Following the inarguable premise that all creatures want to listen to the sounds made by other creatures of their own species, there is available for sale these albums called “Baby Sounds,” or “Happy Baby Sounds.” They are intended to entertain your young, inarticulate offspring.     I have several problems with these things. First, filling an entire CD with cooing, babbling, razberrying children’s noises borders on the edge of Geneva convention defiance. They probably pipe this stuff into the recreational areas at Gitmo**.     Second, they seem completely artificial. Considering the dense coverage of wall-to-wall babbling embodied in one of these recordings, I have no choice but to believe the sounds were either generated by hopping infants up on meth-emphetamines or by condensing 8 hours of noise into five minutes. Either way its a sham of ga-ga, poo-poo proportions.     Lastly, the entire idea behind this is hogwash*. Forcing a baby, who is doing his or her best to learn about verbal communications, to listen to other kids struggling with the same task is confusing at best and regressive at worst.     See, when I was a teenager I desperately wanted sex. Oh, man, did I want sex. But I really didn’t know how it worked.     So to learn how it was done I read and watched instructional materials in which professional actors and actresses had sex repeatedly with one another. It was filmed from various educational angles and dubbed with various positive reinforcement cues such as, “yeah, baby, just like that,” and “you like it like that, don’t you, you filthy bastard!”     If, instead, I was forced to watch 14 year olds fumbling at eachother in their parent’s basements, I think I would be a far less effective lover today.     So if you want a college student who sits in his dorm muttering, “Ba-ploo! Boo-ba-doo-ba-doo! Phft-phft-phft, hee hee hee!” then by all means buy this crap and play it for your poor child.     But if you, like me, want to raise the future benevolent dictor of mankind, then I would recommend you buy an audiobook of Machiavelli’s The Prince.

* Bausch and Lomb Hogwash–Now Mit Lanolin!
** You know, the dirt patch between row 5-H and the shower stalls?

Looking for Closure? Episode 21 was posted several days ago, which presented a singulary disgusting denouement to the Gail incident.

    I’m not against candy, in moderation. Especially chewy candies with bright, pretty colors and enough sugar to power a bio-diesel Yugo*. Last night, however….
    Sick with either a small flu or a light case of food poisoning, I found myself gazing at the bright, pretty vericose veins** of a only very slightly overweight citizen who was in the process of attempting to purchase no less than five bags of bulk candies at my local drug store.
    I say attempting, because this woman was convinced that one of the bags, currently chock full of ‘Fun Size’ Snickers, was mismarked in the store’s favor. A one-sided yet nonetheless fierce argument was in progress in which the nameless woman’s daughter, a girl who looked about 19 but was wearing pajamas and slippers, was alternatingly supportive and embarrassed by her mum’s antics. The clerk nodded and shrugged in response to the unwelcome stimuli.
    I was sleepy, my joints were aching, and I was dangerously close to crapping my pants. I shifted from foot to foot, and looked around. I was next up behind the wonder family, but behind me a nice line had formed of about five prospective customers. There were no other registers open, and this tiny crowd began to grow as restive as my colon.
    A manager was summoned. The price was confirmed being correct as marked. Vericose veins and pajamas-at-5 fought for a few additional seconds, just to sour my shopping experience one more notch.
    Happily, the woman finally agreed to pay the additional $1US for the Snickers. Receiving her hard-won bags and bags of candy goodness, she immediately handed them all to her daughter who kissed her saying, “thank you mommy!”
    Together they left to join their destiny.
    I bought my Immodium AD, my nighty-night Tylenol and two-liter bottle of club soda and I wandered off to join my toilette.

* You think I don’t know I’m making no sense? I do know. I know it good.
** In researching this story I found that the woman’s condition is really known as “spider veins”. Since this seemed far less recognizable than vericose, I left the references in the story the way I wrote them: wrong.

I’ll be back with illustrations later. You can read it anyway. Its part 21, where we relax in bed.

    I had slept. For how long?
    My eyes opened of their own accord, and I found myself staring at the slope of my bedroom ceiling as it rose to meet the single row of ceiling tiles above me. Afternoon daylight poured through the small window at the end of the room and gave stark relief to the rough grain of the plywood.
    Pinholes in the wood served as the only reminder of the previous owners of this, my tiny Warren bungalow. This had been their son’s room; and when I moved in I carefully removed the boy’s posters of Megadeth, Hello Kitty, the Glenn Miller orchestra and Rolf Harris from the ceiling and walls. Rolling the bizarre paper iconography up, I tied them with bits of twine and placed them in a bag which still sat in the back of my closet awaiting a time when the boy might return to reclaim them–they’re still there, for all I know.
    Where in the world does a teenage boy get a poster of Glenn Miller in this day and age, and who the hell was Rolf Harris, anyway? Whatever. That had been nearly ten years ago and I hoped that the boy was at peace with his warring interests by now. Alone amongst my twisted sheets, I held the same eventual hope for myself.
    I reached across my chest with my right hand and gingerly probed the pink skin where scalding hot coffee had been intentionally dribbled across my chest. I moved my hand lower and felt the round outline left by one of many tiny, circular cigarette burns. Wincing at the sensation, I felt thankful for the momentary distraction from my thoughts and memories. I rubbed my eyes, and while the headache was finally gone I couldn’t say that I felt rested, really.
    I remembered the kitchen, the coffee pot rustling and chatting quietly to itself as Gail had forced me to… drink coffee with her. Dazed by the intensity of the headache assaulting my cranium and confused by my physical reaction to her aggressive, dusty advances, I had allowed myself to be led upstairs to my bedroom while carrying two large mugs of hot, black coffee.
    In the hour or so which ensued there was some pleading, some tears, and at least a small portion of the coffee was drunk by one or both of us. The deliciously illicit nature of the coffee seemed to add gasoline to the fire that consumed Gail Sayer, 38 year old factory worker and nicotine enthusiast. The fire was quite literal at times, as burning cigarettes passed in and out of existence before my wobbling eyes. At one point she sat atop me, and her droopy, teacup sized breasts hung suspended over my body, quivering with laughter as thin streams of hot java traced lines across my chest. At least one of her eyes stared into my face at all times, and after a while I stopped trying to hide my distress. Her cracked, leathery grin was unphased by my evident revulsion.
    From downstairs my cell phone periodically serenaded us with its lusty digital rendition of the 90′s dance hit, the Macarena. I quit asking Gail to let me see who was calling after awhile. It didn’t seem to matter what I said, she’d simply ignore me or lie to me saying, “it’s OK, weasel, you’re doing fine.” Impossibly, one such statement was made immediately after burning a hole in my abdomen with her lit Marlboro. It was probably just that damn Bananas anyway.
    The cigarette burns, I think, were accidental. After all, she had to brace herself sometimes, and setting the cigarette down was not really part of her philosophy. She apologized often when this happened, and insisted on “kissing” the “boo-boo.” Perhaps I’m not as familiar with this practice as I thought I was, but I don’t think tongue is necessary for therapeutic macking.
    Finally I lay, exhausted, caffeinated, scalded and spent, and I listened to the rustle of the sheets and creak of my mattress as Gail moved around me, apparently done for the moment. My eyes were heavy despite my desperation and my forehead was beaded with sweat from the intensity of my headache. I turned my head to look at Gail and found that she sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on her tank-top and puffing out smoke. The room reeked of tobacco smog and coffee. My mattress was damp and brown from the spilled beverage, and I gripped the fitted sheets in tight wads at my sides. Presently, she tapped ashes onto my stomach. I didn’t have the energy to react, so I just lay there and breathed that stink in long, slow breaths.
    Flashing a snaggly, yellow-toothed grin at me, she said, “pretty good, eh, weasel?” I didn’t bother answering. Her smile faded a bit as she held her current cancer stick in front of her face, and I absently noted that one of the happier teddy bear tattoos lost its head inside her elbow every time she bent her arm. This lent the sinister little creature a modicum of tragedy, and I found myself identifying with it. According to her illustrated limb, the teddy bears were all climbing to the top so as to fight the little helmet men on their ATVs. That the little ursine cuties were clambering up past Gail’s long row of nicotine patches seemed beside the point, although the tattoo vines were clearly intended to serve as a guide for applying each patch, lining them up and spacing them out properly.
     “I gotta go get some more cigarettes,” she said as she stood in her recently recovered bikini briefs.
    As she walked around my bed to find her jeans, I saw that the butt of her pink panties had been printed with white block letters. Bending over like a switchblade to pick up her pants, the bones of her pelvis stuck out, wing-like; it was as if an angry bat had just awoken to realize that he’d fallen asleep in entirely the wrong sort of cave. I studied the letters and, against all evidence to the contrary, they read, “JUICY.”
    That was when I gave up on this current batch of experiences and closed my eyes, willing it all to… go… away.
     “Aw… I wore you out,” I heard her whisper like sandpaper, “I’ll be back later, OK?” I smelled her wretched breath a full second before I felt her dry, firm lips kiss me on the mouth. I will not talk in detail about her ashy tongue at this time, and I did not open my eyes as she left me, and sleep soon wiped it all away.
    I can only assume hours had passed since then. The Sun streamed from out of the West into the window, serving as proof that it was now sometime in the mid-afternoon. I decided it was time to move; I needed another shower, I wanted to check on Chuck’s twisted, pitiful corpse…and I couldn’t forget about Boba Fett.
    I rolled over to get up, and planted my cheek directly into a small pile of ash that had been left on the pillow beside me. Staggering upright I brushed some of it off, but the coffee residue on my face held fast to a layer of the gray dust. It’d come off in the shower, I supposed.
    Standing, head bent to clear the sloped ceiling, I surveyed the wreckage and looked for the remains of my bathrobe. Ah, there it was, on the floor. I shrugged it on over my shoulders, ignoring the gaping, crispy-edged hole which saucily revealed my right shoulder. The collar was still quite damp, which felt good on my various little burns. I trudged toward the steps leading downstairs, pulling the sheets from the bed in passing. Riddled with cigarette burns and coffee stains, they had no place in my life anymore. I dragged them behind me, a train for my incontinent wedding.
    As I shoved the sheets into my kitchen garbage, trying hard not to look at the towering coffee pot. For its part, that damn coffee obelisk lasciviously menaced the room in general and the kitchen table specifically.
    The doorbell rang. Frozen for a moment, mid-shove with a handful of bed-sheets, I looked to Boba Fett’s head under the table quizzically. Bruce? It rang again. Boba offered no reassurance, so I tore a drawer open and grabbed the first sharp object I could find before heading to the door. I cursed under my breath at my own impatience as I turned the doorknob; I should have taken more time in selecting my impromptu weapon. I would have to make do, I thought as I opened the door.
    So it was that the shocked UPS man found himself confronted by a tired, literally ashen man in a fire damaged bathrobe brandishing what appeared to be an old steel melon baller.
     “Uh, I have an, um,” he began, clearing his throat, “a delivery for Joe Minnetola. Can you sign for it?”
    Still clutching my melon baller, I looked down at the clipboard he was proferring and only then noticed that there stood beside him a 7 foot tall box resting on a UPS standard issue hand-truck.
     “What is this?” I said, gesturing toward the huge box with my baller.
     He turned the clipboard around and concentrated. “Says here it comes from the Franklin Mint.

    Looking for Closure? Part 20 was posted last week. What are you waiting for! Just read the testimonials!

• My eyes, Gail, they burn, why SafeT? Why? I’m only a child! -Rich
• For the love of God, man. Some people are in the habit of getting their story-time right before bed-time. -Sam, PCB
• The Macarena … Boba Fett … Traumatizing sexual encounters … Man, this story’s got everything. – ArthBard
• Makes me shudder and start hacking violently in involuntary allergic response just thinking about it. -Redhead83402
• I think you’d have to be into necrophillia -Kim Ayres
• I need a cold shower after that. -FootEater

    Part 21 will be up later in the week, you’ve got time!

(my birthday was on the 7th of June)

My baby sister (right), currently away at college, sent me this wonderful customized Disney birthday card.     She may look blind (at the DMV you can get special “Hero” cards just for showing up with a major handicap or retardation. These are good towards purchase of a small gold painted plastic hero medallion and %10 off at the Swedish buffet), but she’s not; this picture of her mid-blink was simply the most unflattering image of her I could find on my computer. Take that, Vicky!

    Oh, the birthday card! Here it is:

    Is it any wonder I enjoy fisting so much?
Looking for Closure? Scroll down for the most repulsive episode yet.

Caution! This episode contains material that may not be suitable for children or discerning adults.

    I considered carefully before responding. Gail, her eyes literally splitting her attention between the slowly warming coffee maker and studying my body, seemed to puff on her cigarette in a manner best described as ‘expectant’. I tried my best to look nonchalant by leaning against the counter top and crossing my arms, surreptitiously drawing my loose bathrobe closed just a little tighter around me. I felt quite exposed, and thought there was a definite fishbowl effect going on.
    We stood together in my small galley style kitchen and the pale blue painted walls lent everything a subtly washed out appearance. The bright morning sun, spearing through the window over the sink, shone like a harsh square spotlight onto the wall above the small wooden table. Gail’s normally gray skin tone seemed almost green in the reflected light. I licked my lips nervously.
     “Well, actually,” I said, “I think it could probably please more than a dozen people-”
     “Shush, Joe. Just shush.” I stopped, letting my eyes slip away from hers and nervously looked to the floor. Boba Fett’s severed cardboard head looked back at me accusingly from where it rested atop the somewhat sticky mass of my discarded work shirt beneath the table. A few seconds ticked by, marked by Gail’s periodic drags on her cigarette through those tight, cracked lips, and the occasional tick of her misaligned yellowed eyes. She shifted her weight, what there was of it, from one foot to the other, but continued staring and smoking in silence; would she stand there looking at me forever, or just until the coffee was done? Presently, the coffee pot began wheezing. I wondered how long would take for the huge percolator to do its thing. Would Gail leave after that? I needed to lie down and sleep, my head was pounding like last summer’s touring company of Tycho Dance*, and I still needed to think about Boba Fett–what his presence in my mailbox meant. What about Bruce?
     My thoughts were interrupted by the sudden intrusion of a tinny stream of Latin dance music coming from somewhere in the living-room.
    As one, we both jumped, and Gail’s cigarette wiggled in her fingers and almost went flying as she twisted herself around to face the direction of the music.
     “What the hell’s that?” she demanded as orphaned ashes drifted like filthy snow onto my linoleum floor.
     “The Macarena,” I answered the empty room, as she had already walked out into the living room and had begun searching for the source of the catchy music. Alone in the kitchen for the moment, I closed my eyes and squeezed my head with my hands, willing the pain to go away. The sound of the Macarena grew noticeably louder, though not a bit less Latin, and I opened my eyes to see Gail walking the two steps back into the kitchen carrying my ringing cell phone in front of her while reading the display.
     “I found this in your pants,” she said, “you’re a slob, you know that? This thing is sticky as hell, and why does it smell.. (sniff) like strawberries?”
     “Uh..,” I managed.
     “It says, ‘out of area.’ Here,” she handed me the ringing phone. I stood dumbly staring at the thing, ignoring its desperately implied cries of ‘hey, Macarena!.’ Head…hurts…
     “Wake up and answer it! Oh, and I’m not here, got that?” I slowly nodded, pressed the answer button, and held it up to my left ear.
    A pleasant woman’s voice spoke,
    ”Please hold while we connect your call to,” there was a pause, and then an impossibly gruff voice declared, “BANANAS.” There was a series of clicks. I waited.
    Cocking her head, Gail asked, “Who is it?”
    Still listening to the seemingly endless series of random clicks, I answered listlessly, “No one, yet. But I think its going to be Bananas.”
     “What?” Then, in an invasion of my personal space which, honestly, was par for the course, Gail sidled up next to me and leaned in close, pressing her ear against my phone to listen in from the other side. Steadying herself, she wrapped her bony arm around my shoulders with her lit cigarette going along for the ride. I could feel the heat from her cheek warming my hand where it held the phone and only my exhausted, pain fogged state prevented me from drawing away in revulsion.
    The smell of her breath was a moist, dusty thing, and I was thrown back to an earlier time; a time in my childhood when I and several other kids bravely explored Mr and Mrs Mayfield’s burnt-out house at the end of the block. The Mayfields had suffered a big house fire the night before, and I had stayed up staring from my room at the flashing lights of the firemen and trying to make out the words from their excited, shouting voices. The next morning we violated the caution tape, entered the house and found that it had been soaked thoroughly by the fire-hoses. It presented a complex arrangement of charred timbers, melted plastics and dampness all around.
    Mrs. Mayfield had been a collector of “Precocious Moments” figurines, which were small ceramic children with huge, sad eyes and disproportionately large heads doing god-knows-what to each other. Usually they would be mounted on small bases or pedestals embossed with phrases like, “Hang in there,” or “God Loves you More than Bunnies!”
    I remember collecting the smudged and broken Precocious Moments figurines from the wreckage of Mrs. Mayfield’s curio cabinet and carrying them home in a paper shopping bag. The smell of smoke and wet consumed the bag and, when the dampness from the figures soaked the bag to the point of failing, the contents precociously tumbled out of the resulting rupture and rolled across the sidewalk. The vacant eyes of their roly-poly heads exuded the perfume of last-night’s flames. I gathered them up with my bare hands and continued on my way. My mother was quite unhappy with the collection when I walked into the house hugging the armload of golf-ball sized heads, torsos and bases.
     Now, years later, I found myself standing cheek to cheek with that same smell while in my basement lay the decidedly unprecocious severed torso of my friend Chuck. His head and eyes, however, were exquisitely proportionate and the embossing on his tongue implored me to hide him–seemingly withholding any possible opinion on the relative love of Bunnies in the eyes of the Lord.
    Chuck, I thought as my head spoke of agony, the smell of my unwelcome companion sunk into my olfactory passages, and the coffee pot hissed and burbled, did you really want me to go through all this?
    A final click was heard from my phone and the voice I had come to know as ‘Bananas’ spoke in my ear. It was a sound like gravel running down a hill with a slight Indian accent.**
     “Good time of day, sir. I am Bananas with Franklin Mint activation tech support. You may remember speaking to me,” there was the sound of a keyboard clacking away for a moment and then, “Do you?”
    Gail whispered under her breath, “hang up on him.” Distracted, I did my best to piece together the context of Banana’s last question in my head.
     I gave up. “Do what?”
     “Uhh, uhh,” he grunted/panted, “Do you remember speaking to me?”
     “Yeah, I guess,” it was at that moment that I began to smell a different brand of smoke than the usual putrescence pouring from Gail’s mouth and, at the same time, realized that my right shoulder was beginning to feel very, very hot, “I think I’m on fire now, bye!”
    I’m pretty sure I heard Bananas yell “Wait-Mr. Minnetola!” as I tossed the phone aside and attended to the matter of the fire on my robe.
    Gail’s cigarette had inconsiderately ignited the shoulder of my bathrobe and licks of flame were now dancing mere inches from my head. I frantically batted her hand away and unsuccessfully tried to pat the conflagration out, burning my palm in the process.
    ”Damn,” said I.
     “Shit,” said Gail, “You are on fire!” Reacting swiftly, Gail moved in front of me and wrenched the collar of the bathrobe off my shoulders with both hands, exposing my bare chest and binding my arms against me in the process. The fire was now behind my back, and presently I felt my shoulder blade roasting slightly.
    I screamed involuntarily from the pain, and stupidly tried to twist away from the flames, bumping into Gail. My arms were securely trapped in their sleeves and bound against me, so the effort was futile; I began to panic in earnest.
     Impatiently, she commanded, “quit squirming.”
    Moving quickly now, Gail wrapped her arms around me in a rough embrace, reaching around behind my back to turn on the kitchen faucet, grab the burning fabric and shove the flaming bits beneath the running water. I was forced to arch my back painfully in order for the terry cloth collar to get that far into the sink, and as the seconds–and the danger–passed I realized with some amount of horror that my body was now pressed firmly against Gail’s bony frame. I felt completely powerless, off-balance and bent backwards over my own kitchen counter with my arms trapped in the tightly bound sleeves of my robe. Further, back when I was twisting around like an idiot my bathrobe had partially fallen open, and I now felt the rough fabric of her jeans rubbing against my exposed genitals. I am ashamed to admit it, but I let out a pitiful, mewling little sob right then and there.
    Misunderstanding the cry, her raspy voice spoke with insincere, gentle reassurance in my ear, “You’re fine, you big, stupid weasel.”
    Gail’s head was over my shoulder now, and I felt her arms working behind me, still dousing the robe with cold water. Some of the liquid splashed against my exposed back in a tickling spray, forcing me to jerk a little. Her waxy hair got in my face and mouth and smelled of sweat and tar and tasted of bitter salt. I spluttered and phiffed a bit and by the time I stopped phiffing and spluttering the faucet had been turned off and I felt Gail’s warm, leathery face press against my neck.*** I froze, petrified by circumstance as well as by a perverse sense of unwelcome arousal. A moment passed by, and then another. I was acutely aware of my exposed parts, the most prominent of which was doing its best to regretfully telegraph my physical interest through the material of her jeans.
     The tableau ended suddenly as the coffee pot enthusiastically burbled and hissed. Gail’s hand traced a line up the center of my back and what I can only assume was a cracked fingernail scratched my spine uncomfortably and gave rise to a shivering crop of goose-flesh. In desperation I looked to Boba Fett, but from his floor-level vantage point he seemed far too sanguine and disinterested in the proceedings to help me out.
    The scent of coffee was now wafting through the room in earnest and served to cover, partially, the continuous low-level stink of Gail’s applied carcinogens. My back hurt, and I longed to straighten up.
     “Gail..” I began, without a clear idea of where I how I’d finish, “uh..”
     She actually nuzzled me then, and her craggy teeth nipped the nape of my neck. I clenched my teeth, biting my tongue hard enough to draw blood, and as she reached up and wrapped her arm around my head I came face to face with a teddy bear. Its furry arms were raised in victory above the wrecked body of a small helmeted man who, in turn, lay atop the freshest nicotine patch on Gail’s body. The cute little bear’s teeth dripped blood, and his little ATV had crushed the tiny man. I studied that bear quite intensely, hoping it could take me to another place, and I felt her other hand slip from behind me, trace the line of my belt and reach…down…
     “Pour us a cup,” she demanded, and tugged.

* Tycho Dance is a psuedo-artistic combination of kobuki theater, tycho drumming, ice skating and lap dancing and is continually improving and adding new elements. Next year’s production is supposed to come complete with an Andrew Loydd Weber soundtrack and a watered down plot involving a romance between a dilapidated dance slipper and one of the larger tycho drums.
** Yes, the rocks tumbled with an Indian accent. You’d have to hear Bananas to understand.
*** Disclaimer: ‘Phiffed’ is Not Actually a Real Word
**** The fabulous illustration of Gail’s arm is an interpretation by Jagd Kunst.

    There’s a set of new SafeTunes in town. They were actually both part of a single improv set, but they are logically separated into a minimalist piece and a standard (for me) improv piece.
    The minimalist experiment is You Weren’t Looking for This (Were You?) and is about four minutes long. I enjoy it, but minimalism often seems very repetetive if you aren’t into it. This is, at best, mediocre from that standpoint anyway. But see if you can spot the variations in the iterations! Click HERE.
    The standard improv piece is I Wasn’t Looking for This (Were You?) and is about five minutes long. This one is more melodic, has a few mini-movements and a good share of flubs. If you want to listen, click HERE.

Remember that SafeT’unes will automatically begin playing your selection as soon as you navigate there. Have your speakers adjusted accordingly if you are at work. (Or perhaps wait to listen until you are at home)
Were you looking for Closure? I’ll probably have part 20 up tomorrow morning (-5GMT). In the meantime, did you read Part 19, in which Joe does a pole-dance with an industrial coffee maker?

    I hear you, folks, all this Closure stuff is well and good, but do you have any Stephen Seagal news? As a matter of fact, I do!

    Stephen Seagal is due to appear in two straight to video movies. The highly anticipated one-two punches of “Shadow Man” and “Mercenary for Justice” are scheduled for release this year, so start watching those release charts!

    Shadow Man is my current favorite of the two as it has Stephen returning to his roots in shadow puppetry.
    The story so far: Jack Foster, a retired school teacher, moves into the small town of Pinconning Michigan to pursue his lifelong dream of opening a children’s shadow-puppet theater. His production of “Old Man meets Hoppy Bunny” is condemned as being at once too edgy and too rebellious by the insular bible-thumping residents, and he is forced to fight for his life when local Christ Church pastor, George Barnaby–himself a retired Navy Seal–leads a personal campaign to rid the community of the horrible puppet theater which threatens their way of life. Expect lots of precocious children embedded in lengthy shadow puppetry training montages.

    Mercenary for Justice tells the story of John Seeger, a mercenary specializing in judiciacide. He is hired by a shadowy man to rid the country of activist judges. Will John Seeger learn the truth before its too late?

    Later in the year Seagal is due to appear in several theatrical releases including, and I’m not lying here folks, a movie based on the popular web site “The Onion” (www.theonion.com) In the as-yet untitled Onion movie, Stephen plays the part of Cock Puncher. One can only hope he’s donning the same sexy bondage gear he wore during his 1995 cameo appearance as The Gimp in 1995′s Pulp Fiction.

    What’s next for our favorite theatrical killing machine? I have heard from a reliable source that he’s returning to the world of high-stakes prepositional phrases with his new screenplay, “Passing Hard Stones.”
    In Passing Hard Stones, Stephen experiences the excruciating agony of kidney stones and is forced to fight through waiting-room after waiting-room of ninjas at the free clinic in Los Angeles before squaring off against The Dark Urologist with no less than a catheter on the line. Exciting stuff!

I still think Stephen Seagal’s version of “the Patriot” was better than Mel “Righty Tighty” Gibson’s.
Looking for Closure? I posted part 19, in which we learn how Joe can please dozens of people at once, just a few days ago. Part 20 will probably be out tomorrow night or Tuesday night.

What follows is an actual email I received from one of my clients today:

Usually while I’m in Traffic, if a fellow Driver really pisses me off, I throw Offsite Tapes from the Tape Back up at them. Once I pinged a guy in a convertible. The Tape inadvertently ricocheted off the driver and into a Pick-Up Truck. The Pick-up had a Confederate flag so I don’t think the driver would be able to retrieve the data.

I’m really glad you recommended the VXA Drive. Much larger tapes.