You are bidding on a rare chance to traumatize a treasured friend or relative with baffling, mind-numbing, mystery correspondence from abroad.
Here is the arrangement:
I will be spending the Christmas holiday in Poland in a tiny village that has one church with no bell because angry Germans stole it. Aside from vodka, there is not a lot for me to do.
During the course of my holiday I will send three postcards to one person of your choosing.
These postcards will be rant-ravingly insane, yet they will be peppered with unmistakable personal details about the addressee. Details you will provide me.
The postcards will not be coherently signed, leaving your mark confused, guessing wildly, crying out in anguish.
“How do I know this person? And how does he know I had a ferret named Goliath?”
Your beloved friend or relative will try in vain to figure out who it is. Best of all, it can’t possibly be you because you’ll have the perfect alibi: you’re not in Poland. You’re home, wherever that is, doing whatever it is you do when not driving your friends loopy with international mischief.
Your target will rack their brains in the shower. At dinner. During long drives. At work. On the golf course.
“Who did I tell about the time I got fired by a note on my chair?” they’ll ponder, “And where the hell is Szczeczinek?”
But wait, there’s more.
To add to the sheer confusion and genuine discomfort, one missive will be on an original promotional postcard announcing the 1995 television premiere of Central Park West on CBS.
Another will be a postcard celebrating Atlanta’s disastrous hosting of the 1996 summer Olympic games.
Your mark will be at a complete loss, desperate for answers, debating contacting people he or she hasn’t talked to in years.
“I know this will sound weird,” they’ll say, “but by any chance were you in Eastern Europe ranting about cantaloupe… twelve years ago… right before some show with Mariel Hemingway debuted?”
When you decide to end the torment is completely up to you. If you can, I recommend owning up on 1 April 2008 – giving you nearly half a year of joy and a George Clooney-esque level of prankage. If you can’t hold it in that long, I totally understand.
Bid early and often.
Buyer should probably understand that on a few occasions the Polish postal system has proven itself to be somewhat lacking: Christmas cards have arrived on Easter and vice-versa. If not all cards arrive promptly, one may blame Poland’s communist past.
Lithuania is mostly beautiful countryside peppered with the occasional farm. The occasional farm is peppered with a sunburned farmer loading hay onto a mule-drawn cart with an 1873 pitchfork.
Like all Central and Eastern European countries, they look upon Russia with the opposite of fondness.
Perhaps some of the most terrifying drivers in Europe. Aggressive and reckless – passing on curves, over hills, and driving through 8-foot wide pedestrian-laden medieval streets at 90kph.
Signs are largely ignored, as was the construction man who didn’t want people to drive over the bridge. He waved his stop sign, drivers ignored him, he cursed them. Repeat.
According to Andrius the Bellhop, traffic laws are frequently ignored by the “bad boys.” Andrius then made a hand gesture using his thumb and pinky. This apparently means “bad boys.”
Parking involves stopping the car where convenient for you and exiting the vehicle. If you are blocking a main thoroughfare this is unfortunate but not worth addressing.
Parking rules are not particularly known, cared-for, or enforced. Parallel and perpendicular parking are confused a lot.
Meat and potatoes. Potatoes and meat. Meat-stuffed potatoes. All delicious, fatty, hearty fare that one would need if one was going to spend the afternoon loading hay onto a mule-drawn cart with an 1873 pitchfork.
They eat herring.
If you ask anyone in Vilnius what the best beer is, they will tell you it is Svyturus every single time.
As the dollar continues its mighty plummet you can still feel good about ordering Svyturus because it’s cheap.
The default setting for Lithuanian women seems to be gorgeous.
Lithuanian women dress very well and accentuate their naturally stunning selves in a classy and terribly seductive manner. There is much worthy midriff and revealing of the pubic bone.
Lithuanian women seem to get married a lot because I keep seeing bachelorette parties.
Lithuanian women are unapproachable – mainly because of the language barrier and my wife.
Because of the preponderance of gorgeous women, Lithuanian men do not need to be overly testosterone-charged. They’ll wind up with a gorgeous girlfriend anyway. Therefore, they carry man-purses and dress like metrosexuals on a budget.
Lithuanian is a strange language – even to those familiar with Roman or Slavic tongues. It seems to have been made up at a drunken brunch.
Knowing Polish will help you understand and pronounce the accents on the words correctly, but you will still not know what the word means.
Thank You in Lithuanian is “a-choo” which is still hard to say with a straight face after three days of saying it.
When your car breaks down in a wheat field 70km from civilization, it helps to have a wife who speaks Russian, the national back-up language.
When in doubt, add “as” to the end of anything and odds are you will have said a legitimate Lithuanian word.
The capital city of Lithuania is un-navigable and pretty. The road you need to get to Point B is under construction. It helps to have GPS.
The Old Town square is among the largest in Europe. It is teeming with supermodels and men with purses.
The architecture ranges from medieval to really old. As the case with all former Soviet republics it’s filled with misplaced, ugly and decaying gray apartment buildings that everyone curses.
There is a monument to Frank Zappa.
According to a Scottish man inexplicably wearing half a pair of glasses, the monument was lobbied for by a Lithuanian fan who was thrilled that Zappa responded personally to his fan mail. Let this be a lesson to other celebrities: Respond personally to Lithuanian fan mail and you too can have a monument tucked on a side street in Vilnius. Are you listening, John Mayer?
The cancer of Central and Eastern Europe, the Russian Mafia, has a presence in Vilnius and is largely involved with the strip club scene. According to a shady man who approached me, if the man with the white Cadillac limousine offers you a “free” ride to some strip club you should really say no.
In the absence of new material (writing a book, you see) I am forced to reflect on old material. In this case, a reel of some highlights from my interview (as Paul Reddy) with John Mayer.
The Paul Reddy Show is one of my favorite projects. The full 30 minute show appears on the Heavier Things DualDisc.
“I was completely unaware of the nature of this material, but as soon as we were alerted, the garments were pulled off the Macy’s floor and Website” – Sean “Diddy” Combs. [Full Story]
“This was an innocent mistake by an obviously inexperienced traveler,” said Paul Haney, deputy executive director of airports and security referring to the 56-year old grandmother. [Full Story]
Your New Monkey was originally designed to traumatize a good friend, but I see no reason not to share it with the general public.
If you’ve ever wanted to send a friend or worthy adversary a three-page notice about the impending arrival of a gift monkey, this PDF is for you.
Download: Your New Monkey
10/03: Magician/entertainer Penn Jillette mention
From the air, Charles De Gaulle Airport’s Terminal 1 resembles an anus.
Charles de Gaulle Airport was designed by architect Paul Andreu whose influences include hamsters (tube tunnels), Stalin (decomposing concrete) and Hitler (suffering).
Andreu also designed Charles De Gaulle Terminal 2 (partially collapsed, 2004) and Dubai Airport Terminal 3 (collapsed, 2004). Presumably he’s working on a collapsing Terminal 4 somewhere.
When the airport opened in 1974 the design was avant garde. Thirty years later that translates to low-budget sci-fi set.
The taxi drop-off lane is prone to traffic because it’s the only taxi drop-off lane, with one entrance and one exit. Be prepared to exit the taxi when someone ahead of you parks. There are no indications for which airline is behind which entrance anyway, so try one and hope your airline is there. It isn’t.
The exterior of Terminal 1 was designed for maximum pigeon-perching capability, as evidenced by the carpet of bird poo at every entranceway. En garde!
Charles de Gaulle Airport was designed to be the first airport to not have passengers. At least, that’s the impression you have when a line of five people and their luggage trolleys create impassable congestion in the narrow hallways.
The lines for the ticketing desk merge lovingly with the lines for the check-in desk, as they are located directly opposite each other.
There are one or two monitors for your convenience which will tell you which Hall you’ll find your airline at. Do not confuse Hall numbers with entranceway numbers which go from 2-32, even-numbers only. Do not confuse Halls with Satellites, though they have similar numbers. Do not confuse Satellite with Terminal. Do not confuse Terminal 1 with Terminal 2A, 2B, 2C, 2D, 2E (collapsed), 2F or 3.
There are seven satellites numbered in this order: 4, 5, 6, 7, 1, 2, 3.
Free baggage trolleys are provided to all passengers. You are encouraged to leave them wherever you please. At some point an unhappy Algerian will collect them into a long train which he will use to render the hallway wholly impenetrable, thus scoring a small victory for disenfranchised immigrants.
Should you wish to bypass security, simply stand in the elevator. At some point someone on the “inaccessible” levels will summon the elevator and you will conveniently be brought to their off-limits floor.
The elevator can accommodate you, most of your luggage trolley and a bug-eyed boy who seems to be frightened of you. The doors may keep opening on the floor you never left, so be patient.
Amazingly you are no longer allowed to smoke in the airport and must stand outside where, unbeknownst to you, you and your baggage will be coated in gnat-like insects you will discover later. Relax! They don’t bite. They just crawl all over you.
If you have time to remove the 3,000 insects from your skin, clothing and baggage you can purchase bug repellant at the basement-level pharmacy for 11 Euro ($14). The bathrooms are eco-friendly – which means no towels. Be prepared to use 30 pounds of toilet paper.
Rule One: Exhaust all other possibilities.
If you are truly in need and condemned to use the squat toilet, comfort yourself with the knowledge that you are several thousand miles from friends and family. No one has to know.
Proceed as follows:
Most stalls do not have toilet paper. This is the best time to realize this. Either take paper from the general dispenser in the bathroom area or preferably bring your own as it will be made of tissue and not plywood carpaccio.
Approach the squat toilet apprehensively and make sure it’s not covered in stool. If it is covered in stool, choose another stall. If another stall is not available, accept the cards that have been dealt you. This is a good time to come up with a title for your experience such as My Great B.M. Adventure or Disgusticon One.
Close the door to the stall, knowing full well the handle has more germs on it than the entire population of Botswana.
Place your feet on the appropriate foot grids, assuming they are not covered in stool. If they are covered in stool, place your feet on the least fouled space you can find, being careful to maintain balance.
Unfasten and drop your trousers and underpants, making sure that they do not make contact with the urine and stool covered surface area.
Grimace and ask yourself if a country with such a toilet can or should ever be a superpower.
Assume a squatting position like a competitive ski jumper. Stick your ass out like a whore in a 50 Cent video. This is a good time to pretend you’re not a miserable tourist with your pants around your ankles, squatting over a barbaric poo hole.
Use your right hand to prevent the soiling of your trousers and underpants by holding them off the ground and pushing them forward, away from any Danger Zone. This is perhaps the best time ever to be a kilt-wearing Scotsman.
In your left hand should be the assortment of paper/wipes/anti-bacterial sheets you intend to use after you are finished with your production.
You would think you would want your left hand to brace your squatting self against the stall wall. However, the stall wall is covered in nose nuggets and as such is not touchable. At any rate, if you have a penis you will need your left hand for guidance anyway.
For the penised: Use your left hand to aim it away from your trousers and underpants. Point it backwards between your legs – as if it were a rocket engine designed to propel you far away from this alien hellhole. At the same time be sure not to drop any of the objects in your left hand as they will be rendered horribly irretrievable should you do so.
If you do not have a penis, use the left arm to balance yourself – waving it around wildly rather than touching the snot covered stall wall or filthy support bars (if any).
If you are able to maintain balance for several seconds, you are ready to begin bowel evacuation. At this point the bulk of your focus should be towards the quick evacuation of your bowels without soiling your clothing, missing your mark or – God forbid – losing your balance and falling.
For aiming purposes keep your head tucked between your legs – like a bombardier on a very unpleasant mission assigned by General Squalor.
If your aim is true you will have the pleasure of watching poo (yours) drop down a deep, dark hole to a resounding ploot. If it’s not true, you will have the pleasure of watching poo (yours) come to rest on the floor between your legs.
After you have completed your bowel evacuation, DO NOT STAND UP. Remain squatting and miserable.
Continue using your right hand to prevent contact of your trousers/underpants with urine/stool. Place your tissues and wipes in your left hand on top of your underwear/trousers and select the items you need for wiping.
Wipe and curse culture simultaneously, all the while maintaining the squatting position.
Do not drop soiled tissues. That would be too easy. Sadly, the 16th century plumbing can only handle poo. Soiled tissues are to be placed in the bin behind you. Without leaving the squat position, twist your body in order to see the bin and make a good throw. Don’t worry if you miss, as it’s obvious from the poo-sheet pile on the floor that even the squat-tastic natives are no Michael Jordans.
Once sufficiently wiped, humiliated and traumatized, you may stand and re-underpant and re-trouser yourself. This is a good time to reflect on your life and also a good time to try blacking out these last ten minutes – like a freshly-sodomized felon might do.
The filth-covered flush button is behind you and may or may not work.
Open the door to the stall, again knowing the handle has more germs on it than a decade of scrapings from Paris Hilton’s tongue.
Exit the stall and never, ever, ever get yourself into a situation where you have to do that again. But first, wash your hands until they bleed.
The Alternating Pressure Point Seat is an excellent addition to all the stuff you already have to carry to the airport. A microprocessor alternates air pressure in the seat’s chambers to insure you don’t suffer from Deep Vein Thrombosis, also known as “Economy Class Syndrome.” Deep Vein Thrombosis is a new syndrome discovered by the very same people who make the Alternating Pressure Point Seat. With more media coverage it’s destined to become a popular travel concern, so don’t miss your chance to not suffer from it! Simply place the $225 seat on your already existing airplane seat, and voilá – you’re sitting on two seats.
Chatty seat neighbors are a bane to the traveler who likes to be left alone. What to do? Look no further than the Inflatable Travel Pillow. If your neighbor seems like the talkative type, simply take out your ITP and start blowing. During the 30-45 minutes it takes to inflate, you’ll be unable to carry a conversation. When you’re done, simply flop forward and enjoy a restful sleep on this classy vinyl colossus.
You’re on a flight when suddenly you feel a chill. You could settle for a mundane airline blanket, but why when you can slip into the luxurious In-flight Sleeping Bag? Simply remove the ISB from the same bag you keep your Alternating Pressure Point Seat and Inflatable Travel Pillow in and step in to a world of comfort. It’s like having your very own bed, except you’re sitting up in a seat and you can’t move your legs. Remember to remove the In-flight Sleeping Bag before leaving your seat, or in the unlikely event of an emergency.
Is she hurt? No, she’s sleeping. You’ll be the talk of the cabin with Komfort Kollar. Using the same technology developed for people with whiplash, Komfort Kollar lets you sleep soundly – immune to the glares and gestures of fellow passengers. If you’re on a short flight and don’t have the time it takes to blow up your Inflatable Travel Pillow and flop forward, the Komfort Kollar is the answer. Best of all, it’s bulky and can’t be deflated.
If you’re like most folks, you’re a little weary of “normal” air and would prefer to breathe something that’s been filtered by an unsubstantiated technology. That’s where the Personal Air Purifier comes in. Air on board a plane can contain all sorts of allergens, germs, dust and more. The Personal Air Purifier’s patented Ionic Wind technology takes the air and adds a whooshing noise to it, potentially making it better so you can spend less time worrying about the air you breathe, and more time explaining your noise-emitting three pound necklace.
Usually it’s the Gestapo rapping their knuckles on your door, but this week Us was the one doing the knocking – and on the big, metal door belonging to none other than Adolf Hitler!
The Fuhrer invited us to join him on his special retreat as he takes a well-deserved break from his duties as leader of the Reich to spend some quality time with gorgeous and lively fiancée Eva Braun, best friend Blondi, and the usual entourage accorded the chief of a police state.
“Honestly, I’m a little shy,” says the laid-back Austrian, “There’s nothing I like better than sitting in my little room with very thick walls, receiving reports on how great the war is going.”
Though suffering heavy losses in the two-front war he started, a confident Hitler tells Us the time is ripe for victory and that he’s right where he wants to be: in a bunker waiting for the imaginary Panzers under Gruppenfürer Steiner to rout the Soviets and win the war.
Hitler tells Us about the grand city that Berlin will become – a metropolitan masterpiece designed by heartthrob Albert Speer. “Wait ’til you see the Volkshalle!” he tells Us, “It will be incredible! INCREDIBLE! INCREDIBLE!”
His optimism is contagious. “There will be no Jews,” says Joseph Goebbels, his Propaganda Minister.
Where does he get the boundless energy it takes to conquer the world? Friends say it’s his genuine love for the Fatherland, though a source close to Nazi doc Theodore Morell tells Us it might be a regimen of amphetamines and cocaine eyedrops. When an Us reporter mentions that rumor, Hitler laughs heartily before she is escorted upstairs to the leader’s beautifully landscaped schootingraunds.
When Us asks about his steamy underground romance, Hitler stays mum, but sources close to Us say something’s in the air and there could be exciting news any moment.
“The Soviets will be here in two days,” Martin Bormann tells Us, “Heil Hitler.”
When hermaphrodite banana slugs get it on, one of them gets their ten-inch penis eaten – something I’d not known.
This is but one of many tantalizing facts contained in How Animals Have Sex, a book I’d have called Muskrat Love or Flatworms Gone Wild. But I don’t name the books, I just mention them when they are sent to me.
The book is a valuable resource for anyone who craves knowledge or simply wants to see photos of slutty giraffes. The way animals (and several insects) knock hooves is fascinating, and often involves peeing and other odd things you only see in German porn. The photo of a bean weevil penis belongs in a Cronenberg film and will not leave my memory any time soon.
One of the more intriguing descriptions is that of the bowerbird, an anal-retentive creature prone to fits that spends a great deal of time decorating in the hopes of getting laid. In other words, it’s a flying metrosexual.
Other things you’ll glean from this book: The male bee has a 1 in 20,000 chance of having sex – odds that at the very least would have comforted me in high school. I’m better off than a bee! I could have told myself as I ate lunch alone in the theatre balcony.
Like Angelina Jolie, zebra finch females are attracted to men who appear to be spoken for. Symbolism-seeking conservatives will be delighted to know the albatross is another winged contender for Family Values mascot: it mates for life and the sex is wholly uneventful.
The book comes with a priceless chimp centerfold which endeared me to author David Strorm – who seems to be English as he uses words like “flat” instead of “apartment.” To maximize your reading experience, Strorm strategically bolds certain phrases of import such as huge spurts of porcupine wee, amazing panda sex and my fave, traumatic insemination.
How Animals Have Sex is an enjoyable, short and funny book which belongs in the bathroom or on a night stand. It would also make an unpretentious addition to any coffee table. You’re probably not going to read it on the subway though. It doesn’t seem like subway reading, just like The Gift Of Pain was an odd choice for brunch reading yesterday, lady.
This book is a great argument against the Intelligent Design theory, especially once you see the bean weevil penis.
Perhaps you should consider adding How Animals Have Sex to your library.
In the wake of James Frey’s comeuppance on Oprah, and with my own memoir of hardship, addiction and persecution heading to press, I feel it behooves me to come clean now.
Rather than “I stormed the beaches of Normandy” I should have said “I walked out to the water line 50 years later to get a D-Day soldier’s perspective.” I’m sorry if “stormed” suggested otherwise.
Though “I suffer from poliosis” sounds serious, it actually means premature graying of the hair. I am expected to recover.
I never met “the Bachelorette” and did not “high-five her with Sidney Poitier.”
My friend Karl and I did not overdose on a combination of cocaine, heroin, and ecstasy. We shared a bottle of Shiraz and fell asleep watching The Suite Life with Zack and Cody.
When I said “some of my best ideas came while walking between classes at Harvard” I did not mean to suggest I attended Harvard.
I was not “abused” as a child, but my father never let me win at Monopoly.
I did not lose a sister to Cat Scratch Fever.
My boxer is named Rommel, but he was not a member of the Bow Wow Wermarcht and Hitler never threw VolkSnacks at him.
My uncle did not invent a hover tractor.
I did not call Monika Lewinsky a “tubby tartlet” to her face. Rather, I was across the street and muttering to myself.
I “dined with Donald Trump at Nobu” in the sense that he was at another table talking to Mark Burnett. I do not wish to give the impression they know me.
The statement that I “slept with” 118 women in one night was a rough estimate based on the number of guests at the Holiday Inn. It was not meant to suggest I was in the same room with them.
My only knowledge of the Kamchatka Peninsula comes from playing Risk, and therefore most of my travel tips will not be helpful.
By “I had a large group of followers” I meant people behind me on the escalator at Best Buy. Not necessarily people who revered me.
The only evidence that I am the reincarnation of Abraham Lincoln came from a ditzy tarot reader and not “a government think tank.”
I am a billionaire only if you convert dollars to Mozambique Meticais.
My understanding of twelve-step recovery programs comes from something I heard on NPR while driving in the rain, not from actually attending them for eight years.
I do not operate Raven Riley’s Webcam, and she does not “pay me in coochie.”
You can disregard this chapter as I was never a bishop.
De Gaulle did not “hit on me at a rockin’ bat mitzvah.”
I was indeed named after Irish king Brian Boru, but there’s no evidence he’s my grandpa.
The Pop Rocks Kid did not die in my tree fort.
The term “gonzo journalism” was not coined by Madonna.
When I said I accidentally ran over a cop, I neglected to mention that I was playing Grand Theft Auto: Vice City.
When I said I grew up in the ‘hood and know what it’s like to be black, I neglected to mention I was playing Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas.
“Made out with Heidi Klum” is misleading. It was a peck on the cheek, and her name was Velda Ross.
Para-sailing in Cancun does not qualify me to call myself a stuntman.
Usher is not afraid of me.
My grandmother did not bequeath me an Orc Sword.
“I have a fleet of cars at my disposal, 24/7” is a reference to taxis.
Steven Seagal and I were not in the CIA.
“Let’s do this” is not a phrase I hold the copyright to.
It’s possible “an orgy of gruesome decadence” is a little heavy-handed when describing the purchase of an overpriced organic lemon at Whole Foods.
I do not have a memoir.
WOW! Mint condition partridge in pear tree **NO RESERVE**
You are bidding on a partridge in a pear tree. The partridge is self-feeding as it lives on pears. Very low maintenance too because he fertilizes the tree. Just needs water on occasion. The pears are delicious if you can wrangle one from the partridge. I would keep it but my lease forbids more than one pet and I have a cat. Recommend insurance because I don’t know how well DHL ships birds.
Take-a-L@@K!!!!! Turtle doves, pair. Awesome present!!!!
Two white turtle doves. Great present for a couple of love “birds”! White, black eyes, good health. They are easy going and very quiet for the most part. Sorry, I am unable to answer any questions about feeding, care, etc., because they were a gift and did not come with instructions. I would keep them but my cat is freaking out and I’m already in violation of my lease.
Imported hens, no reserve, Check It Out!
You are bidding on three chickens from France. They need a farm environment more than my New York apartment. I do not know if they are male or female, sorry. They are very friendly and inquisitive but not a good idea if you have a cat or lease restrictions. Bid away!
SINGING BIRDS!!!! MUST SEE! MUST HEAR!!!!
This is a gorgeous family of four birds. If you love birdsongs, these birds will not disappoint. I must sell them because my lease is in jeopardy as I have too many pets and the beautiful birdsongs travel through the bathroom vent and upset the angry lawyer in 4G.
Collection of rings. Never worn.
You are bidding on five rings. They are gold. I do not know much more about them as they are a gift from my boyfriend. They’re pretty nondescript, like the ring from the Hobbit. I would keep them but honestly I need the extra money for birdseed. Also, they are sized for small fingers and mine are swollen because I’m allergic to chickens.
*no reserve* Suuuuuper-fertile geese *no reserve*
These six geese must be females because they keep making eggs! If you are looking to break into geese farming or already are a geese farmer, this would be an excellent addition to your flock (gaggle?) as they are very productive. Must sell at any price because they’re taking up my bedroom and the cat is panicked.
BIG Box of swans
These swans love the water! They have overwhelmed my bathtub and really need a more open space. I can’t use my bathroom and the landlord knows something is up. Shipping is not included and should be discussed because I’m not sure the best way to send swans. They have big feet.
Female Dairy Workers
PLEASE! Keep all your comments about indentured servitude to yourself. These women were a GIFT and I am selling them because my apartment has only one futon. They seem pleasant enough but YOU NEED COWS otherwise they sit around all day and complain about the swan droppings.
Dancers —-no reserve—-
SERIOUS BIDDERS ONLY. These ladies will put on a cool show like Riverdance at your command but you are TOTALLY RESPONSIBLE for their food, lodging and entertainment after that. Frankly, I’m not that big into dance and one of them stepped on my cat. Free shipping – they’ll walk.
Hyperactive Nobility — SEE FOR YOURSELF—
This is a collection of ten rich guys who love to party! If you have kids this could be the ULTIMATE gift because they jump around all day (noble privilege). Be advised: they complain about everything, don’t like cats, and they won’t stop harassing your milkmaids. Must be well-fed and filled with brandy at all times or they’ll complain about you during their afternoon tea.
L@@K!!! PIPERS PIPING L@@K!!!
These guys have GOT TO GO because the angry lawyer in 4G is threatening to get me evicted. They are MEGA talented and can really get your lords jumping and ladies dancing – which is great unless you have hardwood floors. Please, BID!
A Dozen Drummers
I just broke up with my boyfriend, received an eviction notice and my cat ran away. Do I need a dozen guys banging drums around my house? No. Totally nerve-racking, and not one of them offered to help carry my futon down the stairs. No reserve price. Lot includes drums and tall Nutcracker hats.
Honey, honey. Happy Anniversary. I bought you the Sharper Image “Alive” Chimpanzee. I love you.
Wait, don’t make a face like that. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “What will I do with an animatronic monkey?” “Why would you buy an animatronic monkey for my anniversary?” “What were you thinking when you purchased an animatronic monkey from the Sharper Image?”
Trust me, honey, there’s a reason I bought the Sharper Image “Alive” Chimpanzee. And never forget that I love you.
Honey, first of all, this is a Sharper Image Worldwide Exclusive. You can’t get it anywhere else. It’s unique. Just like the ball that said “Fuhgeddaboudit” when squeezed. But this is no talking squeeze-ball. It’s a life-like animated rubber bust of a chimpanzee that I suppose I’ll put on the table over there.
Honey, I love you. The Sharper Image “Alive” Chimpanzee has four distinctive moods: “Curious”, “Happy”, “Fearful” and “Feisty” – so in many ways he’s just like me. When I’m away you can look at the rubber monkey bust on the table – or maybe bookshelf – and think of your husband and our love.
And when I get home, I can trigger the monkey’s moods with a remote control. It will be great, honey, because you can say something and I can tell you to look at the monkey to see how I feel about what you said. For example, when I come home with a $150 animatronic rubber monkey bust and place it on the table and you start cursing me, I can press the “Fearful” button. You will see the fear I feel, but you will see it expressed through the soulful eyes of a rubber chimp.
Honey, I don’t want you to think this is another pointless toy built by baffled Asians and destined for the attic. Nothing could be further from the truth. This is not Robosapien or a Lightsaber. This is a monkey, and we came from monkeys. His appearance is remarkably lifelike! Even the catalog will tell you it was painstakingly crafted to exacting standards. Do you have any idea how exacting the standards are for a rubber monkey head? Very. I’m sure of it.
I love you, honey. I think the Sharper Image “Alive” Chimpanzee is the ultimate anniversary gift. We’re going to learn together what it’s like to be in the presence of a chimpanzee. And his soulful eyes track movement, so as we walk around the living room together it will be like someone else, a rubber monkey, is experiencing our lives with us.
Best of all, for $29.95 the three-year replacement guarantee insures that our robotic chimp will be with us for at least three years. Looking down at us from the bookshelf, or maybe the table. Maybe the counter by the phone. He’ll be there, sensing our presence, twitching, reacting, surprising guests. It will be great, as long as we keep his batteries charged.
Happy anniversary, honey. I love you.
Look at the rubber monkey head. I’ll press the button to show you how happy I am.
Most likely you are surprised that such a thing exists. You are not alone.
When I discovered Playboy in Braille years ago, it was in a box in an abandoned building. I found myself in a state of disbelief. The kind you feel when you’re being chased by a leprechaun with a crossbow.
It’s normal to not want Playboy in Braille to exist. Because it’s weird. It raises too many questions. Questions like: Why is the government printing Playboy in Braille? And: How do you explain a naked woman to a pubescent, visually impaired teen?
“Elka leans against a wall, wearing only a carpenter’s tool belt. She’s hot. Believe me.”
“Katsumi arches unnaturally over a coffee table. You can see the whole thing.”
“Anja’s Mediterranean skin is a warm brown, like the craft paper Playboy you’re reading with your finger.”
Playboy in Braille makes you think. It’s exciting but uncomfortable at the same time. Like Courtney Love fixing your stove.
Run your fingers over the pages, never really knowing if you’re touching a gorgeous blonde or an essay by Tom Clancy. Was that Cindy Crawford’s bum, or an interview with Gore Vidal? Frankly, it’s whatever you want it to be.
That’s the glory of Playboy in Braille. November 1995.Volume XLII, No. 11.
It’s number 2 in a 4 part series. I don’t know where the other parts are, but you’d only miss them if you could read Braille. And you can’t, because you’re reading this.
This would be a terrible gift for the visually impaired, because you don’t give the visually impaired one quarter of a decade-old Playboy as a gift.
But for you? Put it out on the coffee table like I did. Owning Playboy in Braille is like having a Day-Glo orange monkey that can curse in Farsi. It gets attention. People talk.
You want Playboy in Braille. Playboy in Braille wants you.
At least that’s what I think it says.
[In a fit of irony, eBay removed the listing, citing it as being for “Mature Audiences.”]
Good afternoon. My name is Ethics T. Foreclosure. I am a former account supervisor of Mr. Charles Mbobo who recently reached his ideal weight thanks to Hoodia, the miracle root from Africa. I received your contact information via Plaxo.
Regrettably the news I bring is not as enjoyable as a celebrity ringtone or barnyard orgy. In fact, if this news upsets you, you may want to try the discreet online pharmacy for prescription-free Xanax.
Unfortunately I have to report that Mr. Mbobo was killed in a terrible car accident. Although he usually spent most of his time making $15,000 in 30 days from the home he purchased with his pre-approved mortgage, he was in the free car he won as a result of participating in a nationwide ice cream survey. Sadly, Mr. Mbobo, his wife, and his two hot webcam girls were killed in the accident – a circumstance which can not be reversed like baldness can with an herbal cure. Mr. Mbobo’s amazing replica Rolex was destroyed in the accident, and to make matters worse he had not taken advantage of a free auto insurance quote.
Mr. Mbobo had recently won the international lottery, which excited him more than discount Ephedra. He had planned to use the additional money to purchase shares of Koko Petroleum (KKPT.PK), a hot, undiscovered gem of a stock I would encourage you to purchase immediately. His funds, including monies received from his advance payday loan and $250 Old Navy Gift Card, were located in an account valued at $45 Million (US Dollars). These funds are currently in an account in Liberia. You needn’t have earned your degree online to realize that Liberia is suffering from civil strife and as a result bulk ink cartridges are as hard to come by as Cialis soft tabs. The government can not be trusted with finances or complimentary platinum cards, just as surely as your PayPal account has been compromised.
For that reason, I am looking to spirit the funds out of the country. To do this I will require the assistance of a reliable party in your country – which is why I am contacting you and not an 18-year old hardcore hottie. In return for your assistance, I will offer 10% of the proceeds ($4.5 Million) and a chance to accept credit cards and enlarge your penis.
To properly execute this transaction I will require your complete cooperation and a Texas hold ’em poker face. You are known as someone who is trustworthy, with plenty of hot singles in your area looking for love. We believe you can help us get out of debt forever.
I await your contact at firstname.lastname@example.org but if you are unable to assist me, I ask that you erase all traces of this confidential, urgent message with the #1 spyware remover on the market.
I look forward to working with you more than a $99 Disney vacation.
Your good friend,
Ethics T. Foreclosure
Jackboot curry basic wigwam stiff adventure Kevin Bacon melon ladle birthday party cheesecake jellybean boom
The fascinating story of a boy, his leather pants and eBay.
An original piece for The Independent (UK) newspaper.
Some of the more interesting media interference:
An Irish friend reports that he heard a reading on Ireland’s Ian Dempsey Breakfast Show.
An interview with BBC Scotland’s MacAulay & Co. Not bad considering I had to be up at 5:30am New York time.
Canada’s National Post comes a-calling. Reprints the listing and kindly offers a link to Banterist.
John in Dublin suggested creating a pointless but interesting readership map.
Over 2,000,000 served. Certainly enjoying the residual effects, and an unfathomable number of emails. And the interviews. And the writing projects. Couple that chaos with a feverish 14-month old and a wife in Europe for a wedding and you have the perfect recipe for a drinking problem. My 15 minutes is going swimmingly. Perhaps Wedding Dress Guy can offer me guidance.
Vitaly informs me that the listing has been translated – very well – into Russian and appeared as the pick of the day on the Russian humor site Anekdot.
After getting in Women’s Wear Daily, I’m now the only person I know who can say they’ve been in Women’s Wear Daily. Very nice article, and Donna Karan’s folks made the awesome PR move of suggesting they’d take me shopping. They didn’t, but I would’ve said the same thing.
TMFTML reports the UK’s Guardian printed the listing, albeit without any attribution. Says Guardian staffer Murray Armstrong: “[I]t was attributed as an eBay entry.”
Over 2,600,000 folks.
NY Post interviews me. Takes lots of pictures.
The NY Daily News has a story on regrettable purchases which mentions the pants. The photo of me they used in the print version makes me feel sad – they have me dreaming of a man in leather pants.
Now over 3 million.
An interview on Weekend America.
Missed the chance to contribute a clever quote because I was in transit to Europe, but nonetheless appeared in various papers via the Associated Press. Ryan Pearson’s article “Auctions birth a genre: eBay lit” is a nice little piece, and my name is spelled correctly 33% of the time.
Women’s Wear Daily “Fool For Love” PDF
The Independent “The Wrong Trousers” PDF
Original eBay Listing PDF
The statistics are gut-wrenching.
Every twelve minutes, another cause suffers from lack of a ribbon.
Many of us take ribbons for granted. When cars pass us on the highway with 2, 3, even 8 ribbons it’s easy for us to think that every cause has a ribbon.
Unfortunately, that’s far from the truth.
No doubt you’ve seen breast cancer ribbons, patriotic ribbons, autism ribbons, lupus ribbons and dyslexia ribobns [sic].
Amazingly, they’re only the tip of the iceberg. The sad fact is there are hundreds and hundreds of causes that end each day completely ribbonless.
Even in America.
I know it’s hard to believe, but even in the land of plenty, unwed mothers lack a ribbon. Cross-eyed bandits. Sephardic pimps. Churro Awareness. The list goes on and on.
That’s why I’m asking you for your help.
I’m counting on you to make a small financial sacrifice. Your much needed funds will help us identify new causes.
Like Chicken Envy.
And your funds will then help us assign those causes new ribbons. Unique ribbons. Ribbons that say we care.
I’m thinking yellow and white – for the chicken part – with a frilly green edge to symbolize envy.
See? We can make a difference. That difference starts with you. Don’t be discouraged by the seemingly overwhelming task ahead of us. Though there are countless un-ribboned causes – like Fat Acceptance and Dandruff Pride – we can come up with ribbons for all of them. But we need you to help.
Your contribution will help buy hundreds of shades of blue or green or yellow, not to mention low-cost icons, clip art, squiggles – whatever it takes to get the message out and stuck on the back of a car. Once we do that, we’re halfway to a cure. Unless it’s not a disease, in which case we’re halfway to acceptance or awareness, depending.
But one thing is certain: Without your help, we can not cover this great country in ribbons. While god, guns and guts made this country great, ribbons help keep it together. Ribbons, ribbons, ribbons. And rubber bracelets.
The Fund for Ribbons needs your support. And ironically, we need a ribbon ourselves.
Jan-Michael Vincent & Tone-Loc