Author Archives: Kurt Luchs

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where yo mama and our mama are both the butt of "yo mama" jokes. This week, however, the mama in the spotlight is Becky Cardwell's.

An Evolution Of Yo Mama Jokes, As Told By My Mother

By: Becky Cardwell

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Yo Mama so fat she looks nine months pregnant, which thankfully she is.

Yo Mama still so fat, but to be fair she did just have a baby six months ago.

Yo Mama so cruel because somehow she always ends up being the disciplinarian while her husband gets to sit back and play the good guy.

Yo Mama so boring her children would rather hang out at their Aunt Kathy’s house and play with her two dogs in the enormous swimming pool.

Yo Mama so fat thank goodness it’s (mostly) just stubborn baby weight.

Yo Mama so homely but that’s just because she spends all her free time at home. By the phone. Waiting for her daughter to call and let her know where she is.

Yo Mama such a pushover her nickname is “Pushover.”

Yo Mama so old-school she needs to stop buying her daughter new clothes when they just end up sitting in a crumpled heap in the back of the closet anyway.

Yo Mama so naive she can’t relate to being a college freshman who’s too busy partying to stay home on a Saturday night and play Yahtzee with her mama.

Yo Mama so narcissistic she just assumed that after her flesh and blood moved out she’d at least get a phone call every once in a while.

Yo Mama so gullible she wakes up every morning thinking that maybe, just maybe, this will be the day her twenty-five-year-old will finally settle down and start having babies of her own. But not before the wedding, of course.

Yo Mama so fat even her sweat pants don’t fit but it’s not a big deal since nobody ever invites her out anyway.

Yo Mama so awful that her shy and timid little girl has suddenly become an ambitious career woman, who is too busy doing “career woman-like activities” to get married and give her lonely (and let’s not forget awful) mama a grandchild.

Yo Mama so old she should probably just withdraw her 401K early and move into a seniors’ home, seeing as her children (in not so many words) have made it perfectly clear that there’s no room at their place for an old lady and a friendly, mostly well-behaved cat.

Yo Mama so fat, but really it’s not her fault. You see, ever since her cat ran away and her oldest kid just accepted a job offer out-of-state, she has no other choice but to seek companionship from the bottom of a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, your all-in-one source for computer games based on members of the eighteenth century feminist intelligentsia. This week say hello to Eric Hague, who is new to our site.

A Dismissal Of The Educational Value Of “World Of Wollstonecraft”

By: Eric Hague

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My fellow teachers:

I am penning this letter to voice my vehement opposition to the adoption of the video game “World of Wollstonecraft” by the Wallingford-Swarthmore School District. This product, developed by Norton Critical Editions Interactive, purports to be an “educational aid,” one that “makes reading eighteenth-century proto-feminist treatises fun again.” But having spent several days (and nights) playing it, I can report, unequivocally, that it is none of these things.

“World of Wollstonecraft” posits players in a vividly rendered, albeit deeply anachronistic version of eighteenth-century Europe. Equipped with a wide array of tools such as books, quills, composing sticks, and, improbably, enchanted one- and two-handed axes, students must battle their way toward various scholarly and/or occult objectives.

When customizing their avatars, players can choose from among any number of eighteenth-century classes and professions — rural peasant, laborer, urchin, pauper, serf, and Grand Master Alchemist to name only a few — along with a variety of races, which, again, tend to defy historical authenticity as least as far as the presence of Night Elves goes.

The gameplay itself is strangely violent. Players frequently find themselves engaged in gory, soul-rending PvP combat. Granted, the epoch in question saw the fighting of several bloody continental wars, to say nothing of the French Revolution, but the Army of the Back Dragon? The unholy conquests of Archimonde the Defiler? None of that shows up in any reputable military history of the period.

And more to the point, what does any of this have to do with Mary Wollstonecraft? As near as I can tell, the author of Thoughts on the Education of Daughters appears only once in the entire game, and commanding the Shadowtooth Dark Trolls during the Battle for Mount Hyjal at that. The subsequent cinematic in which she issues a “Vindication of the Rights of Orcs” has no literary merit whatsoever.

Another issue: regarding the team quest “The Infernal Dungeon of Paine,” I have it on good authority that Thomas Paine had neither an infernal dungeon, nor the ability to cast a “Common Sense/Mind Flay” spell.

And while I’m back on the subject of historicity, I might add that minarchist philosopher William Godwin would not be that hard to beat in real life. It took me like five times.

Some of my fellow educators have tried to convince me that the use of Wollstonecraft-like games in schools is becoming increasingly common. Fran Levy, who teaches English at Strath Haven High School, told me she’s been using the game “Virginia Woolfenstein 3D” for years to help illustrate both the interwar flowering Modernist literature as well as the shootability of Nazis. Whatever happened to a little thing called teaching?

One cannot deny that “World of Wollstonecraft” is engrossing in its own way. (Though after one spends ten straight hours organizing a raid on Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein fortress, one’s wife may try to make such an argument.) However, its entertainment value is undeniably spawned, as it were, by its lack of educational substance.

In the end, it may be the case that today’s teenagers simply do not care about Enlightenment-era literature the way that our generation did. They seem to feel that the works of luminaries such as Voltaire and Hume don’t feature gratuitous amounts of grisly, sorcery-fueled violence. Maybe they’re right. But as long as I’m an English teacher — as long as I have the power to foist my own personal sense of the canon of English literature on the lives of apathetic young people — I will continue to fight these so-called educational video games with everything I have.

At least until “Grand Theft Ottoman Empire” comes out. That looks pretty sweet.

Sincerely,

Eric Hague

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where for the first time ever we are updating the site more than once a week. Don't get used to it, folks! We're lazy. But in the meantime, prepare to see the glory with this topical madness from our own Associate Editor Justin Warner.

An Early Draft Of Christine O’Donnell’s Campaign Ad

By: Justin Warner

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I’m not a witch. I’m nothing you’ve heard. I’m you. None of us are perfect, but none of us can be happy with the things we see all around us: Politicians who think spending, trading favors, and backroom deals are the way to stay in office.

Seriously, though, I’m not a witch. To even say that I “dabbled” in witchcraft is an overstatement. I got about three chapters into the Book of Shadows and had barely immolated my first wax poppet when I found Christ. It wasn’t like I got kicked out of the coven because I messed up my Latin conjugation in the Black Mass and gave the high priestess herpes, or something like that.

Let’s look at the hard evidence. If I’m a witch, how is it possible that Chris Coons still has the head of a man, and not that of a boar? You’d think at a minimum there’d be a blight on his koi pond, or that he’d be seduced by the occasional succubus. But no, he keeps on preaching the same old Washington politics without once projectile-vomiting his entire intestinal viscera into Rachel Maddow’s face. What self-respecting, patriotic witch wouldn’t make that happen?

Also, if I were a witch, I wouldn’t have to run for the Senate to take our country back. I’d cut out the middleman and curb government spending by sealing off the Treasury with a moat of boiling blood. Furthermore, I wouldn’t have gone on MTV to warn about the dangers of lustful fantasies; I’d just make bats fly out of your hoo-ha every time you touched yourself down there. And more likely than not, I’d have magically inserted myself into the first Harry Potter book, gotten on the Hogwarts school board, instituted a creation science-based curriculum, and fired Dumbledore for promoting his alternative lifestyle.

Of course, I would mostly use my powers to benefit the people of Delaware –- the real Delaware, not Wilmington. Like, I would make our state a lot bigger. As far as I can tell, it could fill up half the Atlantic Ocean, and there would still be plenty of room for fish and stuff. And once we had all that extra land, I would make our famous Delaware chickens really huge, so we could keep enjoying their meat but kill fewer chickens. Every chicken would be eight or nine feet tall and feed, like, 300 people. I don’t see a downside.

So, you can go to the polls in November and pull the lever for me, knowing full well that I won’t put a hex on Harry Reid that makes flesh melt from his bones every time he closes a corporate tax loophole. That is, unless you really want me to. I’m sure there are charms that can cure the priestess’s herpes, and I’m willing to study hard. In fact, if it comes to it, I’ll do everything in my power to open the bowels of the Earth and swallow the entire Democratic caucus into the fires of Gehenna.

Isn’t that what you’d do?

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we yield to no one in our admiration for Hamlet, and in our determination to never see it staged again, unless it's by Alex Bernstein...

Polonius Is Dead

By: Alex Bernstein

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Hamlet, Act III, Scene 4. Queen Gertrude’s bedchamber. Hamlet, distressed, speaks with the Queen. Polonius, her elderly advisor, hides behind the curtains.

POLONIUS: Oh…damn. Well, I didn’t think he’d just walk in like that. Still, standing back here, surely, I might ascertain the cause — nay, the implement — of young Hamlet’s madness.

What’s he saying? What’s he saying? What was that? I can hardly hear a thing. What? What was that? Was that my name? What’s he saying? What?

Well, I wouldn’t’ve stood back here if I’d known I couldn’t hear him. Maybe I’ll just peek. Lousy curtains. He’d run me through if he saw me! It’s just like him. That’s all we need in Denmark — emotional children. Walk backwards like a crab! Indeed! I’ve got your bare bodkin! Bare bodkin this! And how did he know I was a fishmonger? I made quite a nice living fish mongering. Hello, ladies! What are we mongering today? Fish? Fish jerky? Little squib? What’s he saying?

You know…I think I can just make out Gertrude’s backside from here! There’s an ass to kill for! Hmm…now, where’ve I heard that before?

I know. I’ll just step out. Hello! Well hello, Hamlet! Hamlet, right? You’re up late! Terrific sword. What am I doing back here? Praying. No. I live here. It’s a Westinghouse, right? Well, I’m westing! Ba-dump-cha! That’s great for toasts. It’s yours if you — oh, what am I really doing here? Mm. I’m lost. I was in aisle six and — you? Love these curtains. They’re Danish, I think. It would make sense, right? I could’ve sworn there was a window back here. You know what, Hamlet? You need a hobby. Seriously. Knitting? It’s a time killer! Yes. I — talk to myself? Do I? Why, I suppose I do!

Hamlet! Haaaamlet! Ophelia likes you! Yes, she does — I think so — I — Hiding!? Eavesdropping!? Sir! You malign me! You offend me! You piss me off — you —

God! The stench back here! Does no one ever clean?! Eeuch! Gertrude, I love you, but you’re a pig. Smells like juice of vile hebenon! Death for my sinuses. And get some in your ear!? Brrr!

Uhm…Hammy? Excuse me. I’m so sorry. I really must get back. One of my courtesans fell. Yes. On her orisons. Right. And I’m bringing her some ointment. Cortisone, yes. Cortisone for my courtesan’s orisons. I know. I know. It’s complicated. Maybe I should fix him up with that Capulet girl. Mmm. Yes, she’s moody, too.

I know! I’ll play on his madness! Hamlet! It is I — the Ghost of Your Father! Boo! Mark me! Mark — me! You — Hamlet! Mark me! Use permanent markers! Big ones! Hamlet! Avenge me! Avenge me! Kill the King! Jump up and down! Take two steps backwards! Say “hibby hibby nobby nobby tibby tibby ding!”

Oh, poor, poor, mixed-up Danish prince. Dangerous, sure. Too much zest. ADD? Perhaps. What he needs is a good role model. Someone living. Yes, that’s it. Flesh and blood.

Oh — oh — Hamlet — by the by — If you see him again — the King your father — could you ask where he left my sandals? He said he was only wearing them into the garden and now — yes, the leather ones with the gold straps. God, I had them for years! Greek! Specially made. A month’s salary! No, it’s fine, fine. I guess I didn’t really expect them back. Still. If he apparates again — yes, that’d be terrific!

Say — say — what — what was his name again, anyway? We always just called him “King.” Oh, oh, I know! Hamlet! King Hamlet! Say! That makes you a Junior! Hello, Junior! How are you, Junior? Ahp — Junior’s killed someone in a duel! See. That’s much cheerier, yes?

Well, everything’s perspective, isn’t it? You say it’s tragedy! He says it’s comedy! She says it’s a travel monologue! The Murder of Gonzago? Funny! I don’t care what the critics said. I couldn’t stop laughing. A tragedy is — I don’t know — anything by Marlowe! Kidding. A tragedy is some prolonged sword fight with poisoned tips and drinks and everyone dies and all that nonsense. God, it’s so depressing —

Take Claudius. Please! No, really — he’s a pussycat once you get to know him! And what good luck that after your father’s freakish death he was able to step in as new sovereign and husband to Gertrude! Ho! It certainly added continuity to the kingdom! Wasn’t so easy for your mother, either, hopping into the sack toot sweet with your father’s brother! But she knew her obligations to the crown! Now, that’s a queen!

I know — I know — you’re stressed. Seems like everybody’s talking about you, staring at you. Hamlet, that’s not treachery! It’s hormones. Yes. Now — I mean this — I want you to think of me as an uncle. Just like Claudius — no — wait — what? Look — what say you and me — two strapping Great Danes –- head to the commissary — grab a couple flagons of ale –- Super Gulps, sure -– and then, you can tell me anything! About your dad, Ophelia, whatever! Won’t that be swell?! Thatta boy! Come —

He steps forward, absent–mindedly.

POLONIUS: Give your old Uncle Polonius a big —

He is stabbed through the curtains.

POLONIUS: O — I am slain!

BLACKOUT

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are still recovering from our last breakup. Fortunately, we are not alone. In fact, many of the world's most famous writers are just as hurt and angry as we are. Only a bit more eloquent, as Ryan McDermott rewrites them.

Excerpts From Breakup Notes By Famous Writers

By: Ryan McDermott

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Shakespeare:

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? No, I do think I shall compare thee to sewage and refuse.

Charles Dickens:

It was the best of times and it was the worst of times, but mostly it was the worst of times.

J.D. Salinger:

I fell in love with you goddamn it. I thought I knew you. You just turned out to be a goddamn phony.

Mark Twain:

A lie can travel around the world before truth can get its pants on, but I saw the darn truth. I saw that guy in your room without his pants on.

Allen Ginsberg:

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, and you.

Ernest Hemingway:

We dated. It was good. Then it got bad. We went fishing to try to fix it. That didn’t work. I took you to a bullfight. You didn’t like it. We drank wine in Paris and that didn’t help. Now it’s over.

Chuck Palahniuk:

There was vomit everywhere, dripping down the side of the bed with all the other bodily fluids. I barfed because I never really cared for how you look.

Sun Tzu:

All warfare is based on deception. Apparently our relationship was too.

William F. Buckley Jr.:

Our romantic accord was pulchritudinous but it must come to a surcease because it was a malapropos and your congeries of furtive prevarications have led me to regard you with sheer animadversion.

Emily Dickinson:

The brain is wider than the sky, and so is your lazy ass.

Hunter S. Thompson:

We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers. Too bad we didn’t have any love.

Charles Bukowski:

The whores down on Sunset Boulevard crowded around near the smack addicts and the winos. I saw you were one of the whores. I never had a damn clue.

Edgar Allen Poe:

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, over a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, all about how happy I was before you came along Lenore. Now quit rapping at my chamber door.

Dr. Seuss:

Oh how you used to be so cool, now I wish you would drown in the pool.

T.S. Eliot:

April is the cruelest month. Is it any coincidence that is when we started dating?

Kurt Vonnegut:

You pretended to be faithful. I guess I was wrong when I said you are what you pretend to be. So it goes.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where our funny video of us chasing one other around the office and hitting one another with water balloons is already a big hit on YouTube. Gosh, I wonder where else we can get it played? And what if we could get, like, a real director to direct it?

Contemporary Directors Do America’s Funniest Home Videos

By: Whitney Collins

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Jerry Bruckheimer Does Skittish, Jumpy, Overreacting Cats

This opens to a sunrise on an aircraft carrier, or a helicopter crash in enemy territory, and some cat is going ape to a Kenny Loggins guitar solo. Next, there’s a silhouette shot as a cat jumps up on all fours, because of a moth or a mouse or a MiG-21. Whatever the case, in Scene 3, there is no feline, just somebody looking hot in uniform. Probably Val Kilmer. Now, cut to a tabby on the Sergeant’s ceiling fan, a Persian in the locker room getting snapped by a towel, and a calico walking through a Miami crime scene. Finally, three kittens claw the patch off Johnny Depp’s eye. People say cats are hard to direct, but they don’t know Nicolas Cage. One last thing: it fades out with a cat running into a plate glass patio door that looks open but isn’t. That’s funny as all hell.

Stanley Kubrick Does Fathers Getting Nailed In The Groin

Here, a bunch of dads and kids bide their time in a white room heavy on crown molding and velvet drapes; in the background are crates of economy-size cans of franks-and-beans. The children are dressed in pastel bunny costumes and jazz plays on a phonograph. Or better still: off-key polka. Next, the children are given antique badminton racquets while shuttlecocks are affixed to each father’s crotch. Then things just get confusing. There’s maniacal laughter; a toilet in the corner (clean then dirty, clean then dirty); and a close-up of the phonograph needle stuck on a merry stretch of music. It might end with a lingering shot of a father whose head is tilted down and eyes are peering up, but it’ll probably just close with an overly theatrical whack to the groin. Either that, or a giant teddy bear wielding an obelisk.

John Hughes Does Babies Eating Peas

This one stars a baby dressed in pink training bra; a dumb, muscular baby; a baby with dandruff; a baby wearing a headgear; and a baby with horrendously huge nostrils who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about anything. The babies sit around most of the day not eating their peas, knowing that by the end of the day, they’ll have to either eat their peas or mug for the camera. That is, unless someone hid some weed in a sippy cup. Yay! Baby-with-the-headgear did! Also, John Candy comes in periodically to change diapers and the soundtrack is comprised of Psychedelic Furs songs that aren’t good, but everyone pretends are.

The Coen Brothers Do People Falling At Wedding Receptions

Sounds cliché, but this probably begins with the camera rushing forward as a clumsy guest foxtrots into a wood chipper or a bloody snow bank or straight into John Goodman’s gut. Or maybe it features a trippy dream sequence of bridesmaids floating over the Exxon Valdez crisis while a narrator quotes Aristotle in an Oregon accent. Hmm. Or how about all the weddings are set in Omaha and all the men are incompetent? Wait. That’s not the Coen brothers. That’s Alexander Payne. Same difference. Anyway, I bet ultimately they just get Cameron Diaz to play a disabled golfer who can’t cut the cake for Jim Carrey, the schizophrenic groom.

Judd Apatow Does People Feeding Zoo Animals But Then Something Goes Hysterically Wrong

This one’s easy: a bunch of grandpas attempt to feed elephants peanuts while Russell Brand and Will Ferrell get overly friendly with said elephants from behind. Body fluids should probably be involved, but since this is a family show, the grandpas will probably just vomit on one another.

M. Night Shyamalan Does The $10,000 Winner Thing

It comes down to these four:

“Man Hides Rubber Snake In Cookie Jar; Toddler Wets Pants”
“Great Aunt Betsy’s Dentures Fall Into Chili Pot”
“Fat Man Loses Toupee On Roller Coaster”
“Lady Drives ATV Into Chicken Coop”

And the winner is…Well. There is no winner. This isn’t a reality show. This is a classic Shyamalan world-within-a-world and every audience member is a prisoner, forced to watch videos symbolic of his or her meaningless life. Haven’t you always thought audience members laughed in a very forced, secretly terrified way? Yes. This is actually hell and Tom Bergeron and Bob Saget are campaigning for Devil. How’s that for a twist? Definitely better than The Village, right? And certainly not based on a crappy Nickelodeon show.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel where, at last count, we like to think there are 118 elements in the periodic table. Today, however, in honor of Samantha O'Brien, there are only four.

Has Your Child Recently Mastered The Four Elements?

By: Samantha O'Brien

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If you’re reading this, your child has just conquered his fourth and final element (likely Fire) and achieved the rank of Master. You’re probably experiencing many emotions: pride, reverence, crippling fear. This is completely normal. You’re just adjusting to the fact that your little one has become the spirit of Gaia manifested in human form. While you may be overwhelmed, remember you’re not alone. Parents of little Masters have been tackling the same issues since the dawn of elemental manipulation. We’ve compiled their most frequent questions here.

What are some of the common mistakes parents of a new Master make?

The most common error parents make is using their little Master’s abilities for housekeeping or evil. Too often one hears of a child earth-bending the mulch in the yard, pyrokinetically heating up the family dinner, or flooding the basement of his mother’s book club nemesis. Beware of your selfish urges. They will only bring you shame. So will tattoos of Chinese characters. Don’t get them.

In his new enlightened state, I feel like my child thinks he’s better than me. Am I crazy?

No. Your child is better than you. You may grow tired of his disciplined, benevolent ways, but know that they are for a greater purpose. Why did he have to shave off all his hair? For aerodynamic efficiency and to symbolize his renunciation of vanity. Is he always going to make you pull over when he sees struggling peasant farmers or senses seismic disturbances? Absolutely. Your child has reached an astral plane of higher consciousness. Do not fight this. Seek his counsel on important matters.

My child is glowing and his eyes have rolled over, turning a brilliant white. It is strangely beautiful, but should I be concerned?

Your child is experiencing a rare loss of control. He has retreated from his body and entered the spirit world. Also, he is now in a state of unharnessed supernatural power. This happens in situations involving intense emotion. Has someone angered him deeply or threatened a loved one? Did he just lose a close game of Candyland? In a calm voice, state the consequences of such behavior: “If you don’t leave the spirit world right this second, I’m going to take the body you’ve vacated to your room.” If your child’s power only seems to strengthen, evacuate, making sure to grab sharp or flammable objects on your way out.

I’m concerned about my little Master’s ability to interact with kids his own age. What can I do to help?

At first, your child will struggle to relate to his peers. Nobody ever made friends meditating through lunch and moving playground pebbles with his mind. Don’t bother trying to make his skills seem “cool” to other kids (e.g., “Timmy can fly!”), for your little killjoy will humbly correct you (“I merely ask for Wind’s assistance and She, in her infinite glory, obliges”). Expose him to as many group activities as possible. He will insist upon solitude, but you must be firm. If he doesn’t learn social skills now, the next thing you know, you’ll have a forty-year-old chaste sage living in your basement.

My child took a little long than most to master Earth and Fire and he’s now a teen Master. Is this a bad thing?

Yes. Going through puberty and realizing one’s full potential to command nature makes for a very confusing and challenging time for a young Master. He may turn despondent, angry even. Common signs include:

— Refusing to leave the couch, instead blowing munchies to himself and rinsing off the crumbs with indoor rain

— A sudden lack of interest in saving humanity

— Crafting ice sculptures in the likeness of an unrequited love (often using own tears)

— An obsession with Sylvia Plath

Reassure your teen that his feelings are normal, but remind him that he must resolve them in a way that does not disrupt the balance and harmony of all living things.

With my child’s new powers, he’s become so independent. I feel completely useless. Help!! What can I do?

You must give your child space. Initially, you will insist on chaperoning all of his adventures in goodwill: the trip to the Somali village to end their drought, the pilgrimage to Caracas to quell that earthquake. You will smile as the villagers touch the hem of his garments and genuflect. They grow up so fast, don’t they? It’s time to let go and allow your child to make these journeys on his own

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, which we are proud to note is read avidly even on remote planetary systems such as Dingus 7. So take that, Stephen "Xenophobia" Hawking!

Zurg Zang, Alien, Has Just About Had It With Stephen Hawking

By: Charlie Nadler

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Dear Stephen Hawking,

Firstly, I hope that this is indeed your real Facebook page, sir, and that I am not posting on some imposter’s wall. I will attempt to be concise as I know you are a man who keeps his dance card full, as it were. Here on Dingus 7, approximately 13 billion light years from your planet Earth, my life would probably seem very dull in comparison to yours as I, Zurg Zang, am a simple being.

Now then, if I may address your new program on the Discovery Channel (yes, we get basic cable here). I understand you have long been preoccupied with aliens. While others might call such an obsession “creepy” or “weird and kind of childish,” I say “To each his own.” But you are not just preoccupied; you’re convinced that all extraterrestrial life forms are dangerous; you imagine planets with murderous, yellow reptilian creatures flying around feasting on bizarre animals all day. So my question for you is this: what’s your problem, pal?

Think about it, Stephen Hawking. Imagine that I decided to say to all the inhabitants on Dingus 7, “Hey everybody, I bet there’s a faraway planet somewhere full of dangerous humans with a bazillion guns and nuclear weapons who go around killing each other. Don’t contact them because they might not respond peacefully!” As it happens, this is already common knowledge on Dingus 7, but still — doesn’t feel so good, does it?

As to your absurd and amateurish depictions of aliens, I don’t know where you’re getting this stuff. Cliffs inhabited by flying, yellow reptilian predators? You portray nightmares! Visit our cliffs and you’ll find only the gentle dingatrons, our golden-scaled friends who keep to themselves high up in the stratosphere, coming down only to feed on the flesh of land-dwellers as their hunger/bloodlust dictates. You imagine our oceans seething with vast fleets of horrific fluorescent beasts, which is fairly accurate, and yet you utter not a word of our precious sea horses. That’s right Stephen Hawking; just like on Earth, our oceans are also home to millions of them — enormous, radioactive sea horses. Every third Dinguinox, we gather among friends and family; with the night sky illuminated by the constant bursts of gamma rays, we can see clearly as hordes of gigantic sea horses emerge from the oceans to devour the sacrificial offerings which we have so carefully prepared, turning to ash and shadows anyone who has disappointed them.

I could go on describing such charms of daily life on my planet, but one must experience these things for oneself to truly appreciate that Dingus 7 is not a place of danger, but of splendor. And so, without further ado, I extend this invitation on behalf the D7 Board of Intergalactic Tourism (of which I happen to be Vice President): make Dingus 7 the destination for your next vacation!

With enchantments for the young as well as the young-at-heart, Dingus 7 is the perfect place to bring the whole family. While you’ll be far from home, our ubiquitous fog will make you feel like you’re right back in England! (Fun trivia fact: Did you know that all fog on Dingus 7 is fully sentient? Technically a parasite, our fog subsists on brain matter, which it accesses through the eyes of its “hosts;” once infected, these hosts are reduced to blind, vacuous shells whose sole purpose is to serve their fog “master.”)

Think Dingus 7 is just for families? Not so! Couples come to enjoy the romance of the lava spas, the nightly excitement of the sandworm attacks, and the cuisine — which is remarkably similar to a traditional English breakfast.

What are you waiting for, Stephen Hawking? Message me back to start planning your trip to Dingus 7 today!

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we put the "edgy" in "edgy T-shirt." And we couldn't do it without that living icon of sartorial splendor, Daniel Friedman.

Look At My Edgy T-Shirt

By: Daniel Friedman

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Look at this edgy T-shirt I got on the Internet. It refers to that movie everybody saw, where the comedian everybody likes said the thing everybody laughed at. I’m a bold outsider with a bad attitude, somebody who chooses to self-identify with the kind of independent oddballs who bring in over $250 million in domestic box-office receipts. I don’t conform to the masses; I march to the beat of the drummer that everybody went to see last June, or rented from Netflix in October. When I wear this shirt, everybody will know that they’d better watch out, because I have the capacity to be mildly offensive to people who fall outside the primary viewing demographic for mainstream comedies rated PG-13.

And I’ll tell you something else; I didn’t have to order my clever Internet T-shirt from my mother’s basement, where my computer is. No, I can order T-shirts wherever I am, whenever I want, because I have an awesome smartphone. I bet you’ve never seen a phone like this, since only the world’s fifty million hippest people have them. Do you know how elite that makes me? Well, there are six billion people on the planet, so you do the math. Oh, wait; you can’t because your phone doesn’t have a calculator app. Face! Let me tell you, dude, you can’t just walk into any cell phone store and get a phone like this. It’s only available from one exclusive carrier. And at Best Buy.

By the way, have you heard that song that was in the movie my shirt references, and has been on the radio nonstop for the past year and-a-half, and was on that TV show everybody watches, and is also in all those commercials for premium fish sandwiches at that fast-food restaurant? As a fixture on the local music scene, I’ve heard that song, and I love it. It’s the ringtone on my smartphone. Does your phone have MP3 ringtones, by the way? Didn’t think so.

If the Internet made a T-shirt about that song, I would wear the holy heck out of it, because I totally feel where that singer is coming from. Unlike most people who lead anesthetized lives of post-consumerist bliss, I have been in that place that the popular singer is talking about. I have stood on the edge of utmost despair, at the precipice of the dark and throbbing night. I gazed into that profound abyss. That song spoke to me in ways regular people can’t possibly understand. It touched the very core of my soul.

And that premium fish sandwich is awesome as well, so I can see why that singer would endorse such an excellent product. I would not hesitate to wear a T-shirt that communicated my admiration for this culinary delight. I hope the Internet is busy making such a T-shirt, even as we speak. Have you tasted the premium fish sandwich? I bet you haven’t. You’re like most of these squares around here. You’re so unhip, you probably couldn’t even find the drive-thru, despite the clear and unambiguous signage.

Let me tell you about the premium fish sandwich, dude. If you share my refined palate and appreciation of haute cuisine, the premium fish sandwich is a life-changing experience. You don’t see anything special about the premium fish sandwich? Well, of course you don’t. It’s only made of line-caught North Atlantic cod. It’s only coated with special-recipe seasoned breadcrumbs. It’s only deep-fried until it’s a succulent golden beige. It’s only topped with a generous dollop of premium mango-infused tartar-mayonnaise. Not a big deal, right? You know what? Don’t order the premium fish sandwich. Its subtle delights would be wasted on you, because you lack the perspective and vocabulary to comprehend such a transcendent dining experience.

People who trudge through life swaddled in non-ironic, non-referential garments should stick to the dollar menu.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where our national security is of the upmost importance. Of course home security is important too. And in that regard the best defense is a good offense. Just ask the Macomber siblings, Laura and Trevor.

My Wife Isn’t Crazy About Our New Home Security System

By: Trevor Macomber

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Honey, I understand you’ve been nervous ever since the break-in at the McDuffersons. But you can finally relax now that I’ve personally installed our new home security system.

I know you wanted to hire a reputable company like ADT to set up the alarm equipment and provide 24/7 monitoring service, but once you hear how much money I saved by designing everything myself, I think you’ll come around.

Well, I don’t recall the exact figure, but remember that dress you fell in love with at Filene’s Basement? No, not that one — the one on clearance. Well, let’s just say that you can go ahead and put it on layaway, babe.

Let me show you how to navigate the security protocols. The first line of defense in my multi-tiered approach is a brand new screen door. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any wood screws handy to mount it to the actual door frame — nor do I know what wood screws look like — so I’ve sorta just leaned it against the front door for now. You’ve gotta figure that the confusion factor alone will give us a few extra seconds if anyone does manage to break in.

Now come around back with me. Since we can safely assume that few would-be intruders will be able to make it past the “screening process” — no, go ahead and chuckle, it’s a clever name! — they’ll obviously seek an alternate point of entry. Right: the basement. I figure that a padlock on the bulkhead door isn’t going to cut it, since any attempt to pick it or saw it off will only create a lot of ruckus and disturb the neighbors, so I’ve gone ahead and removed the hinges entirely. But get a load of those mousetraps! There are 223 altogether, which amounts to one mousetrap for every 11 square inches of step — a number I arrived at after aggregating the horizontal surface area of each stair in relation to the exponentially increasing likelihood for trap triggering as a function of the number of footsteps taken during descent (factoring in a mobile uncertainty constant to account for decreasing illumination and gratuitous leg movement), divided by the hypothetical X- and Y-axis coverage as derived from the relative snap-and-scatter plot of each mousetrap compared to the average size of a human foot…sorry, I know you’re not a numbers kind of gal, which is why I spent the afternoon making calculations and not you. Point is, no bad guy stands a chance against these babies! Plus, even if one manages to endure the multiple lacerations to his feet and ankles — depending on the quality of his footwear, of course — there’s no way in hell he’ll survive the overwhelming stench of rotting Gouda.

Here — use this empty planter.

Okay, on to the final and perhaps most important feature of our own personal Rikers. I thought I saw you eyeing the wood peelings in the driveway a few minutes ago, so let me show you what that’s all about. If you’ll just follow me through the woods a little ways…mind the prickers! Ah, here we are. The yurt. Welcome to your new sleeping chambers, sweetie! It’s brilliant, really. See, I’ve moved our bedroom out here so that we are entirely removed from danger should anyone penetrate the previous lines of defense. And I’ve brought all our valuables out here, too, so your mother’s Fabergé egg collection and your grandmother’s antique Russian nesting dolls and those tanzanite studs you spent far too much money on that time we went to the Poconos are all safe and sound in the yurt! Or, should I say, under the yurt. Don’t give me that look — you hardly wear those things. And while we’re being honest with each other, I might mention that if you’d been willing to pawn them like I’d suggested, then maybe we could have afforded a real home security system in the first place…although I suppose it would have been superfluous at that point, because really, beyond the eggs and the dolls, and maybe the flat-screen (which you can see I’ve also moved out to the yurt!), what else would a burglar have taken?

That? That’s the moat.

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