (or at least were). And make no mistake about it, they’ll still be here when we’re gone. Unless, of course, the killer whales decide they are delicious.

The other night on the National Geographic Channel, I watched a program about how marine biologists (like myself) have determined that Orcas (more commonly known to your likes as “Killer Whales”) hunt Great White sharks (also have some kind of latin name).

This is a startling discovery for those in our field, because we had always assumed these killers never faced-off in the wild and would have a kind of mutual respect for one another. But as it turns out, the feared Gratus Whitus, in scientific terms, is a total pussy.

Shockingly, it’s not even a good fight. The more intelligent whale stalks the shark from the depths before taking the beast by surprise, grabbing its neck and flipping it onto its back. The shark then goes into a state of paralysis known as ”tonic immobility” or “whale food.”

The whale then holds the shark in place until it ultimately drowns before tearing out its liver and devouring it. The rest of the carcass sinks to the ocean floor, which is kind of wasteful, but I’m not going to argue with them about it or give them the ”There are starving kids in Africa” speech.

As the liver is enjoyed, the chemical released from the shark has been given a chemicalish name and apparently scares the shit out of all other sharks in the area. In nearly an instant after a shark has been killed, the surviving sharks will swim as far way as they possibly fucking can. In some tracked cases, up to 2,000 miles. This phenomenon is known in scientific circles as a ”A fabulous idea.”

Based on this discovery, my colleagues have formulated a theory that whales hunt sharks for food, but my theory is these whales are simply protecting their own food source, much like a farmer would protect cattle from coyotes, hyenas, chupacabras, or aliens.  It was kind of shocking to me that my fellow marine biologists weren’t making this connection, but that’s why I’m the best at what I do.

Of course, they might have alluded to it when I was getting a bowl of Lucky Charms, but I don’t think so. My methods are pretty thorough, and I even had my sister Google some stuff while we were on the phone.

Anyway, the other interesting thing to me is that the scent of a freshly mutilated shark makes all other sharks say, “We need to get the fuck out of here.” I love this about sharks and it’s one of the reasons they’re still around. It’s also an instinct we seem to lack and why we’ll be extinct soon. Walk with me.

You see, when we smell dead people, hear screams or a warning system that one of us is in trouble, we run to it. Humans haven’t yet evolved to the point where we recognize danger, even when the danger is very clear.

In the movie Predators, Adrien Brody was aware of this human weakness and so were the Predators, as one of the tools they used to capture the people was to booby-trap a wounded man and leave him moaning in a field. This tactic has been used in warfare for thousands of years. It’s a trap for humans and it typically works, unless you’re trying to catch an Adrien Brody. (The elusive Adrien Brody can be more easily caught with a horrible idea for a commercial. Make a note, Predators. You can get him next season.)

Another example of this is when someone says, “Don’t touch that. It’s hot.” The caveman in your brain still lives there and says, “Touch it.” So you do.  Even the oral warning systems we’ve devised are useless in the face of our built-in stupidity.

Historically, most animals sense natural disasters and even lurking predators, as to where we’re easily surprised, stare in shock and then… pretty much die.  Personally, I’d trade my thumbs for a tsunami warning system or a sixth sense that tells me that I’m about to be eaten by a lion. Compare this to being surprised by a lion and having thumbs. I’ll take thumbless and in the know, thank you very much.

The Weather Channel is another excellent example of how dumb we are. Here you have a bunch of people who know a hurricane is coming, so what do they do? They go stand on the beach and film other people on the beach while saying, “I can’t believe those people are still on the beach.”  Then they get pelted by things for no other reason than my getting to watch them get pelted by things, and I do.  This happens 2-4 times per year.

I can go on and on listing the various reasons we’re not an intelligent species, all the way through to my not being able to stop keeping up with the Kardashians. I know it’s making me dumber and slowly killing me, yet I watch.

Just a second ago, I heard a disturbing noise outside. Instinct tells me to press my face up against the window to see what’s going on.  My brain is actually telling me, “Even though you’ll only be able to see your reflection, you should totally press your face up against that window. This way, if something is out there that wants to hurt you, it can just throw something heavy through the glass and smash your face in.”

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we’re just not going to make it.

As usual, you can keep up to date with my nudist park adventures here.

But it’s not just any nudist resort. I’ve only ever been to one (this one) and have been told it’s unlike any other in the country. More quaint, friendlier people than perhaps anywhere and a mountainous setting that truly brings peace. It’s really nice.

The Bloggess thinks I must have had a nervous breakdown, unless, of course, she’s talking about another friend who had a nervous breakdown and moved to a nudist park http://www.edenfantasys.com/sexis/columns/the-bloggess/. I haven’t asked. She knows a lot of people.

She made a reasonable assumption and I love her like my sister, but that’s not really what happened. I’ll own up to an early mid-life crisis, but never did I suffer a nervous breakdown. 

Not that there’s anything wrong with suffering a nervous breakdown. I could use a week crying, catatonic, institutionalized, heavily sedated… whatever happens during a nervous breakdown. I’m not making fun, I really don’t know what happens. My ignorance on this and many other subjects is pretty expansive. I know so little about so much that I don’t even care to learn. That’s me in a nutshell.

This is me in a donut.

This is me in a goat.

This is me in a Charlie Sheen.

Another reason some might assume I went insane is that I had a pretty public meltdown and lost my cool when I came across a group of bullies who had targeted myself and others, some for over a year. It took me to an ugly place and I learned a lot, but mainly that fueling the hate is never the answer.

Since, I’ve maintained a relatively low profile and don’t care to change that. I didn’t do what I did for popularity. I was already popular. If anything, I knew what I did might result in losing that popularity. That was also okay with me, because I don’t do popular well. I have a tendency to smash shit with a hammer when I don’t like it, at least as it pertains to my life.

Since I’ve worked to create a new beginning, I’ve found myself in a cool little cabin in the mountains. I’ve chosen a life of simple pleasures and have officially exited the rat race. I decided that doing something I hate every day was not how I wanted to spend my life. With that, I began focusing on my writing and while I don’t write here that much, I write a lot and it’s how I get by.

I’m about to go walk naked in the woods with my dogs.

I want you to think about that statement. Not that I want you to picture me walking naked through the woods… it’s too late isn’t it? You’re thinking about me naked right now, in the woods, probably wondering what type of dogs I have, what my butt looks like, shit like that. (Sorry, sis, mom, dudes who don’t like man butt.)

You’re probably wondering what I do with my keys and other stuff. And to be honest, the pocket thing is proving to be troublesome. I would say one of my biggest problems is now my complete lack of pockets, which is an awesome biggest problem to have.

Anyway, as I said, I’m not trying to get you to picture me naked, even though you totally are. I’m more trying to get you in the frame of mind where you consider what it would be like to say at 4:00 on a Tuesday, “I’m going to take a naked walk in the woods with my dogs.” Forget that you might not have dogs. You’re missing the point. It’s about being able to make the choice.

Turn back the clock 18 months and I would be sitting in my office, looking at twitter, saying stuff on twitter, doing other internet stuff, etc… now I’m doing all that stuff naked in a mountain cabin. That is progress, my friends.

I’ve never really given you much of a window into me, but I’m kind of like a woman. I’m very sensitive. I won’t watch sad movies because I know they will make me cry and I don’t like to cry. I’m very manly, but girly at the same time. I’m pretty sure I get PMS. I feel a little bloated today. Do I look bloated when you’re picturing me naked in the woods? (You better say no.)

One of the reasons I came here was to begin living life. I wanted to do something exciting and different and maybe something that would inspire me to grow. In a lot of ways, I think that’s happened. The story is just beginning to unfold and you can read up on my adventures to date at www.thedipskinny.wordpress.com .

It’s safe for work, even the one about punching myself in the penis. That was a great day.

I would like to begin writing here more frequently, because this place has a special place in my heart. For me, it’s a whacky chronicling of a major transition in my life, and I also really enjoy looking at the search terms like “mind control potato”.

Sometimes it’s fun to go back and read what I’ve written, other times it’s embarrassing. Some stuff I don’t even recognize and it’s hard for me to imagine where I was at the time I wrote it.  A lot I’d like to delete, but I’m going to leave it. Fuck it. I have nothing to hide. And I think it might be the first time I could say that and mean it. It’s a good feeling, and I think I’ll be just fine.

“We’re back with MayoPie today because frankly, famous people won’t speak to me anymore. We’re digging deep to find stories of interest and people who will sell their stories for almost nothing, or pay us to tell them, which is the case with our friend Mr. Pie. If you recall, the last time we spoke to Mr. Pie he had just joined a nudist park. Today we’re going to follow-up on that story, because as I said, we’ve got nothing. We’re speaking to Mayo via satellite as I refuse to be in the same room with him ever again.”

Katie: Mayo, are you there?

Mayo: Yeah I’m here, my little kidney bean. This is fucking crazy. Do I look at the TV or the camera? This is like Star Trek! I miss you.

Katie: Looking at the camera will be fine.

Mayo: Do you miss me?

Katie: That’s really not relevant…

Mayo: Oh my God you miss me.

Katie: I don’t miss you.

Mayo: That’s because I’m here now.  Allow me to rephrase: Did you miss me ten seconds ago?

Katie: No.

Mayo: That’s because you knew you were about to see me. Your eyes sparkle like that stuff in breath mints. Retsin, I think it’s called. You have minty eyes.

Katie: Yes, well… We understand some more interesting things have happened in your life since we last spoke. In fact, isn’t it true you just found out that you have a 19 year old daughter?

Mayo: Ummm yeah… but I was kind of hoping I would get to tell everyone.

Katie: Well, you just did. That’s why I phrased it as a question.

Mayo: Ohhhh… I get it. Let me try. Have you gained weight?

Katie: What?

Mayo: FUCKING WITH YOU! Seriously, though, stealing my thunder was kind of bullshit.

Katie: Do you want to talk about your daughter or not?

Mayo:  I hate that we can’t be in the same room together. It’s so impersonal. I want to send you a Brett Favre text via satellite. Can I?  Hey, camera dude. Pan down for a second.  I’ll give you twenty bucks.

Katie: You’re fired if you do it, Hank.

Mayo: Don’t listen to her, Hank. She can’t fire anyone. Only Matt can fire people. Make it fifty.

Hank: (Pans down)

Katie: Gross! Hank!

Mayo: (high fives Hank, writes him an IOU)

Mayo: You know, you’re squeamishness is a little off-putting. I mean, fuck, it’s just a penis, Katie. I know you’ve seen one before and it’s not like mine is ugly or anything. Or is it? Do you think my penis is… ugly? Be honest.

Katie: I’m not going to talk about the attractiveness of your penis.

Mayo: Excuse me for a second.  (picks up phone)

twitter:       What’s Happening?  ”Katie Couric says my penis is attractive.”

Mayo: Sorry, I’m back. So I believe were talking about the attractiveness of my penis…

Katie: We were not!

Mayo: What? Well, I mean you were talking about it. And it’s all over twitter, so… You know, Katie, denial isn’t just a river in Egypt. Oh my God! I never got that saying until now! The Nile is a river in Egypt! Holy shit! It’s a play on words! That’s awesome. Whoever came up with that one has to be rich. I wonder if it will work for other bodies of water. Anyway, tell me more about why you think my penis so attractive. Please be Pacific.

Katie: Mr. Pie, I have no feelings for you and will not engage you in this conversation.

Mayo: You know, Katie, the Atlantic isn’t just the ocean that divides Europe and the United States.

Katie:  That doesn’t even make any sense. ”Atlantic” doesn’t define or even sound like a human emotion or feeling, therefore it’s not really a play on words.

Mayo: Oh. I get it.  I must have lost my Bering, Sea? Anyway, you were talking about my penis. Go on.

Katie: I’m not talking about your penis. (evil stare)

Mayo: (evil stare) Hank? Would you like to talk about my penis? It doesn’t make you gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that).

Hank: (continues filming)

Mayo: Hank, this is your shot to blow, man. Think 8 mile.  This opportunity comes once in a lifetime… (beat-boxes)

Hank: (shrugs shoulders)

Mayo: I was rooting for you, Hank. CBS Evening News With Hank. I saw it in neon lights, Hank. Now it’s gone. If you haven’t noticed, someone (puts hand up to side of face, points at Katie) isn’t doing so hot these days.

Katie: Ok, Mayo. We’re running out of time and I’m running out of patience. Tell us about your daughter.

Mayo: Would you consider yourself a cougar? Personally, I think the term is offensive. GRRRR… Meeeeooowwwww. (tiger paw)

Katie: I’m losing my patience, Mr. Pie.

Mayo: I know, I know. This is work for you. The personal stuff can wait until later. MY DAUGHTER IS AWESOME. I didn’t know she existed until about two months ago, and I love her to death. We’re already very close and the story is beyond interesting.

Katie: Tell us about it.

Mayo: (rolls eyes) Are you sure you don’t want a shot at this, Hank? I feel like she’s really phoning this one in. Plus, I think her feelings for me cloud her objectivity. She’s not very professional.

Katie: How dare you?!

Mayo: How dare you?!

Katie: (evil stare)

Mayo: (evil stare)

Katie: You know what? I’m tired of your suggestive rudeness. Do you really want some questions?

Mayo: I’m not going to tell you how to do your job, Katie. I shouldn’t have to.

Katie: Fine. It says here that you have a 21 year old son from a different mother?

Mayo: I do. He’s awesome, too.

Katie: And when you were a teenager, were you aware of the existence of condoms or were you stupid?

Mayo: Yes! Hardball! This is the Katie I want to see! Yes, I was aware of the existence of condoms, and I can give you the standard manswer and say “I couldn’t find any big enough” but since I’m naked, the joke doesn’t play as well. The real answer is that my partners and I were not always smart, but the way I look at it is, there are two beautiful, awesome people in this world who have brought countless others happiness. While I can’t claim credit for that, I certainly don’t regret their existences and don’t in any way consider them mistakes. Are you calling my kids mistakes?

Katie: Umm… I… no…

Mayo: FUCKING WITH YOU!!! Hankster! Favre satellite text! Do it!

Katie: Hank!!! Stop that! Dammit!

Mayo: (high fives the Hankster)

Katie: What is wrong with you?

Mayo: We should make a baby. It would be beautiful. I’m apparently quite good at it.

Katie: No! And I’m growing tired of your endless come-ons and inappropriate behavior.

Mayo: (presses play on karaoke machine, throws rose petals into the air) You never close your eyes… anymore when I kiss your lips… there’s no tender…

Katie:  This interview is over.

Mayo: Interview? More like an inquisition. You hate jews, don’t you? Is that it? Is it my Jew-ish lineage, Heir Gibson?

Katie: I DO NOT HATE JEWS!

Mayo: Jews? Ummm… my people don’t really like that term, Fräulein.

Katie: (evil stare)

Mayo:It could be like this all of the time, muffin.

Katie: I hate you.

Mayo: You can’t have hate without love, Katie. I think you’re in the Nile.

In all seriousness, the story is interesting, amazing and filled with raw emotions. Perhaps one day I’ll tell it, but I don’t want to share my daughter’s private life. Let’s just say she’s an amazing person, wise beyond her years and an incredible, welcome addition to my life. 

In other news, if you want to read about my naked adventures, go here.

I remember not watching Good Morning America for years before hearing that Katie was leaving. I remember thinking, “Oh.”  It still touches me today in exactly the same way.

Then I heard the news (not on Katie’s news) that no one was watching Katie’s new news. And it would have been a weird story for her to cover:

“In other news, I’m not nearly as popular as we all thought. The people who pay me are very nervous, and it remains to be seen whether or not I’ll be working here at CBS. Ratings are well below everyone’s expectations, but I am very, very rich now. My bosses seemingly regret their decision to have paid me a king’s ransom to ask people questions or read words from this teleprompter (like I’m doing right now), but that’s tough shit because I have a contract. (Raspberries.) Find out more when I ask myself the difficult questions in an upcoming one hour CBS special called Katie on Katie with Katie: Cha-Ching airing this Monday, and maybe we can all get some insight on what went wrong and how I intend to fix it. But for now we’re talking to Mayo Pie regarding his recent decision to go hang-out, pardon the pun, naked.”

Katie:  So, Mayo, at least four people are abuzz that you’ve decided to shed your clothes and run around naked at a nudist resort.

Mayo: That’s right, Katie. I’ve taken Commando to a whole new level. I do all sorts of things publicly naked now and it’s excellent.

Katie: Isn’t it weird being naked around a bunch of other naked people?

Mayo: Not at all, Katie. It’s weird being naked around a bunch of other clothed people. And it’s usually not long before you have to run away. That’s something I prefer that no one sees and is also why I don’t walk around naked at the store, the post office…  places like that.

Katie: So, you just do everything naked… cook naked, eat naked?

Mayo: Yep. I even build stuff naked. I’m apparently the talk of the park because I do it and I think people are concerned that I’m going to cut off my manhood.  But in my defense, I saw a show about a man whose shorts got caught in a cement mixer and… let’s just say… things aren’t right now and never ever will be. So, score one for naked construction. Plus, I think my penis actually likes to see what’s going on and it’s always nice for it to learn some new skills. That’s the way I’m looking at it. You never know when it might have to save my life. Now it can, Katie. Now it can.

Katie: Uh huh. So… you just aren’t wearing any clothes, going about your daily business, having conversations…

Mayo: Uh… Listen, Katie, this isn’t nuclear physics, I don’t think. Is it? Where is Matt? Can I talk to Matt? Matt will know what it is.

Katie: Ummm.. Matt and I don’t work togeth…

Mayo: I know, I know. I’m just fucking with you. You miss him, don’t you?

Katie: Ummm…

Mayo: FUCKING WITH YOU! Ha! I love you, Katie. You should totally come get naked with me and play horseshoes. Matt’s a dick. He’s not invited.

Katie: (Blushing…)

Mayo: Grrrrrrrr… Meeeow… hisss… (tiger paw, raises eyebrow like The Rock, seductively blows glitter from other palm.)

Katie: Ummm…was that glitter?

Mayo:  (Howls at the ceiling)

Katie: Okaaay… so… we understand you’re writing a new blog for the nudist park and you’ll be chronicling your experiences as a first-time nudist.

Mayo: That’s right, Katie. It’s called “The Dip Skinny” and I’ve already written my first post. We talk about ass germs and how they pertain to nakedness, what we do while naked and other naked topics.

Katie: Naked topics?

Mayo: Uhhh… yes, Katie. You do know what a “topic” is and I assume you’ve got a firm grasp on not having your clothes on and how that means you’re naked? Howl, Meeeeeooooowww.

Katie: Yes, I know what both “naked” and “topic” mean, but…

Mayo: (Muffles mouth) Losersayswhat?

Katie: What?

Mayo: AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I love you, Katie. Seriously, FWY.

Katie: FWY?

Mayo: Fucking. With. You. It’s an anagram. Or an acronym. Something that begins with an “A”. Matt would know what it is. Matt?! Where is Matt? We have a question.

Katie: (angry stare)

Mayo: (seductively blows glitter from palm)

Katie: Let’s move on.

Mayo: Let’s. You’re not very good at this. I’m starting to see why Matt fired you.

Katie: What?! Matt DID NOT…

Mayo: SSSSHHHHHHHH… (places index finger on Katie’s lips)

Katie: No, you don’t under….

Mayo: SSSSHHHHHHHH… It’s okay. (gently caresses Katie’s cheek, begins disrobing)

Katie: What are you doing?

Mayo: I’m trying to make you feel better. Turn over.

Katie: No!

Mayo: Matt! Katie’s not listening to me! Somebody get Matt, please.

Matt never showed and we still don’t what an anagram is. That’s okay, sometimes it’s best to let the mind wonder about things after you read something. Matt probably knew that and it’s why he never came.

You can now follow my naked adventures here. I’ll be posting once a week and any questions that you possibly have might already have been answered in my first post. And I can assure you, the fun is only beginning.

And I think, kids, there’s an important lesson in all of this for you. Something you can take with you on your journey until the end. I think what I’m trying to say is, your macaroni art is kind of crappy.

I don’t mean any offense by this. I’m basically making macaroni art with words. But that’s what mom wants, because it comes from your heart. It doesn’t matter if your pasting is rudimentary, at best, and what the fuck is that? Is that supposed to be a dog or a heart? Seriously, you really suck at this.

This Mother’s Day, this is what I want you to appreciate most about your mother: No matter what kind of crap you put in front of her, she thinks it’s awesome. Where else are you going to get that? Hand me macaroni art and see what happens to you.

Anyway, Mom, thank you for pretending to enjoy my macaroni art. Thank you for making all the sacrifices you made so that my life could be a little better. Thank you for being a perfect example of what a mom’s supposed to be, and thank you for tearing up when you read this and getting all “I love that boy!”  even though I threw to this together lazily, circling back around to the whole “only a mother could love this gift” type of thing. You know what I’m saying. It’s the circle of life, but no lions die in our version. I prefer it that way. I’m sure you do, too.

Love you, Mom. Have a great day and try to remember that even though Apryl actually boxed and sent gifts, I drove her to one place to buy some stuff, so it’s like I did most everything.

What I find somewhat refreshing about the Charlie Sheen fiasco is that he’s finally telling us the truth. The truth is that he is the devil. Walk with me.

I applaud Charlie for finally just being himself and no longer being concerned about employing spin doctors to convince us he’s not a gargantuan butthole. The only thing that sickens me more than the thought of contracting people to manipulate our perception of actual events is our need to know about these events at all.

Personally, I couldn’t care less what Charlie Sheen spends his time doing on or off  TV. My only concern is his being hailed a hero for being an egotistical nightmare.

People who believe they are better than other people or “special” are the # 1 problem in the world. That’s where everything breaks down. The common trait amongst ruthless dictators and madmen is their belief that they are better than everyone else.

If you need a reminder of Charlie Sheen’s behavior over the last 15 years or so, go here.  You’ll find it’s consistent with that of a WOMAN BEATER.

People who believe they are special expect special treatment, entitlements and for the world to revolve around their selfish whims. The fact is, 250 people are uprooted because Charlie Sheen is a self-important, self-absorbed primadonna who believes the entire success of the show “Two and a Half Men” is because of his “magic”. Forget the other actors, the directors, assistants, writers (who Charlie clearly, clearly needs desperately, otherwise the entire show would be a series of “bitchins” and “radicals”) and the countless others who make this show go.

If I could fix one thing about people, just one thing in order to make life harmonious for all, it would be to eliminate all thoughts of, “I am special, I am better.”

It’s this thought that makes people do things from cutting in line at the grocery store to committing mass genocide. It begins the breakdown of respect, compassion, common courtesy, love itself.

We can pontificate on the existence of God all day. I have my beliefs and they’re bitchinly radical. I don’t believe in the sense of God in the way that many do, but I do believe we were created. I do believe there are a set of rules we must live by in order to achieve peace, and I also believe we never will.

Whether or not a time will come for us to be judged, I’m not sure. I live on a microscopic ball floating in infinite space, so I exclude no possibility. I do know that every ancient civilization is built on the premise of a creator from the skies. I know that they believe we were all told how to live peacefully and avoid destruction, whether it be by our own hand or by our creator’s. I also know that, collectively, we have not listened.

If there is any truth to the volumes and volumes of history on the subject, what if judgment were upon us? Let’s say God hopped on twitter, saw Charlie Sheen posting pictures of a hot dog shop with “Charlie Dog with Tiger Blood” on the specials board and teams of women commenting, “I’d love to have that meat in my mouth!” Relish? Or penicillin?

I’m way imperfect. I don’t follow the rules, either. I’m self-destructive. I’ve made horrible decisions.  I’m not judging anyone. I’m not even judging Charlie Sheen. I did say mean things to him on twitter like,

“You should list your side effects: conceit, delusions of grandeur and starting to look like Michael Douglas could occur.” 

I shouldn’t do that. I was simply trying to tell Charlie in my own loving way,

“Not only are you not special, you’re an example of everything that’s wrong with us. It’s also not your fault. We made you. Sorry.”

Was that mean? That didn’t sound too judgy, right? I don’t think so. Hey, I’m not Jesus. I said I was imperfect.

To me, all is lost. We’re too far gone now. We began heading in the wrong direction a long time ago and have only picked up speed. All the Charlie Sheen thing has done is serve as yet another reminder of what we most admire; money, vanity, fame. We worship false idols. We make people more special because they can act, sing or run fast. We tell them they are special. They believe it. We turn our heads for offenses that would land you and me in jail. We weep in their presence. We build them.

Charlie Sheen is nothing more than the sum of our wills, an ugly reflection of us. Out of all of this mess, I think that’s what saddens me more than anything.

One of the changes I’ve recently made is trying to speak my mind, rather than letting my anger well up inside of me until I explode like Sting’s penis.

I use Sting’s penis as an example because of the whole tantric thing. You know, the whole build up to the super orgasm that’s supposed to last a week or something. I can’t even begin to imagine the mess. Wouldn’t your partner be like, “Enough already. I’ve swiffered the hardwood 27 times.  Could you at least get in the tub? And your ‘O face’ is getting really annoying. You know, we have a reservation at Spago at 7:30. We can’t very well go if you’re yodeling and spraying semen everywhere, even if you are Sting.”

I often won’t compare my life or emotional reactions to that of a man’s orgasmic wiener, but I’m not very good at similes. To be honest, I really don’t even know what they are.

Of course, my emotional kabooms aren’t anything to worry about, unless you’re around me. I’m not violent or anything. “Mean” is probably the best word to describe it. You might have seen it here when a couple of people disagreed with me during an outburst and I responded a little unreasonably. 

Commenter: Gee, Mayo. I’m not sure you’re correct.

Mayo: I see. Have you considered that it might be because your face is stupid and your mom hates you? I’m just spitballing here. It could also be because your brain functions kind of like… I was going to say some kind of slow plant, but they at least seem to know how to grow toward the light. 

I like that even though we’ve never met, we have the kind of relationship where we can say whatever to one another and it’s like no big deal, right? Thanks for stopping by. Can’t wait to meet you at Blogher.

That was a result of sitting on my emotions until everyone must pay. Obviously, that’s not a good thing, so now I vent my anger as it comes along and in much more controlled bursts of assholeness. 

The result is rather than everyone getting to share in the misery during my one massive hissy fit per year, we’re now treated to several of them all year long. The new me is kick ass. People love it.

I’m actually a nice person. I’m polite, courteous, I never hit anyone with anything heavy or sharp… I’m basically the guy you want as your neighbor, unless you like talking to your neighbor. 

But if something does happen where we move beyond niceties and it gets a little heated, I sometimes say things that make people want to kick me in the face.  And amazingly, it almost never happens.

Anyway, I was invited to a meeting with a “financial consultant” who had convinced my girlfriend to take an appointment on her day off. This was to discuss her future retirement, current situation… all things that happen beyond December 21, 2012 and therefore hold no interest to me. On December 22, 2012, I will have sold all my stuff and if I’m not dead, I’ll be naked and possibly wandering down your street, Colt 45 (the malt liquor) in one hand, Colt 45 (the gun) in the other, and a needle hanging out of my arm while I’m mumbling, “This is bullshit. Potato Salad.”

Obviously, I’m going to have to have some kind of crazy catch-phrase I mumble as I wander around aimlessly, and I have chosen “Potato Salad.”  With any luck, that will become my street name and my friends will say, “Hey look! It’s Potato Salad.” And when I arrive at tent city every evening, at my request, they will sing the theme song to Shaft, because that’s what real friends do.

Back to the financial meeting that didn’t matter.

I asked my girlfriend to give me a little background about how this guy works and she tells me he’s an independent financial consultant who works with various companies to determine sound financial planning. He makes his living on commission when he links us with the companies who make the most sense for us. Ok, got it.

When the man arrives, he’s about sixty, pretty well-dressed and made a decent impression. All in all, I’d say he was very friendly and I liked him. In the interest of keeping real names out of this, we’ll call him Assfucker Johnson. 

The guy he was with, however, appeared to have slept in the suit he found in his grandfather’s coffin. His fingernails were caked with dirt and he was sporting the classic sweep-over, a favorite among the bald and delusional.

As we met, I happened to be holding a clear glass containing Sprite. The first thing the man said to me was an almost  incoherent mumble. “Ohhh… is that coffee?”

“Ummm… no… it’s Sprite.”

“Oh” (palpable disappointment)

Ok. So I guess we now have to give this guy a name, and to be honest, I don’t even remember what it was. Some series of consonants, maybe a vowel. Anyway, we’re going to call him… Veronica.

Now we’re sitting at a table with Assfucker Johnson and Veronica, A.J. explaining all of the ways we could lose all of our money while basically pointing out that every conventional way to invest is high-risk. After knowing people who have lost their retirements in the stock market, it’s not difficult to believe. But something wasn’t right.

About midway through, I determined we were being pitched life insurance and Veronica was there to learn how to do it. This was somewhere in between A.J. explaining to us about having  just found this miraculous company and having had an account with them his whole life.

I had tuned out by now and while Assfucker Johnson was trying to put the close on my girlfriend, I entertained myself by watching Veronica nod in and out of consciousness, ready to spring from my chair in case he vomited. I’ve been vomited on before and you know that one story that everyone tells a hundred times because it’s the most awful thing that ever happened to them? I didn’t want another one of those stories, so this time I was ready.

Finally, Assfucker was wrapping up his pitch and going in for the close. I interrupted him and said, “Thanks for the information. We’ll talk about it and let you know.”

Now this is important, because what I wanted to say was not what I said and against the new me. What I wanted to say was, “In my mind, you’ve been on fire for at least fifteen minutes.” Instead, I just tried to end it quickly. It was his last chance to get out of there without it getting ugly.

You see, in sales, the doubting friend can turn a sale upside down. There are ways to deal with that person, but it’s best to try to pay them as little mind as possible and focus on the decisionmaker, and of course, maintain politeness and such.  So as A.J. is trying to handle me politely and go about his close, I decided it was time to speak my mind.

Me:  Okay, Assfucker Johnson. You want to know what my trepidations are?

A.J.: I absolutely do. (confidently, as if ready for any objection)

Me: I doubt you want to hear it, but okay. My suspicions are and have been that you are doing nothing more than selling life insurance for…

Now, we should also give the company a name because I don’t want to get involved with anything legal, so we’ll call them “The Assholes Who hired Assfucker Johnson and Veronica, Inc.”

A.J.: I’ve been a financial consultant for 36 years.

Me:  Uh huh. Let me ask you a question. How many other companies have you pitched to your prospective clients this week?

A.J.: Oh… several.

Me: Ok, well if this one’s the best, why would you do that? Anyway, give me the name of another company you’ve presented this week. We’d like to see some options and compare.

A.J. : Ummm.. I just turned a client onto … (again we’ll protect the name here) a company called “Another Way To Fuck You.”

Me: Uh huh. And by chance is Another Way to Fuck You affiliated with The Assholes Who Hired Assfucker Johnson and Veronica, Inc?

A.J. : Uhh… yes… they are.

Veronica: (springs to life) They are?

A.J.: (evil stare at Veronica) Yes.

Me: That’s what I thought. Listen, I’ve been training salespeople since I was eighteen and you did everything well. The reflective questioning, the mapping out… I mean, really. You’re a good salesman. But my problem is that you approached us under the guise of being an unaffiliated financial planner with a customized plan, and I see you do nothing but sell life insurance for this particular company. That’s deceitful and I have a problem with handing my future to people who begin our relationship by lying to me, unless I somehow get sex out of the deal. Is that going to happen?

A.J.: (Speechless, wondering when it all fell apart)

Veronica: So… how can we be less deceitful?

Me: (Giggle) Well, the first thing I would try is not lying. But listen, I get that it’s hard to get a meeting to sell life insurance, so you approach it in a way that’s less than honest.

Veronica: (Nodding head, taking notes)

A.J.: (evil stare back and forth from Veronica to me)

Me: (Still giggling) Your particular problem today is that I recognize these techniques and have seen them many times before.

Veronica: Oh, so you’re the problem?

A.J.: (firing Veronica in his mind)

Me: (Giggling my ass off) You’re a trainee, right? Assfucker Johnson out here showing you the ropes?

Veronica and A.J.: (silent and slow nod)

Me: Listen, Veronica.  Assfucker Johnson is very good at doing this and if you want to learn how to be tricky, Assfucker is the man to learn it from. However, sometimes you run into people like me who catch you in your bullshit. So, yes, I guess you can say that today, for you, I am the problem.

Veronica:  (nodding head and taking notes)

A.J.: (Looking at floor)

Me: Any more questions? Okay, guys. Thanks for the time. We’ll talk about it tonight and let you know in a few days. I think we covered a lot and we’re definitely interested (wink).

If you haven’t seen the movie, congratulations. You made the right decision. I’ll tell you about it and it will be more entertaining, as is often the case with movies you’d rather not see.

Leonardo DiCaprio plays a dream spy who invades people’s dreams to recover secrets. Apparently, everyone who has a secret keeps it locked in a safe in their minds. Everyone.

I slept through most of it, but I guess in order to really trick the people whose secrets they’re trying to extract, they’ll sometimes make the targets think they’re awake. But in actuality, they are still dreaming. Whoa. We’re talking “dream within a dream” here, the depth of which is staggering. And sometimes, they’re forced to go to a dream within a dream within a dream, the danger being the further they go, the harder it is to return from the dream world and be a tool.

What bugs me about this movie, other than the entire movie, is people being astounded by the depth of the concept. You can see it in all 27 Nightmare on Elm Street movies and a million others I preferred.

If I’m to suspend realism, I need some believability. For example, everyone’s mind has a secret safe? The concept is just stupid. My secrets aren’t in a safe. Safes are unreliable and constantly targeted.  If you want to keep something safe, don’t put it in a safe. Put it somewhere no one will look for it, like in Morgan Freeman’s foot powder or inside Courtney Love’s shampoo. I keep mine in my vegetable drawer (or at least I used to, dream secret stealers). The point is, it’s your mind and you can put it anywhere you want to.

Now that I know you’re looking, you’ll never get to my secrets, DiCaprio. You wouldn’t even know where to begin. I have a labyrinth prepared for you that would make Voldemort weep. In fact, I just added him to the fold.  It is now Voldemort, Darth Vader, Bruce Lee and Rambo guarding the entrance to my secrets, which lies at the fiery, lava-protected gates inside the asshole of Ving Rhames.

I probably shouldn’t have told you that much, but I can add security at my discretion and do so instantly. It might not even be Ving Rhames, and then you’ll be rooting around in Ving Rhames’ asshole for nothing. Ha!

Even if you do find my secret location, you’ll have seven Linda Blairs simultaneously vomiting on you while a team of special forces Hannibals is eating your face off. I’ll have an army of giant Regis Philbins at my command, all awaiting the orders to crush you with their piranha hammers. I will turn the world into flubber and bounce you to a planet that’s made entirely of glue, where it rains Barbra Streisands and electric tigers for one thousand hours per day, and the sustained winds sound like Fran Drescher singing “Margaritaville”.

I dare you to come in here. I just made throwing knives that are tiny, explosive alligators.  And they’re heat-seeking. Yeah… heat-seeking. All of my dream weapons are heat-seeking now. And nuclear.  And blue, because I love blue.