Author Archives: Kurt Luchs

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we take warning labels seriously, just as we take drugs seriously. We try to read the warning labels before we take the drugs, but it doesn't always work out that way, as first-time contributor John Merriman knows all too well.

Warning Labels, With Attitude

By: John Merriman

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Medication

Warning: these pills may cause drowsiness, so don’t take them before driving or operating heavy machinery. But do guzzle them like Skittles.

Just kidding! These pills will kill you if you do that. So take them exactly as your doctor recommended. But they do taste like Skittles. That part is true.

Cell Phone

Talking too much on this cell phone will give you an enormous, life-threatening tumor! Wait, has that been proven yet? And more importantly, does it matter? Because the horrified look on your face when you read that was absolutely priceless.

Condom

Warning! Do not use if torn. Of course, there’s still going to be some risk of STDs and stuff like that, but you probably have ten of those already, so what do you care? Go nuts.

Carbonated Beverage

Hey! Watch where you point this thing! Don’t you know what “contents under pressure” means?

On second thought, it would be pretty cool to see the bottle cap fly off and hit you right in the face. Film it and post it on YouTube. Make sure you put in a shot of me, though. Showing the label beforehand will give the clip proper context. Of course, that’s assuming you know what “proper context” means.

MP3 player

I seriously doubt that the risk of hearing damage from using this device is something you’d fully appreciate. But you should still know that if you continue listening to that unbearable Top 40 garbage you think is music, your brain will either melt or explode. Really.

Hot Beverage

Did you know that, if you spill boiling hot coffee on yourself, you’ll get burned? No? Well, did you also know that you’re a complete tool? Not that either? Well, now you know.

Rubber Cement

Oh, please. Don’t sniff this. And I’m not saying that out of some misplaced concern for your safety. If you really want to get high, at least smoke pot or something. But inhaling rubber cement fumes? That’s just pathetic, even for clueless losers like you. What’s next, guzzling liquid detergent?

Detergent

Wow, you’re even dumber than I thought. You really need everything explained to you. Do you seriously want to drink this stuff? Or is it just for the experience of drinking from a large, heavy plastic container? That sounds like something idiotic enough to fascinate you.

Drain Cleaner

Geez, you again? What are you doing, going through your house and reading all the warning labels on everything you own? Don’t you have something better to do? Wait, you know what? Don’t answer that. Just drink the drain cleaner. I can’t even pretend to care anymore.

Pencil

Are you kidding me? What are you, an infant? Pencils aren’t even supposed to have warning labels. What do you want me to say? “Under no circumstances should you use this pencil to slowly bore a hole in your eye”? Does that do something for you, you sick freak?

Dishtowel

Okay, seriously. Stop. Just stop. There is absolutely nothing about this product that can harm you. In fact, I dare you to try injuring yourself with this. I want to see it happen so that from now on, every dishtowel in America will have a label that reads, “Do not roll up, stick down your throat, and try to suffocate yourself. You may die.” I really want to see that happen. You better do it. I’m warning you.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we don't deign to notice stories of global importance until they are more or less over. Topicality is not the only virtue, people! Let's not forget procrastination. Hence, first-time Big Jewel contributor Jamie Brew and his take on the nastiest environmental problem this country has ever faced.

We Are Dealing With The Olive Oil Spill

By: Jamie Brew

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I understand that many of you are angry. As frustrating as the situation is for you, imagine how frustrating it is for all of us here at Sorrento Olive Oil, as we find that our flagship olive oil bottle’s record six-month accident-free streak, as well as the celebratory dinner we were holding in its honor, have both been tragically interrupted.

We can discuss who knocked over which container of olive oil while pretending to drink directly from it using a straw later, but for now let us focus on the task at hand: we must act together to stem the flow of olive oil that is still pouring forth onto the tablecloth and floor of Lino’s Traditional Italian Restaurant and Pizzeria. The chief obstacle to this endeavor is that unfortunately, the little spout on the top of the bottle that regulates how much olive oil comes out fell off in the spill and has not been retrieved. Because of this we have so far been unable to prevent further spillage, but I guarantee you a new solution is in the works.

Yes, I know that I have said that before. To be fair, a solution was in the works at the time but, as you all know, the Fight Olive Oil With More Olive Oil strategy was unfortunately even less effective than the preceding vinegar-based method. Some would even say it exacerbated the problem. The same critics would say that there are now three olive oil bottles pouring onto the table instead of just one. I remind those people that playing the blame game will get us nowhere, and that there are bound to be challenges when the field of technology and innovation is called on to solve the problems of our changing world. At the very least, we have improved on our water-based strategy, which was admittedly more of a solution to our original fire-based approach than it was a remedy for the oil spill.

Let’s try to move on, and focus on the present. Our most recent attempt was entitled Operation Smash-Kill; it entailed smashing one of the bottles with a shoe. We saw results almost immediately, as the number of leaking bottles decreased from three to two. However, what we did not plan for — indeed, what no one could have foreseen — was the rapid release of nearly all of the olive oil previously contained in the third bottle, the one we smashed. It appears that the table is even more drenched in olive oil than it was before, and a new glass problem has presented itself.

Yes, that is correct. Now there is olive oil all over the shoe. But let’s not get distracted.

Our scientists are currently at work assessing the feasibility of addressing the problem using bread. However, we must remember that our supply of bread is limited. This is not Bottomless Basket Night at Lino’s, and even if it were, we have reason to believe the restaurant staff would be hesitant to continue producing food that is only being used to mop up other food.

Rest assured that we are devoting our full attention to the proper handling of this disaster. Several napkin-reconnaissance teams have been dispatched, and we cannot make a fully informed decision until we receive their report. In the meantime I ask you to keep things in perspective. The restaurant is a very big place — thousands of square feet! — and the olive oil spill, at least for now, has spread only ten or so feet in each direction. And let us thank good luck that there have been precious few casualties.

Please, go back to your meals. We have this under control.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where life imitates art, and art imitates a really sad life, which will nonetheless make you laugh. At least, if it's written by Becky Cardwell.

Leaving The Nest: The Metaphorical Gallery Of A Food Preparation Utensils Sculptor

By: Becky Cardwell

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ARTIST STATEMENT

I am a contemporary artist who specializes in the art of sculpture. My parents were artists as well, which is undoubtedly how I developed such a true appreciation for the craft. My father was a car mechanic who built creative-yet functional sculptures under the hoods of various Chevrolet models, and my mother was a secretary/aspiring rug-hooker, with a unique gift for turning otherwise mundane pieces of yarn into realistic and visually-stimulating farmhouse motifs.

Each one of my sculptures tells a personal story, and together they tell an even longer, more personal story. And while I’m confident they speak for themselves, I have taken the liberty of titling them, just in case they don’t.

The following masterpieces comprise my “Leaving the Nest” Gallery. I hope they will be as cathartic to you, as they are to me.

“LEAVING THE NEST”

“Step Off My George Foreman Grill!” — 1997

The vision for this Spartan yet thought-provoking piece came to me during an extremely turbulent period in my life. After graduating from College — give or take a few dozen credits — I decided it was time to find my true calling. However, because I was directionally-challenged and suffered from a mild case of vertigo at the time, I opted instead to sit on the couch and watch television all day, in the hopes that my true calling would eventually find me.

Sadly, my Mother was not of the same opinion. Ever since the doctors severed the umbilical cord that had at one time connected us, it was as though we no longer shared the same mindset. She would continually try coercing me into doing illogical things, like contributing financially to the household, or performing chore-like duties in such a way as to belittle my skills (I had majored in Liberal Arts and therefore had a varied and extensive education).

“Would you please go and clean your room?” she would ask, in a tone that wasn’t always pleasant.

It was a horrible experience, one that I pray no other twenty-five year-old will ever be forced to endure.

The Hand That Rocks The Ladle — 1997

To the artistically-challenged eye this may look like just a regular serving spoon leaning against a silicone oven mitt, but to everyone else it is a tour de force, a minimalistic representation of life as seen by a brilliantly-creative yet unfairly tormented hostage.

As it turned out, this woman — who, only a quarter of a century earlier, allowed me to stay rent-free in her womb for nine months — was suffering from a debilitating mental illness. She began making bizarre comments, asking nonsensical questions, such as “When are you going to start pulling your own weight?” and “As long as you live under this roof, you will NOT be bringing random guys home from the bar at three a.m. — DO YOU HEAR ME???”

It wasn’t that I couldn’t hear her — she’d been standing less than three feet away at the time — it was that her words were completely absurd. It was obvious she needed professional help, and since I wasn’t a Psychiatrist, nor did I have good enough grades to get into a school for aspiring Psychiatrists, I knew I had to leave. I also knew this because she kicked me out.

She wrote me a check for four-hundred-dollars, which I used to secure a small, sculpture-friendly basement suite found on Craigslist. And while the bathroom wasn’t finished and it reeked of cat urine, I knew deep down it was better than the alternative.

* Sidenote — The alternative was becoming a squatter, and back then I didn’t have the thigh muscles required to remain in awkward positions for an extended period of time.

“Tongs For Nothing!” — 1997

This stunning success, comprised solely of strategically placed Ron Popeil “Flip-Its”, came to fruition shortly after discovering that cable would cost extra.

I was devastated. Television had been part of my life since I was six-months old, and to be without it felt like losing a family member. Only worse.

Desperate, I did the only thing I could do. I quickly sculpted this magnum opus and then reached for the phone to call my progenitor. After discovering that it, too, was not in service, I knew I had no other choice to go to see her in person.

(Public transport is yet another thing I pray no other twenty-five year-old will ever be forced to endure.)

One can only imagine the creativity-triggering angst I felt, when after embarking on such a long and arduous journey, the woman denied me, her firstborn child, the gift of life in monetary form. She said I had to learn to survive on my own, and her decision to deprive me of my livelihood hurt her more than it hurt me.

I found it hard to believe, seeing as I was hurting something fierce and I knew her threshold for pain wasn’t all that high.

Eye Of The Grinder-1997

This pupil-adorned Cuisinart could very well be my most majestic creation of all. The idea came to me while sitting on the floor of my unfurnished basement suite, brainstorming ways to earn money without having to sacrifice my free time. “What would Sylvester Stallone in Rocky III do?” I asked myself.

Unfortunately, because I’d never actually seen the movie, I really had no idea.

Just then, my former caregiver showed up. After spending the last twenty-four hours in an intensive self-rehabilitation program, she had finally come to her senses, and was begging me to return to the previously lively but now bleak and barren house we once shared.

I made her sweat it out, but in the end I knew that because she was family, I had no other choice but to forgive and forget.

So, after hugging it out and drying my tear-stained but still extremely talented eyes, I packed my satchel — made entirely out of reusable Gladware containers — and we headed back home.

Now, whenever I look at this magnificent Grind & Brew™ sculpture, whether it be sitting on my mantle or finely milling the roasted coffee beans hand-picked by Arabian artists, I am reminded of a famous quote I once heard:

“Risin’ up, back on the street, did my time, took my chances. Went the distance now I’m back on my feet, just a man and his will to survive…”

— Anonymous

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where our outlook is always international, as evidenced by this week's contributor, Catherine Batac Walder. If you've ever wondered how English pubs differ from American bars, belly up to Ms. Walder's first piece for us...

Posted On A Pub Notice Board

By: Catherine Batac Walder

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As much as we’re a public house and it feels just like home, this is not a family pub. We don’t have a children’s menu simply because…we are not a family pub. And please bear in mind we are not a chain. As far as I know there is no other pub with a name like ours, but if you find another one in Sussex, I assure you we’re not related. So if you have had a bad experience with them, we could only offer you our commiserations.

1. It has come to our attention from a recent study that it doesn’t make a difference whether you are hit on the skull with a full or empty beer bottle. Since either may fracture the skull, make sure to start a fight when you finish drinking and the bottles are empty, so nothing will go to waste and it’s easier to clean up afterwards. (We respect this study’s groundbreaking results, but are not happy that the researchers used Feldschlösschen Bier to prove their point. Seriously, Feldschlösschen Bier, what were they thinking? Though I guess to get results they had to break a bottle of something.)

2. Please take note of the emergency exits. One right beside the dart board as you enter this room. The other one next to the snooker table as you walk to the room behind the bar. Note that the door to the garden doesn’t exist anymore. It hasn’t since Lady Augusta moved to the village in the ’70s and built Toad Hall next door intending to put us out of business (haha guess who was put out of business). If you get hit on the skull but are still sober enough to get help, run to the nearest police station, which is just down the street. I repeat, down the street, not after the first roundabout two miles from here. Do not trust the map of the village in the foyer. That was drawn two centuries ago and everything has changed, except for our pub.

3. We are aware that the pub gets too crowded from 10pm onwards. I acknowledge your requests to have an extension where Toad Hall used to stand, which land we now also own. An extension is not impossible but difficult. I’d like to tell you how long it took us to get planning permission for the additional toilets at the back of the pub but I might get emotional.

4. Please mind your heads. Two of our tall patrons have been hospitalized for concussions recently when they banged their heads on the low beams (see, blows to the skulls even without the help of a beer bottle; no they weren’t even drunk at the time). One of these beams allegedly put Admiral Laugherty into a coma during his visit here in the 17th century.

5. We’d like to dispel the rumor that the Inklings used to hold their meetings here. We are The Happy Mantis and Sprog. You mistake us for The Eagle and Child. Neither is this that feisty crime novelist’s watering hole. I think it’s the only pub he hasn’t visited in this area and we take pride in that.

6. There have been complaints that some of our waitresses are too young to even serve beer. They just look young, but they are of the right age, otherwise they wouldn’t be able to work here. If you ask a waitress, “What ales do you have?” And if she answers “Is Foster’s an ale? Or Budweiser?” report them to us as there might have really been a discrepancy in their birth certificates.

7. Because of a previous complaint from a regular customer that we are serving home-cooked food whereas his intention was to get away from home cooking, from now on we can assure you that all foods will come from a Tesco food pack. Sorry, we will not deviate from what’s on the menu. Spare ribs, scampi, everything, will come in a pack. Rice goes only with curry. If you are one of those who cannot survive without rice and want that instead of mashed potato with your lamb shank, pay for both curry and lamb shank meals. On the bright side, we know you love the pastry of the steak and kidney pie from Tesco because it’s buttery. We have a new name for it, steak and kidney shortbread.

8. We are not allowed to open until 11 a.m. (read: we serve drinks as early as 9 a.m. but we don’t serve food until 11 a.m.). You will hear us shout “Last orders, please!” shortly before 11 p.m. Considering that we are breaking the law for you in the morning, you should take closing time seriously. By last orders we don’t mean we make the rounds at tables and take your last-minute orders. We won’t ask what you’re having even if we see that you’re famished. Come to the bar (the term “bar” in Britain means the counter at which drinks are served) to get your drinks, let us know of the number of your table if you’d like food to be served and pay in cash immediately. Tips are unnecessary although an occasional offer to get staff a drink is mostly appreciated. Never, ever use the word “buy” when offering drinks to staff.

I repeat, no rounds at tables, all right, because if there was anyone who should think of ’rounds,’ it should be you fellow in the corner who always waits for your mates to buy you a drink and cowers whenever you see that they are about to finish theirs. For goodness’ sake buy them a round for a change.

9. For those of you who stumbled upon our pub in the hopes of finding the typical British pub, welcome. We understand your curiosity but you might not want to drink our supply of bitter in one gulp in your search for the typical British ale. We serve chips here, which are sliced in large wedges as compared to the French-cut fries that you must know. Bar snacks are not snacks but a meal so be careful when ordering varieties or else you’ll be stuffed. It’s best to stay away from the regulars’ verbal or nonverbal pub-talks. When you see me signing to a passing stranger through the glass window, I’m not making fun of you tourists. I’m just updating my mate with football scores.

I must have forgotten something else. If you have any comments, I’d like to hear from you. I am the poor old sod occupying table number 8 by the fireplace, except during Arsenal games, as I prefer to watch football in the comfort of my abode, and not be bothered by busted bottles and skulls.

NB: Tuesdays are Bingo days, from 8 p.m. to 10 p.m. May we request for you to hold on to your bottles in that short span of time.

— The Landlord

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we enjoy solving crimes the literary way. This week's author is a first-time offender named Tim Cushing, and the parole officer in us likes to think we'll be seeing a lot more from him.

A Guide To Homicide Investigation

By: Tim Cushing

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Good morning. I’m Detective James Morniwheg, Homicide.

As you know, your homicide team has suffered its share of “black eyes” recently thanks to some botched investigations and Officer Hisel himself. As a favor to your recently dismissed chief, I have agreed to speak to you briefly on the techniques of proper homicide investigation.

The First 24 Hours
You may have heard it stated that 90% of homicides are solved in the first 24 hours. Whether or not this is true doesn’t matter. Everyone already believes it is, so act accordingly.

This would seem to indicate that you will have a hectic day (and night) beginning with the homicide call. Try looking at it this way: you will only have to look busy for 24 hours before you can return to your normal schedule of playing computer solitaire and ticketing your ex-wife’s vehicle.

If you can make it past these critical hours, you are out of the woods, even if the victim’s body still isn’t. Label the paperwork “Cold Case” and throw it in the precinct fridge for some cheap laughs.

Your Homicide Toolkit
Here’s a list of items you should have on you at all times:

Gloves
Evidence bags
Ballpoint pen (for picking up empty casings; occasional writing)
Notepad
World-weary cynicism
Desire to help people (rookies only)

Optional

Unlit cigar
Sunglasses
Pet theories
Desire to hurt people

Arriving on the Scene
Your average beat cop will most likely be the first responder to a homicide call. They are usually unimpressed with your position and will undercut your authority at every opportunity. Send them out to “knock on doors.” This will keep them away from the crime scene and thus unable to show you up with their “attention to detail” and “logical conclusions.” Also, their street smarts will clash badly with your world-weary cynicism/desire to help people.

Securing the Scene
I’m touching briefly on this because improper police tape usage continues to be a problem in this department. Your tape has both an inside and an outside. Failure to keep your tape “right side out” while cordoning off a scene will result in you being “taped out” and unable to further pursue your investigation. It will also leave you exposed to the mocking laughter of the returning beat cops.

Identifying and Collecting Evidence
Expect to collect some form of “evidence” at every crime scene. Some criminals, especially drug dealers, will have thoughtfully pre-bagged some evidence for you. Mark any evidence with something distinctive, like “Party in a Bag,” “Retirement Fund” or “To Be Planted.”

You will also be charged with maintaining the proper “chain of custody,” which is easily accomplished by keeping the evidence in your possession at all times. Larger amounts may be stored in your house, storage unit or bus station locker. It’s also a good idea to have a stack of custody forms and ample amounts of Whiteout, in order to accurately reflect your rapidly dwindling stash of evidence.

Occasionally, you’ll find yourself with a surplus of evidence, especially during Internal Affairs’ investigations. Feel free to ditch the excess at any current crime scene. The other responding officers will appreciate your generosity and it will often take the case in surprising new directions.

The Smoking Gun
As the most famous form of evidence, the “smoking gun” can often refer to other things metaphorically. We will be dealing only with the literal interpretation.

If you find a gun on the scene, pick it up and sniff the barrel thoughtfully. Has it been fired recently?

If it hasn’t or is still “undetermined,” go ahead and fire a few shots into the wall or available corpse. Try out some creative angles to confuse the boys in forensics. Mark gun as “recently fired.” Place in evidence bag. (Allow time to cool.)

Be sure to indicate, when asked, that the gun was fired “circa the time of death,” rather than “shortly after I got here.”

Shell Casings and the Importance of Pen Selection
A homicide detective is only as good as his pen. Don’t scrimp on costs here, as you will have no other way to properly collect empty shells. Look for something thin with a low center of gravity.

Picking up shells is not as easy as it looks. You’ll want to practice at home, using one of the “evidence” guns you’ve secured. Fire a few rounds into the wall or available corpse. (This will also help you get the sense for the “recently fired” smell.) With enough practice you should be able to pick up casings in one smooth move.

(Important note: never use your hands to pick up shells, gloved or not. It is considered a crime scene “faux pas” and will probably “tamper” the evidence.)

Dealing with the Forensic Pathologist
As someone who deals intimately with death, your average forensic will often be a pasty, emotionless, wise-cracking weirdo who will insist on eating something no matter how gruesome the homicide.

He will often use phrases and ask questions full of words you won’t understand. Just nod and ask occasional leading questions, such as:

“Any signs of foul play?”
“What’s your guess on the time of death?”
“Would this ‘recently fired’ gun have anything to do with it?”

If stuck for words, you can always defer to the responding officer. A second tactic is to remove your sunglasses and chew on them thoughtfully while gazing over the scene, perhaps guesstimating the wholesale price of the now ruined Persian rug. I know this tactic sounds ridiculous, but do it in front of a mirror a few times and you’ll see how “thoughtful” it can make you appear.

I hope these tips will help you out in future investigations and bring a sense of competency back to this force, which has been hit hard by wrongful arrest suits and Officer Hisel himself, who seems to be “externalizing” his frustrated emotions through a series of well-placed left jabs.

Thank you for your time.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are inordinately proud of Western civilization's Greco-Roman heritage. That and the fact that the mad emperor Caligula made a horse into a senator one time. How cool is that?

From The Journal Of Incitatus, The Horse Caligula Made A Senator

By: Federico Garduño

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Ianuarius 9, 40
I saw a cat in the stable today. It had stripes. Also, Caligula said that I am going to be a Senator now.

Februarius 20, 40
Despite what I assumed earlier, there is very little crossover between the duties of a Senator and those of a racehorse. I have a lot to learn about the law and government before the Senate convenes. It’s daunting, but I hope there will be some legislative and political situations where I can rely on my strengths, such as running quickly.

Mariutus 27, 40
I know that I was not given my position based solely on merit, and I know that makes me unpopular. There are probably dozens of people who deserve this job more than I do, but who am I to refuse my emperor’s patronage? He has been a good friend, and very generous with crisp, sweet apples. Yes, he can be unstable. No one that has ever been forced to attend one of his “wiggle parties” could deny that, but he has Rome’s best interests at heart.

Iunius 30, 40
Would any other member be expected to endure the indignity of being made so stand on straw when the senate is in session? I think not. I am again subjected to a double standard. Yes, I have peed on the floor, but I am hardly the only senator to have done so.

Iulius 4, 40
My colleagues’ criticism has grown tiresome. “You’re just a symbol of Caligula’s contempt for the Senate,” they say, or “you’ve kicked over the podium again.” I would trample them all, but I am afraid that I would never be taken seriously if I did. I cannot afford to be labeled “difficult.”

September 8, 40
Sometimes it’s partially my fault. I admit that. Asinius Celer could have been a great ally, and I lament the loss of his support. It was both brave and kind of him to offer me a carrot as a gesture of good will, but he should have known to lay his palm flat. I did not mean to bite him, it is simply the way my mouth is made. I will send an apologetic letter, but I fear my zeal for carrots has cost me another potential friend.

Augustus 14, 40
Yet again, my senatorial colleagues have shown that they will refuse to support any measure that I put forward. I worry that I am doing more harm than good to any cause I support. What, other than spite, would compel anyone to vote against a simple resolution declaring oats a more delicious crop than barley.

I would hate to see the same thing happen to my proposed ban of all brightly colored things that flap loudly in the wind, because they are terrifying.

Ianuarius 24, 41
Uh oh. They killed Caligula. Someone stabbed him in the face and the chest and genitals a bunch of times. I had hoped that is was an accident, but when the news broke, senators began congratulating each other on pulling off such a smooth conspiratorial murder. I tried to sneak out the back of the senate quietly, but my hooves make that pretty difficult. I am not sure I would have survived if I had not been the fastest Senator by a pretty wide margin.

Ianuarius 25, 41
I have decided to retire to the country. I have accomplished what I set out to do, and it is time to move on. This afternoon I will release a statement explaining that I am leaving the Senate for personal reasons and to spend more time with my family.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where God knows we love our country. And by God, we mean Curtis Edmonds, assuming he wins the election.

I Am A Candidate

By: Curtis Edmonds

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Every November, Americans go to the polls to elect our leaders. Every two years, we elect our Congressmen, every four years, we elect our President, and every six years, we elect our Senators. And this year, we finally have the opportunity to cast our vote for the highest office in the land. This November, you and I will go to our polling places and cast our vote for who will serve in the position of God.

Everyone knows the record of the Incumbent. All of us in this country — those who believe in Him, anyway — have been praying to Him all of our lives. He has unlimited power and influence, a fervent network of supporters, extremely high name recognition, and high poll numbers. The conventional wisdom says He should win this election handily.

But in the last few years, I think all of us have asked ourselves one question — can we do better? Can we expect more from our God? Should we ask God to do more to impact the lives of the less well-off? I believe that we can do better, and we should do better in this election. Therefore, I announce today that I am a candidate for God.

This election will be a fierce uphill fight, but I am undeterred by the battle ahead. I may not have omnipotence, omnipresence, and His world-spanning omnibenevolence, but I believe I have the skill, the experience, and the dedication that this country is looking for from its God.

In fact, I wouldn’t even be running in this race if I didn’t think I had some distinct advantages over the Incumbent. This country needs a young, dynamic God to meet the challenges that we face, and there are real questions as to whether the Ancient of Days is still up to the job. And as a mortal, not only do I have a real understanding of the suffering of ordinary people, but it serves as a built-in term limit. Once I die, that’s going to be the end of my service as God — and I give you my word that I won’t resurrect myself.

Another thing I have over God is my longtime residence in this country, something that He can’t match. As your God, it will be my intention to stay right here on Earth, with ordinary Americans just like you and me, and not spend all my time seated on the Throne of Grace. And when I travel across the country to visit the Faithful, I’m going to fly coach — and we’ll sell the flaming fiery chariot on eBay.

Most importantly, I am the candidate that can address the issues of the modern world. My Opponent’s platform dates back to the First Century and doesn’t even pretend to address net neutrality, dependence on foreign oil, or what the heck is up with Lady Gaga.

First of all, as God, I intend to address the important issue of climate change. Winter snowstorms will be restricted to ski areas whenever possible. All holiday weekends will have guaranteed clear skies and warm weather. And the current Administration’s practice of subcontracting the end of winter out to some groundhog is going to end.

The next step after climate change is disaster reform. As God, I will take an active role in routing hurricanes away from Caribbean resorts and cruise-ship routes and towards areas suffering from droughts and wildfires. There will be strict rules against tornadoes, floods, tsunamis, and Michael Bay movies. And God’s current practice of sending earthquakes to poor tropical countries with lax building codes will be suspended indefinitely.

As God, I intend to take a more active role in national defense. The Incumbent’s slogan has always been “Vengeance is mine, I will repay.” If I’m elected God, vengeance is going to be more than just talk. Our foreign enemies — whether that’s Ahmadinejad, Kim Jong-Il, or Simon Cowell — will know My wrath. And I’m not going to send any of our country’s brave men and women into battle without a whole host of flaming thunderbolts to back them up.

Of course, as God, I will be a strong force for world peace. And I will go to the United Nations and give a speech where I just go up there and talk, but everyone there hears my speech in their own language, just because that would be a cool thing for God to do, don’t you think?

I expect this to be a long, tough road to victory. I pledge to run a clean, positive campaign, and not bring up little things like the Crusades or religious intolerance or any ancient history like that. If I am elected God, I pledge to do my best to live up to your faith in me. Thank you again, and come November, I hope to be able to say — I bless you, and I bless America.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are big fans of reality -- reality this, reality that, reality everything except reality television. So naturally we were delighted to receive this piece from Jen Spyra, realistically based on a real comment by a real person in the real world (as opposed to MTV's Real World).

I Am One Of You People

By: Jen Spyra

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“They are a totally different type of people. (On a standard-class train) there’s lots of children, there’s noise, there’s activity. I like to have peace and quiet when I’m traveling.” — Sir Nicholas Winterton, conservative member of Parliament, on why legislators should be allowed to travel first class to avoid exposure to the common man.

Sir Winterton takes the podium at a press conference. He is wearing oversized Burberry pants and a Looney Toons T-shirt. He places an Orangina on the podium.

SIR WINTERTON: My fellow Englishmen, good afternoon. I’d like to clarify a comment that I made a few days ago. It seems as though I suggested some faint distinction between the common man and myself.

REPORTER: You said, “They are a totally different type of people.”

SIR WINTERTON: Impertinent man! Were you raised in a barroom? I did not solicit your crayon-scrawl of an opinion.

REPORTERS roll their eyes.

REPORTER: You know, we’re recording this.

SIR WINTERTON: Indeed. And here is another thing I know: the conservative party has been maligned as an out-of-touch cadre of elitists for far too long. I’m here today to correct this misconception. (Adjusting monacle and patting his sides, absentmindedly talking to himself.) Now where did I leave my 18th century pocket watch given to my family by the Duke of Modena? Ah — yes. I loaned it to the King on a whim.

SIR WINTERTON remembers press conference.

Er — does anyone like my shirt?

No one responds.

SIR WINTERTON: I rather like it. It’s — comfortable, and allows for easy movement of the limbs while communicating a sense of humor and a lack of impolitic self-aggrandizement. (Pointing to the shirt’s cartoon decal.) Silly Daffy Quail.

REPORTER: You mean duck?

SIR WINTERTON: Uh — yes. Right. I do not profess to be an expert on fowl. Perhaps my father had time for such pleasantries, but a legislator in this day and age cannot bother himself with the titillating pastime of cataloguing bird species. He does not have time to sketch such astonishing specimens as the yellow-throated scrubwren. He certainly does not have time to keep pheasants and name each one after a distinguished member of his genealogical tree, and he most undoubtedly does not have time to take Vicomte Radbury to the best avian veterinarian when his wing coverts seem less shiny than usual.

SIR WINTERTON takes a sip of Orangina, winces.

SIR WINTERTON: What a refreshing beverage. (Under his breath to his aide, not realizing that he’s still speaking into the mic) What is this, sweetened ass piss?

REPORTERS titter.

SIR WINTERTON: Why are you laughing? That was a private remark that I made to my assistant. Ah, I see why you chuckle. By “ass” you thought I referred to the posterior of a human, rather than an Equus africanus asinus, or donkey, which is what I meant. Well, I don’t fault you your merriment. I enjoy a ribald turn as much as the rest! In fact, a love of the salacious is one of the many things that we have in common. Here is one naughty bon mot that never fails to tickle me:

What did the under gardener say to the on-site limousine repairman as he remarked on the grace of her ladyship?

REPORTERS groan.

Oh, wait — never mind. I did not come here to tell jokes, but to vindicate my fellow conservative legislators and myself. We are a normal, relatable bunch of every-day fellows, I tell you. I follow Beckham gossip, as you do. Their marriage is a sham but Victoria’s clothing line, especially the denim offerings, is excellent. I neglect my dental hygiene despite the vast strides made in this field. I like keeping abreast of sales events, and eating Haribo candies. Am I not one of you?

REPORTERS are silent.

SIR WINTERTON: I have a Dell and used a coupon towards its purchase.

SILENCE

SIR WINTERTON: (Breaking out in a sweat.) I don’t buy groceries at Harrod’s, indeed I think that would be a waste of my hard-earned guineas.

SILENCE

SIR WINTERTON: (Barely able to utter this last attempt.) I…liked Diana, and believe she was a victim…not a flashy little trollop who got what she deserv–

REPORTER: You’re a pretentious blowhard!

SIR WINTERTON: And you, sir, have the brains of an Anseranas semipalmata, or Magpie Goose — the sole surviving member of a Mesozoic lineage and truly one of the most unintelligent waterfowl to roam this planet! Did I not just verbally cane your proverbial schoolboy bottom?

REPORTERS laugh.

SIR WINTERTON: Oh, how I wish I had not come.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we prefer to avoid direct conflict at any cost. Oddly enough, this is one trait that master chef Elizabeth Bastos shares with us.

The Passive-Aggressive Recipe

By: Elizabeth Bastos

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Ingredients:

For Meyer Lemon cake:

3 cups cake flour, double sifted through fine mesh (pretend like you even care).
2 cups granulated sugar
The juice and rind of 3 Meyer lemons
Whatever milk you have on hand, in whatever amount
Whatever

For Lavender cream:

3 ½ cups heavy whipping cream
½ cup crushed organic lavender buds, from the garden
What? Everybody has an organic herb garden. Your neighbors Brad and Nancy have one. And they’re very busy, successful cardiologists.

Equipment: One 8-inch springform pan
But if you have a 7-inch or a 9-inch, things might still be possible.
Sure, if you clap your hands and believe in fairies.

Garnish: confectioner’s sugar, but really, the whole idea of garnishing anything is exhausting.

Method:

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter and flour the springform pan.

Double sifting is just a suggestion. I’m sorry I asked, actually.

I just wanted your “Light Meyer Lemon Cake” to be the best, and I made the mistake of thinking that you did too.

I guess you’re not really a serious a home baker, though I’ve heard you many times at cocktail parties bragging about your “canapés.”

When you say there were no Meyer lemons at the green market and have substituted regular lemons, I say that your social anxiety got the better of you. Meyer lemons are available to those who have courage.

Eleanor Roosevelt would have come home with the right kind of lemons, I’m just saying. You have several magnets with quotes from her on your fridge; I incorrectly assumed she was some kind of hero to you.

Use the balloon whisk on them. BEAT THEM. What you’re doing looks more like coddling the eggs.

I’m sorry. You’re overworked as it is; with the kids…do what you want with the eggs. Don’t even bother separating them, if it’s too much work: you have congenitally thin, delicate wrists.

Since when were delicate wrists a medical condition? If you don’t separate the eggs, you bring shame to your grandmother’s apron and to Ruth Reichl. You called her “goddess” on your infrequently updated little food blog. It had a really cute little name, Sugar Buns? No. Baby Cakes? That wasn’t it? No?

I specifically called for parchment paper and you don’t have parchment paper, let me ask you something: is everything all right in your marriage?

Oh, my goodness, I’m sorry. I was way too personal. I got worked up about the parchment paper and it was thoughtless of me. You of all people don’t need the stress of specialty baking items: you’ve achieved this much without many of the most important ones.

There, there. Why don’t you just bag cooking from scratch? Go take a nice hot bath.

Relax.

Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Like there isn’t much difference between fresh homemade cake and the frozen square of Pepperidge Farm, shipped in from North Jersey, with lots of preservatives that might give your kids tumors. What kind of mother are you? Get yourself together and get in the kitchen.

But when I say scant teaspoon of vanilla, what I mean is we’re friends, right? No hard feelings: you go ahead and decide how much vanilla, sweetie.

Serves: 1-18, depending on how you slice it.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where fun is more than a way of life, it's an unfunded mandate! This week our good friend Trevor Macomber tells a sobering story (we hope he's sober now) about a theme park facing tough times.

Welcome To Grizzly World

By: Trevor Macomber

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I’d like to thank the board of directors here at Grizzly World for giving me the opportunity to speak to you today in order to review some key points after our soft opening last weekend. With a few minor tweaks here and there, I have no doubt that we can put many of these incidents — and, in all likelihood, lawsuits — behind us and focus on making Grizzly World the most successful live grizzly-themed amusement park in the entire western United States.

Now, first of all, I know that some of you are wondering how a former Arabian horse breeder — well, okay, assistant breeder — came to be the CEO of a Fortune 500-owned establishment like Grizzly World, but let’s not forget our corporate philosophy: Always Look Forward. On a related note, to whoever added the phrase “(especially if you’re running for your life)” to the company-wide email distributed this morning, let the record show: I am not amused.

Moving on, I know how difficult it is to succeed in the highly competitive field of interactive carnivorous petting zoos. In fact, I was as surprised as anyone when I came up with the idea. I guess there’s just something about a fully shaved silvertip in a flowing pink ball gown that appeals to the little kid in me. I mean, think of the photo opportunities! Unfortunately, as I will readily concede, my penchant for the big picture occasionally causes me to overlook some of the finer details that create the foundation for any successful venture. For example, the fact that “carnivorous” means “meat eating.”

Of course, it’d be easy to stand here and point fingers (sorry Susan, bad choice of words — just try to keep pressure on it) as we attempt to determine who, for example, was responsible for the opening day promotion distributing genuine salmon hats to our first 100 visitors, but at least now we can finally put to rest our previous debate about whether the traditional methods of animal-human segregation like fences, ditches, etc., can ever truly be replaced by more progressive techniques like the honor system. (The answer, by the way, is “No.”) In a similar vein, I’m certain that whoever green-lighted the “Swimming with Grizzlies” wave pool is probably having second thoughts right about now. (Those waves were a little high, Frank.) But surely we can all admit that “Bear Bodies” was a brilliant name for the water park itself? And that “The Right to Bear Arms” souvenir stand probably would have become a real money-maker if only we’d remembered to store the inventory downwind from our free-roaming attractions?

— Yes, Susan, you have a question?

— Right, sorry. No, please keep it elevated. I’ll work around you.

As I was saying, the bottom line is that, no matter how you slice it, we got at least as much right as we got wrong. Of course, with their juvenile “if it bleeds, it leads” mentality, not a single media outlet is bothering to report that particular factoid. Honestly, can you name any other theme park in the world with enough chutzpah to completely reverse the age-old custom of humans dressing up as animal mascots? I don’t know about you, but before yesterday, I’d certainly never seen a bear in overalls driving a threshing machine. Of course, accidentally decimate one Girl Scout troop, and suddenly grizzlies driving diesel-powered farm equipment isn’t so much visionary as — and I’m quoting here — “astonishingly and unequivocally insane.”

Nonetheless, despite these and other setbacks, I’m certain that, had they survived the proof-of-concept phase of our collaboration, my late business partners would echo me in saying that the overall premise behind Grizzly World is still sound. If not for a few unforeseeable missteps, I’m positive that we would be well within our acceptable casualty limit. As it stands, the only thing preventing us from being the best Grizzly World we can be is our own fear of success. And, temporarily, a large number of disgruntled grizzly bears currently surrounding the building. In any case, I’m sure Animal Control will be here shortly with their promised supply of tranquilizer darts, so if anyone has any questions before we can attempt to flee the conference room, I’ll be happy to take them.

— Yes, Susan?

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