Yearly Archives: 2011

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we promise to never, ever call attention to your disabilities. Speaking of which, we meant to ask: are you color blind? And when people point it out, do you see red? Then you need to read this week's piece by David Holub.

Fifteen Don’ts When Trying To Bring Awareness To Your Color Blindness

By: David Holub

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1. Do not make your color blind awareness ribbon blue, because it is likely not blue at all, but purple, which is quite effective if you’re trying to raise money for lupus.

2. When going door-to-door and someone gives you lupus money, do not scoff and say, “Yeah, like that’s a problem,” because it is likely their uncle has lupus and they’re not at a point where they can joke about it.

3. Though you might avoid color-related ribbon gaffs and the idea seems perfect (like a big welcoming, color-inclusive tent), do not wear a rainbow ribbon or fly rainbow flags, as rainbows have been co-opted by (a) six-year-old girls, (b) the Hawaiians and (c) the homosexuals.

4. Do not then get frustrated with colors in general and opt for a see-through ribbon. No one will notice.

5. Do not give up on the term “color blind” for the more politically correct “color deficient,” as this makes you sound somewhat retarded.

6. Do not switch gears entirely and make a T-shirt that has a picture of a dog and then underneath says, “We see the same colors.” Not only is the analysis confusing but it offends both dogs and the color blind.

7. Do not come up with a new campaign altogether called “Guide Dogs for the (Color) Blind.” This immediately puts the blind on the defensive.

8. If you do go ahead with the guide dog idea, do not dye your dog’s fur orange, no matter what you are trying to bring awareness to. Your hands and the dog’s coat will itch like hell.

9. Do not take this orange dog into area malls claiming it is a necessary service animal.

10. When getting escorted from a store, do not mutter anything about civil rights or entitlements or anything constitutiony. The mouthy girl working at Banana Republic will be a civics major and point out a number of things, the most obvious being that your head is firmly planted up your high school-educated ass.

11. While walking your orange service dog, do not wear dark sunglasses. Do not tilt your head slightly upward. These will be seen as a further attempt to stereotypically and mockingly ape the sightless.

12. Just forget about dogs altogether, okay?

13. Do not underestimate the blind. Though they claim they can’t see much of anything, that doesn’t stop them from seeing your ass and then kicking it.

14. Do not be embarrassed to seek medical attention, regardless of who bloodied your face and whether or not there was anything “blind” about the cane they used to do it.

15. Do not wonder why they call it a black eye. Because even the blindest of the color blind among us know it’s more of a purple, and that it hurts just the same.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where our idea of a good time is watching a bunch of old people wail on each other. Fortunately, our good friend Gregory Mazurek is here to indulge our strange tastes.

Geriatric Ultimate Fighting

By: Gregory Mazurek

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Dear Residents:

In providing quality programming activities at Richmond Rivers Nursing Home, we are pleased to announce that Thursday nights will be changed from bingo to Richmond Rivers Ultimate Fighting (RRUF) sponsored by the Ultimate Fighting Championship.

The UFC contacted me on Tuesday after reading in our community bulletin about Ethel Hendleman’s snappy comment that Lorraine Ginford was a “blind bat” for stamping uncalled numbers on her bingo sheet. After consulting with both Ethel and Lorraine, we agreed to allow them to settle their differences over a cage match.

Before you go back to your rooms after breakfast in Sunrise Dining Hall, you’ll be wheeled to the Comfort & Care Room where you’ll find sign-up sheets, liability release forms, and anabolic steroids. If you prefer, you can ask your nurse to include these injections in your morning routine, which will be slightly modified to account for your new exercise regime, tentatively called RUFF Hell Week.

In keeping with the guidelines set forth for RRUF, all participants will undergo a physical training program that would have tested your body’s limit sixty years ago. Today, well, that’s why we have you signing the liability release forms. It’s essential that everyone participates in order to get a chance at Netflix streaming our trademark-pending RRUF Thursday Night Xtreme Madness!

When you get back to your rooms, you won’t have much time to spend watching television, reading, or greeting your grandchildren because you will need to review the rulebook placed next to your emergency call button. Like bingo, you’ll enjoy RRUF because you’ll be playing with your friends, meeting new people, and spending time in the Sunset Recreation Room. Unlike bingo, you’ll be allowed, encouraged, and possibly compensated to kick, grab, punch, tackle, jab, and taunt. Like Tuesday Theme Nights, you’ll be allowed to wear costumes but you still will not be allowed to bite anyone. We cannot stress this enough.

For those who do not make it through the RRUF Hell Week training program, you will still have the opportunity to watch and cheer your fellow residents from outside the steel reinforced caged octagon currently being constructed by the Handy Guys community club.

This coming Saturday, we’ll have our first practice round in which 81-year-old Fletcher Thompson will bring his domino-steady hands to battle against 91-year-old Stewart Carrington and his bad knee.

“I’m going to send Stewart back to physical therapy,” Fletcher said in a statement yesterday.

Afterwards, 87-year-old Rebecca Sandrom will arrive straight from St. Steven’s Hospital to wage war against 89-year-old Lucy Jackson, who says she’s “been waiting since last month’s movie night for an opportunity at revenge.”

“My bad back won’t stop me from busting her knee again,” Rebecca stated at last night’s weigh-in.

Following this, a steel ceiling will be lowered upon the octagon for our main event. Lorraine and her 101 lbs. of geriatric steel will engage Ethel and her 103 lbs. of re-constructive knee surgery in what some residents are already calling “a legal nightmare.”

We hope you’re as excited as we are about this new program. A lot of the pent-up frustrations that have come to surface during recent bingo nights can now be released during what will hopefully be a cornerstone fundraising generator for the home.

Best of luck and remember to bend with your knees.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel. We are not the greatest intellects in all of human history, but we make fun of the greatest intellects in all of human history. Does that count? We didn't think so. Nonetheless, we hope you enjoy Bryan Berrey's take on the godfather of Scholasticism.

Thomas Aquinas’s Childhood Journal (Excerpts)

By: Bryan Berrey

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(Age 4)

Article XXXI: Whether I stole Laurie’s apple juice during nap time?

Objection I: It would seem that I stole Laurie’s apple juice during nap time. For it was said: “Thomas, go sit in the corner. And say you’re sorry to Laurie for drinking her juice” (Miss Ellen).

Objection II: Further, once in the corner, I wedgied Billy and made him eat glue.

On the contrary, it is written: “Share everything” (that poster on the wall, right above the carpet where Billy puked up the glue).

I answer that we all have to share like it says on the poster. Firstly, because Holy Writ says so: “God loves a cheerful giver” (2 Corinthians 9:7). Also, everyone has to share because sometimes they have lots of something (juice, for example) that they never even drink and that someone else (me, for example) wants. When I play with my blocks, Miss Ellen makes me share with that Greek Orthodox kid, even though they’re my blocks and he picks his nose and smells and is dumb. Hence, I should get to have juice when I’m thirsty. For the best part about school is the juice (except on Fridays when we get chocolate milk).

Reply to Objection I: If I have to share my blocks with a smelly nose-picker, then Laurie has to share her juice. I was only sharing her juice, just like the poster says. For the poster says to share everything, and “everything” includes juice. Hence, Miss Ellen shouldn’t have made me sit in the corner.

Reply to Objection II: He started it.

(Age 9)

Article MCDIII: Whether we should let Laurie play in the treehouse with us?

Objection I: It would seem that we should let Laurie play in the treehouse with us. For it was said: “You boys better let that nice Laurie girl play with you. She’s as sweet as can be, and she never hurt anybody” (my mom).

Objection II: Further, the treehouse would be more fun if there was a girl. For according to Holy Writ (Genesis 2:18–22), “…the LORD God said it is not good that the man should be alone…and made He a woman.”

On the contrary, it is written: “No Girls Allowed” (the sign on the treehouse).

I answer that the law of the treehouse (by vote) is that no girls are allowed. Thus, girls can’t play in the treehouse, for as the Apostle shows (Romans 2:14-15), human law derives from eternal law, as dictated by practical reason. Laurie also refused to take the treehouse oath, whereby all new members must count backwards from ten while smelling the bag of old eggs (and a dead squirrel, now that we found one), then solemnly promise to uphold the rules (and seal the oath with a spit shake). Therefore, Laurie can’t be in our club, since according to the Apostle (Hebrews 6:16), oaths are used for the purpose of confirmation. Further, girls are lame.

Reply to Objection I: Laurie wasn’t so innocent last summer when she may or may not have put itching powder in Dave’s shirt. For it was said: “Wait — awww, geez! I think Laurie put itching powder in this shirt” (Dave).

Reply to Objection II: It is said: “Can’t live with ’em…Can’t shoot ’em” (that bearded guy who sits outside the Happy Goat Tavern and mumbles to himself about that farm Ms. Vergano lives on, who all the grownups call Ten Sheep Johnny even though he only owns five sheep).

(Age 15)

Article MMMCLXIX: Whether Vanessa will go to the dance with me if I ask her?

Objection I: It would seem that Vanessa won’t go to the dance with me if I ask her. For Antonio from the soccer team already gave her his class ring, and supposedly she’s totally into him, according to her friends (Cristina and Rosa). Hence, I shouldn’t even bother asking.

Objection II: Further, it seems that I should really ask Laurie anyway, insofar as I’ve known her since forever, and it is written: “A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter” (Sirach 6:14). Further, anytime I get a cold, she always brings me my homework or whatever, and she even made soup that one week I had the bad diarrhea. Further, unlike Vanessa, she’d definitely say yes.

On the contrary, it is written: “Know ye not that they which run in a race run all, but one receiveth the prize? So run, that ye might obtain” (1 Corinthians 9:24).

I answer that things were totally starting to happen with me and Vanessa before Antonio even moved here from Florence. One time she asked if she could borrow my notes from philosophy, and I was like “Why?” and she was like, “Are you kidding? You’re like the smartest kid in that class.” Further, there were a bunch of times we’d see each other in the hall, and she’d smile and wave before I even said anything. Further, when I had Dave find out if she liked me — like, like-liked me – she said I was cute, when she could have just been like whatever. Further, one time, Dave told me that Cristina told him that Vanessa is into musicians, and she doesn’t even know yet that I play the lyre, and I can play almost every Summa 41 song (the old ones at least, before they sold out). Hence, I have as good of a chance with Vanessa as anybody.

Reply to Objection I: Cristina and Rosa don’t know anything. Antonio is a douchebag, and just because he plays sports that doesn’t mean girls will automatically throw themselves at him. Vanessa may be going through a phase right now, but she thinks I’m smart and funny, plus I’m sensitive and I listen. That must count for something.

Reply to Objection II: Meh.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where religious conspiracy novels are more than mere entertainment, they're a way of life. Our good friend Mel Stefaniuk has studied the sterling example of Dan Brown and reached the only possible conclusion.

As Your Life Coach, I Strongly Suggest You Give Up On Your Dreams And Write A Religious Conspiracy Novel

By: Mel Stefaniuk

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Oh boy. You’re interested in becoming a musician, huh? All right. I think you’d better sit down, we need to have a little chat.

I’m sure it seems cool to be a musician. You get to write songs about motorcycles and jukeboxes, call beers “brewskis” and have sex with a lot of women. It’s the ultimate life of no regrets. I mean, look at those debauched rock stars we see living the high life: Mick Jagger doing the “Harlem Shuffle,” Jimmy Buffet appearing barefoot on album covers, or even Kid Rock wearing those outlandish fedoras. Who wouldn’t want to live the life these freewheeling superstars have?

Well, it’s pointless to try. It’s just not a practical career choice in this modern world full of illegal downloading, music-less MTV and a Rolling Stone magazine no longer being edited by Joe Levy. Imagine if Bruce Willis released his album The Return of Bruno in this day & age…it’d be a flop! And if Bruno’s return couldn’t even get people to buy music, what chance do you think you’d have?

That’s why I’m going to tell you what I tell all my clients foolishly trying to do what they’re passionate about: you’ve got to write a religious conspiracy novel.

It’s not hard. Look at the shelf behind me — see those books? Yeah. I wrote all of them. The Magdalene Continuum, Apostle Protocol, A Conspiracy of Arks and Citizen Christ were all big hits, each one featuring a new religious conspiracy for veteran linguistics expert Donald Crane to solve.

Are they good? Not particularly. Did I make enough money off of them to buy a pontoon boat and start my own fledgling life coaching business? Yes. Religious conspiracy novels made my dreams come true and they can make yours come true too.

Don’t think you can’t do it. Anyone can create a religious conspiracy novel. Have you been to a bookstore recently? As soon as you open the front door you’re crushed under an avalanche of novels that have pictures of angel statues crying blood on the front cover. Look, here are the covers to all my books: each one just has a different species of snake wrapped around a cross!

Coming up with a cover image that blends religious iconography with an inanimate bleeding object or a mysterious animal is the toughest part of the job and even that’s not difficult. I can think of some stuff right off the top of my head: what about a close-up of a lion’s eye with the reflection of the Vatican in it, or maybe a cherub bleeding onto an ancient parchment and his blood is forming the image of a monk assassin holding a gun. Wait, that one’s pretty good, I call dibs on it.

You don’t have any writing experience? It doesn’t matter. Ninety percent of any religious conspiracy novel consists of fifty percent banal investigations of tombs/crypts/churches and fifty percent ridiculously implausible revelations. Here, let me read you an excerpt from Citizen Christ:

* * * * * * *

Donald slowly crept along the edge of the room, lightly tapping his gloved knuckle against the ancient wooden walls. Donk. Donk. Donk. Thonk. A grin grew across his face as he knocked against that part of the wall again. Thonk. He silently motioned for the priest to bring him a high-powered pneumatic drill, which he then proceeded to use to quickly and violently punch a massive hole into the church’s wall.

“Looks like this holy place just got a lot more holey,” Donald joked to the priest as he pointed to the hole in the wall to explain the joke.

After he finished laughing, Donald grabbed a lit torch that happened to be sitting on a pew and carefully made his way through the hole. A cold chill filled the room on the other side and the distinct smell of religious history wafted through the air. He swung the torch to the far corner of the room and there in the darkness, he could make out the shape of an old wooden bed. The same wooden bed that was mentioned in the missing pages of the Bible he had found in the diamond mines under Jerusalem. Dried blood coated the bed, soaked so deep into the wood that it would never be wiped off. Jesus’ blood. This was it. This is where they held him captive while his twin brother was being crucified.

* * * * * * *

You know what Dan Brown did before he started writing religious conspiracy novels? He was a musician. That’s right, like you, Dan unsuccessfully tried to follow his terribly misguided dreams. He released three albums in the early nineties, writing should-have-been-hits such as “976-LOVE,” a synth-and-sax-filled pop ode to telephone sex. You know where that song debuted on the Billboard charts? Negative four. It actually went into the negatives because four people paid to not have to buy it.

Sure, the fact that he was awful at it might be the reason he failed as a musician, but it still doesn’t change the fact that Dan didn’t find success until he wrote a religious conspiracy novel. Do you really want to toil away unsuccessfully at something you’re passionate about or would you rather just skip to the part where you make gazillions of dollars writing fluff disguised as spiritual gobbledygook?

It’s time to give up on your implausible ambitions and time to put on a turtleneck sweater and sport coat. You’ve got a lot of awkward back cover photos to pose for.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, your New Yorker away from the New Yorker. This week please say a big friendly hello to Michael Wolman. This is his first piece for us.

Standup Comedy For New Yorker Subscribers

By: Michael Wolman

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Bonsoir! It’s great to be back in New York. I love it here. It’s always nice to be in a place where people don’t think Wittgenstein is a type of beer mug.

Not that I have anything against Middle America, mind you. Iowa, Nebraska, Ohio…Great places to live. But just to give you an example, last week I was in Omaha, and M was playing. You know, the Fritz Lang classic…And the woman next to me, she says, “Oh, I love Judi Dench!” She thought it was the newest James Bond flick! Yeah, right. And Z starred Antonio Banderas. Corncob…

Speaking of movies, how about that Anthony Lane? What a great critic. Brilliant. I love it when they give him an absolute cream puff and then let him just go to town on it. I mean, the dude has reviewed The Da Vinci Code and Sex and the City. Seriously? Sex and the City? For A-Train Lane? That would have been like assigning Valley of the Dolls to Frank Kermode. Come on, Remnick, challenge the guy!

But seriously. Like I say, it’s great to be back in New York. I visited MOMA today to check out the new Murakami exhibit. Anyone see that yet? It’s great. Very Oldenburg-meets-Miyazaki…My problem with Murakami is that whenever my friends discuss him at parties, it takes me a moment to divine whether they’re talking about Haruki Murakami or Takashi Murakami. Don’t you hate that? I hate that. I’ll overhear something about “fantastical post-modernism,” and then I’ll go over and join the discussion, and I’ll make a total ass of myself by explaining how I found Kafka on the Shore too accessible — only to discover they were discussing Takashi, not Haruki! So humiliating.

It’s easy to embarrass yourself these days…. Like, have you noticed how many people mispronounce “Roethke?” Last month I was in Cincinnati — might as well be the South, by the way — and my wife’s cousin is discussing mid-century prosody, and she mentions Roethke and pronounces it “Roath-key.” Can you believe that? Not even close. So I correct her, right? And she calls me an elitist!…Right. I’m an “elitist” for actually knowing the pronunciation of a Pulitzer winner’s name. The same thing happens to me in Texas when I correct people on “Nabokov” or “Barthelme.” They should be embarrassed, not me.

Anyway, those are the kinds of things that never happen in New York, am I right? People here know the things people should know. Even on the subway, which I love…One thing I’ve noticed on the trains is the difference between black people and white people. See, black people read books like Beloved and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, while white folks prefer books like Darkness at Noon and Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Ever notice that? Seriously, you know why Ellison called it Invisible Man? I’ll tell you why: ’cause all the white kids who are forced to read it in school have never looked at a single word of the text. It might as well be invisible to them! They’re too busy reading Proust, I suppose. At least, my kids are.

Anyway, that’s all the time I have tonight. You folks have been great. Merci! Merci beaucoup. Vous pouvez me retrouver ici, toute la semaine.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, a world of wonderment and natural beauty that in a few short weeks will turn your ill-behaved brats into solid citizens. Or at least that's what Kathryn Higgins would have you believe.

Lake Wannaquonsett Child-Enrichment Summer Camp

By: Kathryn Higgins

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We Fix Your Kid So You Don’t Have To!

Your child will enjoy two weeks of improvement in our lovely lakeside camp. We use only scientific research-based behavior modification techniques to teach and domesticate your child.

Enrollment is limited, so book your child’s summer adventure now!

Make Your Bed Summer Camp — Your thirteen-year-old still doesn’t know how to make her bed, or so she says. The unmade bed in a child’s room is the first step on the road to unchecked squalor. Nip it in the bud now with our two-week session of Make Your Bed summer sleepaway camp. Kids learn to install fitted sheets, center flat sheets (colored side down, so your décor will be visible when the sheet is folded over the blanket), correctly insert a comforter into a duvet cover, tuck in hospital corners, and plump pillows. Don’t worry — your kid won’t see the lake until she gets the bed right.

Close Your Drawers And Doors Summer Camp — Think it’s impossible? Your child will learn to close drawers and doors in the context of our scientific techniques: both intermittent positive and consistent negative reinforcement. Leave a drawer open once, and your son will get squirted in the nose with our power squirt gun. Second time: a loud rap of the newspaper on the desk should jolt him out of his indolence. Third offenders will be placed in a partially submerged bamboo cage on the slimy end of Lake Wannaquonsett. Campers who shut their drawers and doors successfully will get the occasional lollipop. (Note: be sure to keep a store of lollipops at home for your reformed return camper).

Laundry Summer Camp — Campers will learn to actually put their dirty socks and underwear into the laundry basket conveniently placed right next to their beds. We’ll examine how to manage mud, grass, lake tar, blood and crap stains before they become permanent. Kids will analyze sorting and cleaning of dirty laundry in chemical experiments. (What happens when Teddy’s new red Volcom tee-shirt is washed in hot water with his white Billabong hoodie? If Teddy doesn’t guess pink, he will soon learn.) In the second week we introduce the task of folding and hanging clothes. Challenging, yes, but we promise your child will be unable to resist our behavioral modification techniques that include electrical stimuli, exposure to unappealing animals, and scrubbing cockroach turds with a toothbrush.

Pick Up Your Garbage Summer Camp — Some youngsters have trouble grasping the concept of garbage: what constitutes refuse and how to manage it. You’ll know if your kid will benefit from Pick Up Your Garbage Summer Camp if he’s the type that leaves candy wrappers, used tissues, toy packaging and nail clippings scattered around his room or in front of the TV. Campers will learn to get up and put refuse into appropriate containers, whenever such refuse is created. Don’t believe this is possible? We guarantee that when your child gets home he will be eager, almost desperate, to pick up any garbage in sight.

Daily Chores Summer Camp — Remember daily chores? We resurrect this quaint notion at Lake Wannaquonsett. Campers learn to do the dishes, sweep and mop, separate recyclables, take out the garbage, dust and vacuum, all in the context of our scientific research-based techniques. In the second week we tackle things like correct glove usage and drying (turn them inside out!), changing vacuum bags, cleaning toilets, advanced chemical reactions (bleach, ammonia, baking soda, and Pine Sol®), removing old asbestos attic insulation and installing new attic insulation.

So You Have An Owie Summer Camp — In this group kids learn to cope with their own blisters, scrapes, bruises, bumps and abrasions. Band-Aids and antiseptic ointments are placed in easily-accessed areas along with sun block, bug repellent, ice, hot packs, splints, thermometers, pain medication and our state-of-the-art AED defibrillator. Children are expected to dress their own wounds up to and including the loss of a toenail or a bite from one of our famous Lake Wannaquonsett snapping turtles. In this group we step back and let nature take its course to positively or negatively reinforce camper behavior. Blistering sunburns and infected mosquito bites send a message that mommy’s nagging never will.

Teen Explorer Summer Camp — The coddling is over in this group (for advanced campers). Each year we pick a different desolate spot for kids to hone their survival skills. Last year, surprise! — it was Afghanistan. Campers are dropped off for three weeks without cell phones, zit cream or candy bars. As a group they develop endurance and cooperation skills that last a lifetime.*

* Lifetime varies from one day to eighty years.

Shut The Hell Up Summer Camp — Your whining brat will arrive at camp feeling entitled and outraged, and will leave humbled, quiet and appreciative of the smaller things in life. Like food.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where the milk of human kindness is only 1%, or sometimes skim. It has been quite a while since we heard from Mark Peters (check out his "Words of Wisdom" from Novermber 26, 2008, in our Archives). But now he's back, and this time it's personal.

Compassion And Empathy

By: Mark Peters

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People are frustrating. Bad waiters, crazy drivers, and ruthless dictators who frighteningly resemble Bob Dylan are everywhere. Some neighbors don’t even return a “Hi” or a salad bowl. No wonder so many people spend their days alternating between road rage and ‘roid rage and beyond.

It doesn’t have to be that way. Instead of drowning in a vat of anger and frustration, every single day, wouldn’t you rather soak in a hot tub of compassion for your fellow beings, forever? I know I would, and that’s just what I do.

Here’s my secret: Anytime I get annoyed, offended, outraged, miffed, or consumed by white-hot vengeance — because of anyone at all — I imagine they just killed a guy. That one mental leap prevents a lifetime of stumbles.

Let’s take the world of dating. A first date is stressful and full of questions like “Do I look OK?” and “Holy crap, is that hair coming out of his ear really four inches long?” Instead of wasting your time on questions no one can answer, you should focus on an answer you can embrace: this potential soulmate isn’t just a young professional who enjoys road trips and live music, but a young murderer who enjoys killing guys, then destroying the bodies with sulfuric acid while cackling. That thought alone can turn a dismal date around.

You can use this method with your dearest family members too. Do you have “daddy issues,” like every single person who has ever lived? Maybe you can’t understand why your father never calls, or drinks like a fish, or thinks he can command fish when he puts on his Aquaman costume. While you’re trying to get the old rascal to leave the aquarium peacefully, consider this: what if your dad has not only been drinking daily since he was 12, but killing guys daily for the same period? This puts your father in a whole new light, allowing you to be more patient and understanding.

Can you imagine committing homicide — and getting away with it — when you were twelve? Then getting addicted to snuffing out life, continuing to kill and kill and kill, all the way through your teens, twenties, thirties, forties, fifties, and sixties, never missing a beat, cruising your way to the status of greatest serial killer of all time, not just in terms of numbers but because of your incredible secrecy and effectiveness? No wonder your dad drinks. He has a lot on his plate.

My philosophy of maybe-they-killed-a-guy-ism applies to more than relationships and family — it helps us understand the complicated world of politics. Like a lot of folks, I’m frustrated with the President. But what if Obama has more on his mind than budgets and terrorism and jobs and polls and kinetic military actions? What if he started killing guys with his bare hands and teeth, just for kicks, and the secret service has been covering it up? What if he’s out-killing our forces in Afghanistan singlehandedly? That could distract a fella.

It’s about empathy — putting yourself in the other person’s blood-stained shoes. I mean, after I kill a guy I’m very preoccupied. I worry about how much DNA evidence I left behind, and if anyone will check the Winnebago. I wonder if a hand grenade would’ve been more effective. I wonder if a stern warning would’ve been more prudent. I’m a mess.

But if I constantly dwell on the guys I’ve garroted, shot, drowned, stabbed with bayonets, dropped off buildings, starved in my dungeon, and smooshed with a zamboni, then I’m guilty of something worse than being a merciless psychokiller: I’m being a self-centered boob. Who wants to be that? I’d rather open my mind than harden my heart.

Wouldn’t you?

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are the first to admit we should not ever help staff a suicide hot line. Our first reaction to any caller would no doubt be to yell "Go for it!" And when you read this week's piece from first-time contributor Christopher Haygood, that is what you will be tempted to yell at Mr. Edgar Lamont.

The Suicidal Tendencies Of Edgar J. Lamont

By: Christopher Haygood

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Date: Saturday, May 3
To: Susan Lamont; Steven Lamont; Greg Dreyfuss; Ted Thompson;…
Subject: My Demise

Dearest family and friends,

Things have become unbearable. Every night is a hell worse than the last, and every day is a sandstorm of apathy and deflation. Food no longer tastes good; air no longer smells sweet; laughter no longer sounds like an ode to life. It is with a heavy heart that I write this: I have decided to leave this world. By the time you finish this sentence I shall have drowned myself in the bathtub.

I would like to thank everyone who supported me over the years. This is my choice, and nothing could have been done for me. Goodbye. If there is another life, I hope to see you all in it.

Don’t Blame Yourselves,

Edgar Lamont

* * * * * * *

Date: Saturday, May 10
To: Susan Lamont; Steven Lamont; Greg Dreyfuss; Ted Thompson;…
Subject: The End

Dear family and friends,

Things are worse than ever. I don’t remember even my fondest childhood memories, and all worldly pleasures are fleeting, like the clouds drifting across the night sky. Sometimes I look to those clouds and wonder what it would be like to live up there…freely…without pain. By the time you finish reading this, I too will lead a pain-free existence, having hanged myself from the rafters of my neighbor’s barn.

I will never forget you all. Until I die, of course, but that goes without saying.

It Had To Be Like This,

Ed Lamont

* * * * * * *

Date: Saturday, May 17
To: Susan Lamont; Steven Lamont; Greg Dreyfuss; Ted Thompson;…
Subject: Final Sunset

Dear all,

I mean it this time. Honestly, I thought I was doing better, but I got such a lackluster response to the last note that I thought I might as well end it already. No sense in living if my only acquaintances aren’t going to make me feel good about it. Sigh. I guess the universe truly is a bleak and desolate place.

By the time you finish this I will have done myself in like the warriors of ancient Japan, through the glorious art of seppuku, or, for the unworldly among you (Steve), stabbing myself in the friggin’ stomach.

I wonder: What could life have been, were my existence not so wretched?

Life Sucks,

Ed

P.S. I don’t believe I need to remind you that you are all in my will, and I can take you out at any time.

* * * * * * *

Date: Sunday, May 18
To: Susan Lamont; Steven Lamont; Greg Dreyfuss; Ted Thompson;…
Subject: (none)

Dear people who are supposed to be there for me but aren’t,

Susan: I am going to do it, and whenever you say I’m not, oh, it just brings me that much closer. And what do you mean it “doesn’t matter” if I take you out of my will because I “don’t have anything anyway”? If a collection of over 200 multi-brand Frisbees — some of them quite rare — is nothing, then sure, I guess I have nothing. You know what? You’re out of the will.

Greg: I am not being a drama queen. And you’re the one who is immature. Who disregards a friend in need? You are no friend, indeed. And you’re out of the will.

Dr. Thompson: You’ve been my psychiatrist for three years, I just thought you’d want to know if a patient were going to end his own life. Fine, you’re off the list. I hope you don’t mind having a guilty conscience! And although you weren’t in the will, I’m putting you in, just so I can take you out. Feel the burn, Dr. Douche.

Steve: I called you unworldly because you are. You’re also smelly and fat, and your band sucks so much I think it might have caused my hopeless depression. You’re like the worst brother ever, seriously. Out of the will.

Time to go shoot myself, like Hemingway. Oh, the plight of the artist…Not that you Philistines would know.

Burn in Hell,

EL

* * * * * * *

Date: Friday, May 23
To: Susan Lamont; Steven Lamont; Greg Dreyfuss;…
Subject: Guess what?

Hey morons,

For your cold-hearted responses, I’m not going to kill myself — I’m going to live to old age just to spite you! And I’m gonna live each day to the fullest! How’s that? I bet you’re feeling pretty sorry now! Ha ha!

By the time you’ve finished reading this letter, I will be out fulfilling all the dreams I’ve had since childhood (remember when I said I forgot all my childhood memories? I lied!). Oh, the places I’ll go, the food I’ll eat, the fun I’ll have — it’s a rebirth! And all because you wicked bastards tried to convince me that suicide was the answer! Sorry to foil your plans, “family” and “friends”: I’m alive!

And it feels great!

Very Sincerely,

Edgar J. Lamont
Optimist

* * * * * * *

Date: Saturday, May 24
To: Steven Lamont; Greg Dreyfuss; Ted Thompson;…
Subject: *Important*

To the friends and family of Edgar Lamont,

The worst has happened: Our dear Ed has passed away.

Certain details are sketchy, but it has been concluded that, immediately after sending his final email, Edgar charged out of the house with what his neighbors described as “an off-putting look of childish joy,” at which time he tripped over a garden hose and impaled himself on a very sharp rake. He was twenty-six.

We will all miss poor Ed, but if there is one thought that can help us find solace in his absence, it’s that he died doing what he loved: dying.

Regretfully,

Susan Lamont

P.S. Although Edgar repeatedly referenced a will in his many suicide notes, it couldn’t be located even after an extensive search of his home, leading us to believe that he never had one in the first place. Therefore, his monetary savings ($115.89), magazines, and collection of 200 multi-brand Frisbees will be parceled and distributed equally amongst everyone on this “Weekly Suicide Update” mailing list. The funeral is next Saturday, and God bless.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are neither the devil you know nor the devil you don't know, but rather the devil that your cousin's real estate agent used to date. While we're on the subject of devils, please heed the counsel of Dan Rozier in his first piece for us. He seems to be intimately acquainted with many devils.

The Devil You Know & The Devil You Don’t

By: Dan Rozier

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THE DEVIL YOU KNOW has an elaborate orchestra with instruments made entirely out of the bones of sinners. Skull organ, fibula flutes, ribcage xylophone are commonplace as the music of the immoral echoes throughout Hell’s caverns.

THE DEVIL YOU DON’T plays in a Damn Yankees cover band (Dammed Yankees) with Mark Twain, Ulysses S. Grant, and George Steinbrenner. They play every Thursday night at the Gristle Pit and are opening for Jackyl this upcoming Saturday. Five dollar cover, ladies drink for free. And as always, don’t forget to stop by and see Jim Morrison, who will be to the left of the bar running the merch stand.

THE DEVIL YOU KNOW catches sinner’s souls in a jar upon their final breath in the mortal world and laughs all the way back to the depths of hell, where he releases them to be tortured for all eternity.

THE DEVIL YOU DON’T is the one stealing your wireless Internet. But it’s not like he wants to do it, your connection just happens to reach him and it’s not feasible to have wireless set up in Hell. He’s probably sorry and I bet the only time he used it during peak hours was to MapQuest directions to Burbank so he could warn Michael Eisner that he set his alarm for PM instead of AM.

THE DEVIL YOU KNOW is red, and I mean everything, is red. His skin, his eyes, the floor and the ceiling are all an identical, piercing color. Everything is covered in fire and miscreant blood, and all of the residents are sunburned beyond recognition.

THE DEVIL YOU DON’T loves color. In fact, in his spare time he’s a freelance crayon creation specialist. His big break was the precise dye combination that became what we now know as “Burnt Sienna.” He was inspired by the brownish matter caked on the inside of his unbaptized baby oven. He read that Crayola was holding their annual “Create a New Color” contest and he just went for it. Now, thanks to Crayola, a portion of the profits from every Burnt Sienna crayon you purchase is put towards funding your spouse’s infidelity – because unlike your husband’s secretary, trips to the surface to control your life aren’t cheap.

THE DEVIL YOU KNOW creates natural disasters when the mood strikes him. He loves nothing more than to watch man squirm as humanity is convinced the end of the world is near. Such natural disasters include but are not limited to: earthquakes, tsunamis, hurricanes, tornados, flash floods, and regular-speed floods.

THE DEVIL YOU DON’T accidently created the Bubonic Plague during a botched attempt to make banana nut bread (one cup of vanilla, not two). The Banana Bread page got stuck to the Black Death recipe page. On the bright side, he learned vanilla is great for swelling one-third of Europe’s lymph nodes.

THE DEVIL YOU KNOW patiently sits and watches as we destroy our own lives without his interference, thrilled that the day we die is the day we will join him in eternal damnation. The advent of meth and Internet pornography addiction has made his job infinitely easier.

THE DEVIL YOU DON’T is anxiously waiting for the Wonder Years to be released on DVD. He understands the problem with the music rights, but it’s getting ridiculous. Shouldn’t there be an exclusion clause if you used literally every song written between 1968 and 1973? He hopes the delay has nothing to do with the fact that he occasionally went up to the surface to whisper “butthead” in Fred Savage’s ear while he was sleeping, which allegedly “contributed” to his “involuntary commitment.”

THE DEVIL YOU KNOW is 12′ 6″, 400 lbs. Give or take.

THE DEVIL YOU DON’T has submitted his Bowflex video testimony dozens of times to no avail. Even though he did everything right and completely transformed his chest, arms, abs, and back. He just wants to say thanks and show people that Bowflex really does work. He’s four and a half billion years old and he is in the best shape of his life. The only problem was finding a good spot to film. So there were a few frames that had people being spoon-fed their own kidneys while getting their fingernails pulled off and listening to the Eagles’ greatest hits. It was in the background and you could barely even see it. Lighten up, Bowflex.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, your source for all professional sports logo wear. This week please give a warm welcome to Luke Kelly-Clyne, whose first piece for us is a left-handed compliment to one of the greatest figures in modern sports.

To The Forty-Five-Year-Old Man Wearing A Tom Brady Jersey At My Local Supermarket

By: Luke Kelly-Clyne

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Hello, sir.

I don’t want to take up too much of your time but I noticed you at the supermarket yesterday, wearing that Tom Brady jersey. You intrigued and confused me. To be frank, I can’t get your image out of my head. I wonder if I might be able to ask you a few questions, you know, to clear things up, so I can start to think about something else. I’ll be brief. I promise.

What were you thinking about when you put it on? The jersey, I mean. Do you believe you’re Tom Brady when you wear it? Were you hoping you’d slide the silky mesh over your head and find that you’re suddenly rich, handsome, and married to a supermodel, instead of a single, pot-bellied, pharmaceutical sales rep who has lost quite a bit of hair?

Or was it a showing of support for the team, and for Tom specifically? Did a part of you think that the Patriots would be watching you from their off-season Fan Monitoring Facility in Palm Beach and that, when they saw how striking you looked in the blue and red, they’d send a representative to inform you that you’d won a lifetime supply of player-used plastic cutlery and would be inducted into the Tom Brady Look-Alike Hall of Fame on the Moon?

Maybe it wasn’t that at all, though. Maybe you were hoping that someone in the Towson, Maryland Costco would mistake your five-foot-eight, one-hundred-ninety-nine pound frame for an athlete’s and would give you a toss. “Heads up!” he’d yell as he hurled an official NFL football he’d found wedged in between a jumbo tub of nacho cheese and a plasma TV. And you’d be ready — weaving in between carts overflowing with Kirkland bluejeans and half-priced Wii Fits, making an awe-inspiring catch right before the T-Mobile kiosk representative politely asked that you “pick up the Blackberry Curve you just knocked over.” And then you’d run the ball back to its origin and realize that Tom Brady is the one who threw it! He’d thank you for making “a great play” and compliment you on how well your jersey fit. Then he’d tell you that he needed to talk to you about an opportunity…”with the team.” Three days later, you’d be the Patriot’s new third string quarterback. You wouldn’t get much playing time but, hey, “that’s how Brady started,” you’d tell yourself, in between dead-lifts at the Patriot’s Workout Facility made of million dollar bills. Is that it?

The only other thing I can think of is: The year is 2024 and you actually are Tom Brady. You left the NFL years ago, after a scandal involving your refusal to abuse dogs or carry an unregistered, concealed weapon landed you hard-up and alone. While living in your parents’ basement and trolling Monster.com, you stumbled upon a job in Pfizer’s Baltimore office, moved south, and packed on the pounds after discovering the Sunday-night-magic of Comedy Central and ring-dings. The only thing you kept from the old days is that jersey, the one I saw you wearing yesterday. It helps you remember the good times.

But, if all that’s true, and the year actually is 2024, then where does that leave me? Where have the last 13 years of my life gone? Why aren’t there more movies available for Instant Play on NetFlix? Why does Ashton Kutcher still look so damn good?

Nope, just checked my phone. It’s still 2011.

So, what were you thinking when you put that jersey on, sir? I just really need to know.

Oh, and when you respond, can you let me know how you deal with stains? I just spilled strawberry smoothie all over my favorite limited edition “Katy Perry for President” tee-shirt.

Thanks.

Sincerely,

Perplexed

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