* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we know the difference between puppy love and real love. Although real love can sometimes involve puppies. David Martin not only knows about love, he knows about romance. And he knows how to sell books. Click on the link below to purchase his most recent humor collection "Screams & Whispers" on Amazon.

Romance – The Adult Version

By: David Martin

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When you’re young and in love, nothing seems too silly or cheesy. No token of affection or sign of commitment goes ungifted or unexpressed.

Yet I would say that I am far more romantic than the smitten teenager who showers his girlfriend with flowers, lockets and perfume. That’s easy. What’s hard is being there for your beloved through all the struggles of life. That, in my view, is true romance.

When she’s suffering from the flu and lying in bed in agony, the true romantic will be there by her side providing her tender loving care. He’ll rub her back, massage her neck and bring her chicken soup. That, my friend, is true love and that is what I call romantic.

Gifts, flowers and wining and dining are fine, I suppose. But, despite what some might say, the most important part of love is being willing to say you’re sorry 24/7. Whether you’re right or wrong is not the point; your job is to say “I’m sorry” whenever your partner accuses you of anything. Even when you have videotaped evidence that she slept with your best friend and emptied the family savings account, it’s up to you to take the high road and the blame. That spells true love.

A ring or a necklace may be a nice romantic present but it pales in comparison to providing support to your beloved. After she’s been on a three-day bender and has just about reached bottom, jewelry simply isn’t going to do the trick. Love means kneeling beside her next to the toilet holding her hair back to avoid the mess. Romance means ignoring her insults and bringing her a little hair of the dog in the morning to help her make it through the next day.

Gifts are easy; life is hard. A stuffed toy or a cute tee-shirt won’t do much good when your loved one is into her second day of heroin withdrawal. She won’t be asking you to whisper sweet nothings in her ear; she’ll be screaming that she needs a fix…NOW! You can pat her hand and tell her that you love her. But if you really care, you’ll track down her dealer, buy her a dime bag and make sure she’s got a clean needle. That, my friend, is true love.

Love isn’t all roses and fluffy white clouds. Love is hard work. After all, when your better half has robbed a bank, killed two innocent bystanders in a shootout with the police and ended up in prison on death row, a Hallmark card is not going to do her a whole lot of good.

That’s when your love will really be tested. Are you man enough to do whatever it takes to help her break out of prison? Do you care enough to smuggle in a file and then round up a van and a few friends to meet her outside the prison wall? If you do, then that’s what I call love.

Maybe you think you’re a loving husband because you help with the household chores and share your feelings. That’s fine, but love means more than that. Love means feeding your special woman ammo for her automatic weapon while she’s barricaded in the White House looking to “pop a cap” in the President’s ass. It also means not crying when she’s shouting that you’re a no-good, stupid sonofabitch for forgetting to bring an extra weapon.

Will you be there by her side when the Secret Service calls in an all-out attack on the East Wing? Can you suck it up and carry on for the sake of the kids even while she’s threatening to “cut you into pieces” and screaming in your face that she was an idiot for marrying you?

No, I didn’t think so. And neither could I. But that still doesn’t mean I’m not romantic.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we continually demonstrate an uncanny ability to prognosticate events that have already happened. As witness Jason Guder's now nostalgic look back at the loser of the most recent presidential election.

Choose Your Own Adventure: Mitt Romney

By: Jason Guder

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You are born Willard Mitt Romney, rich. REALLY rich. You go to some great schools where you earn the reputation of zany prankster. (Note: The gay kids don’t think you’re so zany.) After graduating, you prove yourself genetically engineered for business. You help with the Winter Olympics and briefly govern Massachusetts. You have a TON of money.

In 2007, you make a bid for the US presidency, but ultimately you lose your party’s nomination to a grizzled ex-POW with roughly 2,000 years of public service.

Do you:

— Lick your wounds, realize your life is already fantastic enough and spend the rest of your days giving friends free rides in your soon-to-be-completed car elevator (Page 33).

— Say, “Screw that. I WILL be the most powerful man in the free world! I’m running again in 2012!” (Page 61).

Page 61

Heck yeah, you’re running again! Your 2008 loss is attributed to a perception that you are detached from common Americans. You spend the next several years jet skiing about Lake Winnipesaukee, a pursuit advisors insist is well-loved by the filthy red-bloods. Even still, you have extra time.

Do you:

— Take low-profile trips around the US in an effort to understand Americans better, their lives, their struggles (Page 33).

— Write what you think is a pretty damn insightful OpEd for the New York Times about how the auto bailout is a terrible idea (Page 89).

Page 89

OpEd it is! You’re a modern-day Samuel Clemens! A less obscene Jonathan Swift! When published, those that agree with your editorial pretty much agreed before you wrote it. Those that don’t — including every living person in the swing state of Michigan — well…feel differently. This decision could haunt you.

Eh, bygones.

In June 2011, you once more declare your interest in the Republican nomination. Your competition is insane. One competitor will only speak of China. Another believes vaccinations cause mental retardation. There’s a lunar-colony enthusiast, a reality show host whose catch phrase (during a DOWN economy) is about laying people off, and a guy who makes cheap pizza. One woman may or may not consider herself a witch. And STILL your party’s enthusiasm for you is tepid.

Do you:

— Bow out, recognizing your party simply isn’t that into you (Page 78).

— Push on, knowing in your heart of hearts that you will be the best overlord — er, President this country has ever seen (Page 12).

Page 12

You push on. And have good luck! You don’t so much beat your competitors as, one at a time, they prove themselves unelectable. Congratulations on your nomination!

It’s time for the convention! Naturally, you choose a handsome, Ayn-Rand-loving fitness fanatic as your running mate. Let’s pump up that base!

Do you:

— Put yourself and your ideology center stage at the convention and hammer the incumbent with consistent messaging about his term’s failings (Page 81).

— Hand the primetime slot over to an aging Hollywood legend who prefers to work off-script; hope for the best (Page 192).

Page 192

Um…okay…you go the Hollywood route. Said legend spends his time onstage talking to an empty chair. Moving on…

There’s a little downtime between your party’s nomination and the actual election. Time to address one of your campaign’s shortcomings: non-American time (a.k.a. foreign policy experience). Off to England!

Do you:

— Smile and nod your way through a series of simple photo ops (Hint: Do this) (Page 15).

— Question your host country’s preparedness for the Olympics (because, after all, who wouldn’t want to hear your opinion on everything?) and speak publicly about your meeting with a secret intelligence service that prefers to remain secret (Page 199).

Page 199

You make some gaffes. It happens. We’ll turn this thing around back on friendly U.S. soil, right?

Once home, things do not improve. People have grown impatient with your double-dog-swear that yes, you do have an economic plan, but you’d prefer not to reveal it. General suspicion builds around your steadfast refusal to share more tax returns than is absolutely required. And if only you hadn’t authored a healthcare plan back in your governor days that’s brutally similar to the incumbent’s. But these are just misunderstandings, right?

Do you:

— Craft a speech that addresses each of these concerns head-on without double-talk, proving once and for all that you are the people’s candidate (Page 35).

— Hold a private fundraising dinner and insult nearly half the electorate as lazy incompetents whom you have no interest in serving (Hint: Don’t do this!) (Page 116).

Page 116

Ahem. You insult half the electorate. Surprise of all surprises, not everyone in the room is your friend. Someone leaks a tape. Um…

The first debate! Maybe THIS is your time to shine. Isn’t debate supposed to be your strength? Besides, now that you know betting an opponent $10,000 while onstage is ill-advised, this thing is yours to lose!

Do you:

— Follow the agreed-upon rules, respectfully rebuff your opponent’s viewpoints and lay out your own policies clearly (Page 5).

— Say to hell with rules, beat up on the moderator like the Public Broadcasting ninny he is, and be as disrespectful as possible, knowing the media — driven by its need to make coverage seem relevant — will support this performance as impassioned rather than rude, presidential rather than bullying (Page 53).

Page 53

Right you are! You’re back in the hunt!

Your performance — helped in large part by your opponent not taking the event seriously — is lauded as a huge success. Whereas before literally no one gave you a chance in hell of winning, now everyone with a microphone believes the race too close to call. Could you pull this off? Unfortunately…(Page 211).

Page 211

Your fall comes quickly. Not intimidated by your son’s expressed interest in punching him in the face, the incumbent President does show up for the next two debates. He pantses you. Despite having binders full of woman, few seem likely to vote for you. Your vendetta against a seven-foot-tall yellow bird gets relentless press.

The worst part…while at first it seemed as if God Himself was throwing you a Hail Mary in the form of a catastrophic storm, said storm does not devastate voter turnout in the blue Northeast. Further, the incumbent’s swift storm response has members of your own party embracing him on camera. When election night comes, you do your best to deny defeat — only quitters write concession speeches! — but defeat will not be denied.

In the end, concede you do. On the drive from campaign headquarters, if there’s a consolation, it’s that your party always takes care of its fallen warriors. Your efforts and personal sacrifice will NOT be forgotten. Er, wait —

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we try not to eat anything with a face. No, really, not even those potato chips with the face of Jesus. If following this life path seems too stringent to you, let Nathan Thornton explain how easy it can be.

Becoming Flexitarian: A Beginner’s Guide to Semi-Vegetarianism

By: Nathan Thornton

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Trying not to eat that much meat: it’s not for everybody. After all, people have been eating meat since Fred Flintstone times (the brontosaurus burger, when that rack of ribs flipped over his car) through old-timey king times (huge crazy turkey legs, an ox) right up until today (those buffalo wings Dana’s boyfriend always brings, other kinds of meat).

But with all of today’s top “health trends” and “bumper stickers that say things like ‘If You Love Animals, Don’t Eat Them'” it might be the right time to consider flexitarianism. It’s a very personal choice, and not a decision to be made lightly. Flexitarianism is a life-changing lifestyle that has the potential to change your life. So before embarking on this bold and exciting journey, consult with your family, your family physician, your secret family in another part of the country and whatever doctor you see there. Then kiss your old life (and your former meat-intake level) au revoir! (this is a common French expression many flexitarians use that means “See you next time, amount of meat I used to eat!”).

What does it mean to be a flexitarian, you ask? We’ve used that word a bunch of times already, so it’s a little annoying that you’re just now asking. But it’s when you only eat meat sometimes and it’s the perfect way to combine the smug, self-satisfied feeling you get from not eating meat with the smug, self-satisfied feeling you get from eating meat and it’s so simple we can’t believe you’re not already doing it.

Benefits of a Flexitarian Diet:

It’s good for your heart. People who don’t eat meat very often sometimes have an enhanced capacity to feel love.

It’s good for animals. Many animals will feel more relaxed around you when they don’t think you’re going to freak out and start eating them.

It’s good for the environment. Look around you. What do you see? Massive piles of meat bones everywhere, right? As a flexitarian, you’ll have way less of those. Plus, it seems good for the environment.

It builds stronger friendships. You know how when you’re hanging out with your friends, you never have anything interesting to say? Imagine the excited looks of interestedness you’ll see when you tell them you’re trying to become a flexitarian!

It can give you the ability to pass through solid objects. We got an email from a reader who told us just that. His name was papaboner6969, and we’re still in the process of verifying it, but it’s an incredible testament to the power of flexitarianism!

Common Questions about Identifying Meat and Trying not to Eat that Much of It:

Is this meat? One of the first things you need to consider is whether something is meat or not. So, does it taste like meat? Oh no, you just ate meat! You should have figured out whether it smelled like meat first. It’s a common rookie flexitarian mistake. Okay, today’s a wash. You’ll be more flexitarian tomorrow, probably.

Seriously though, is this meat? Great follow-up question. Sometimes something can seem like meat and not even be meat. See how much you’ve already learned and grown as you’re following your flexitarian path? It’s true, this can be a confusing conundrum for new flexitarians. Here’s a tip: a lot of times, meat is brown. This is called red meat, and it’s one of the kinds of meat that flexitarians will want to be pretty careful about. A quick word of warning: Potatoes are also brown. However, they are not meat – they are a completely different kind of food. Although it seems like you should already know what a potato looks like. Why are you making this so hard for us?

How much meat should I eat? Hoo boy. We were afraid of this one. Think of it this way: Do you ever watch that thing on the Fourth of July where that guy eats like 100 hot dogs in a minute? Seems like way too much, doesn’t it? Or think about a Buddhist monk who eats one grain of rice a week. You shouldn’t have to be that severe, should you? “Flexitarian” doesn’t have to mean “flexible.” Or actually, that’s probably exactly where the word comes from, if you think about it. Huh.

When should I not eat meat? This is the best question. We’ve all been waiting for you to ask it because that’s the easiest part — there’s never a wrong time to not eat meat. Or to eat it! Think about this: You already sleep at least 12 hours a night, right? And you hardly ever eat any meat during that time, do you? So you’re already halfway there! Now you only have to find a few more times during the day to not eat meat. Popular times include: while showering, tooth-brushing, eating ice cream or corn, dinner with the Patels, doctor’s office visit, and while singing along with your favorite song on the radio. And if we didn’t already mention showering, then showering. If you’re looking for even more opportunities to avoid eating meat, just take longer showers. After that, you can eat meat whenever you want! Congratulations. See how different the world looks through flexitarian eyes.

What should I eat instead of meat? Doesn’t matter.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where as a weekly publication we don't often get the chance to be very topical. Now, however, Matt Doyle brings us a piece that was written weeks ago, but which -- thanks to our tragicomically dithering chief executive -- still reads like it was ripped from today's headlines.

Official Response To Protestors Of The Regime

By: Matt Doyle

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Keep calm, and keep calmly protesting, protestors. It’s inspiring to see the spirit of the 1938 revolution that installed us living on in our youth. Whether you’re a decrepit elderly grocer tired of exploitation by warlords, a young fey student sick of the militia occupying your campus, or a handsome third generation President fed up with being kept awake nights by lively chants for your head, you can’t help but marvel at the beauty of a country that allows such movements to exist.

In the interest of peace, the government has suggestions for bringing your scrappy band of pitchfork-wielding villagers into the 21st century. First, take a cue from the Arab Spring and use social media. Those protestors stepped through the door of self-governance Twitters-first. Don’t just take our word for it. Read about it online. We hereby declare the Internet “Open for business” and ready for all your downloads and uploads. (And other loads, too: check out YouPorn, you guys, and let some of that oppressed steam off.)

The Springtime countries used Twitter to organize protests. Let’s show the world how cutting-edge we are by protesting on Twitter. To quote HBO’s Game of Thrones, “Winter is coming” and nobody — protestors or members of the heavily armed riot police — want to be shivering in Freedom Plaza. Tomorrow, on Protest The President Day, there’s no need to leave your warm home or communal cage-space and not watch four Game of Thrones eps in a row. Simply declare your attendance at the Revolution by hashtagging your Game of Thrones tweets #WeAreOneVoice. For example: “WTF Daenyrys. Didn’t see that coming #WeAreOneVoice.” You don’t have HBO?

We hereby declare HBO free for all citizens. (For one month. Then call to cancel.) Watch all the free HBO you desire and still take part in the political process. If the #WeAreOneVoice hashtag trends, free HBO for one more month. The regime recommends Girls. See the Big Apple through the quirky eyes of young writer Hannah played by fabulous Lena Dunham. She’s brave just like you.

We’re not stopping at Twitter though. We’re also allowing Facebook, and creating an Official Presidential Palace page. Now, from the comfort of your home, throw rocks at our home. Tomorrow our glorious leader will post a status update saying, “I am looking out the palace window at the very large protest below. Do I see a rock?” All you do is click “Like” and that counts as a rock. Let’s blow the roof off of FB with all those Likes, citizens! No longer do you need to drop what you’re doing to trudge all the way down to some huddled mass of grimy protestors! You can multitask while you revolt against your oppressor. Scroll through photos of that Zooey Deschanel-looking girl from your poli sci class in one window, while in another you write on your friend’s Wall about how you want to get really mega plastered tonight (We hereby declare alcohol legal for all ages), and in a final window you’re breaking windows on the presidential palace.

Your grandmother’s revolution used Molotov cocktails, but those antiques are not for millennials like you. And the cost isn’t feasible during this global economic downturn. The bottle, perhaps Coca Cola brand, costs $2. The rag, maybe $1.50, and the kerosene, let’s say $15, plus a Bic lighter for $1. Why pay almost $20 for an analog revolutionary tool when a dynamic and simple Like is free? The money you save can be used to purchase multiple virtual Molotov cocktails on our brand new Second Life country, completely mimicking our geography. Virtual Molotov cocktails cost $6 — a savings of $13.50. The regal and historic real-life presidential palace remains in all its glory here, while the virtual one, thanks to you young webvolutionaries, burns brightly. Sic-semper-tyrannis.gov {Easter Egg: If you find the president’s lifeless body in the digital presidential palace, you get three free months of HBO, where you can watch Curb Your Enthusiasm with hilarious Jew Larry David.}

Perhaps you’d prefer to take your protest on-the-go? Download the official regime protest app from the app store for only 99 American cents. And this isn’t your grandfather’s app, no, no. The regime makes protest lots of LOLs. Modeled after the popular Tindr (also now legal), scroll through photos of every regime bureaucrat and military leader with a simple finger swipe. If you choose to oust them, swipe left; if you think they’re dreamy, swipe right. Upload a picture of yourself to help the dreamy ones locate you in a crowd; to perhaps ask you on a date? You get to speak truth to power while still speaking flirts to girls and boys on that web.

But that’s not all. We’re also allowing FourSquare, which lets you Check-In at your location, whether it’s at the cinema watching the latest awe-inspiring sci-fi movie our glorious leader directed, wrote and starred in, or at a secret basement meeting of the Black Bloc at a TBD location.

And don’t let a security checkpoint line-up dissuade you from protesting against us. Keep your mind occupied on our new tablet and mobile game: CandyCrushtheRegime. Line up a series of three similarly-dressed Protestor icons and watch with joy as they’re sprayed off your screen by a powerful burst of water from a firehose. Clear all the Protestors on your screen and win a chance to wield a real-life waterhose in Freedom Plaza. Trust us, it’s actually quite a lot of fun.

If you’re still one of those old-school IRL-protest-types, we’re also selling Guy Fawkes masks for $50. They’re pre-loved from our friends in a neighboring land, but if you don’t mind water spots, burn-marks and bits of shrapnel embedded here and there, they’ll work fine. Put them on, then use the newly legal Instagram to take some snaps of yourself wearing it. Wear it proudly; don’t be #sorrynotsorry. There’ll be plenty of time for regrets later.

Finally, we are pleased to announce that, thanks to most check-ins at the Presidential Palace, the President has been re-elected President. Congratulations to our once and future leader. To protest this election, please hashtag HBO-related tweets #RecountRegime. If over 750,000 citizens tweet, you get a fourth free month of HBO, where you can stream Recount, a damning portrayal of the broken American political process. But to ensure that you are citizen within our borders, using your mobile device, turn on the GPS function so we may receive your exact coordinates.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where it seems we are always welcoming a new crop of substitute teachers. No one is more suited to this task than our good friend Andy Millman.

Welcome To The Substitute Teaching Staff At Henry Flanger Elementary

By: Andy Millman

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Congratulations on being selected as one of Henry Flanger Elementary School’s substitute teachers. Only eleven out of every twelve applicants were hired, so a hearty “Well done!” to you.

There are some interesting tidbits regarding our school that we thought you might like to know. Did you know that there was a real Henry Flanger? Some people see the drawing on the side of our building and believe he’s the product of a public relations company, like Tony the Tiger or Geronimo. No, Henry was real and he taught here. And his eyebrows were that bushy and his glasses were that thick! (Tragically, they both contributed to his untimely death when he mistook the Bunsen burner for a reading lamp and his forehead was set ablaze like a pile of kindling.) We named the school in his honor, and as part of the lawsuit settlement, and proudly wear “The Flaming Flangers” across all our school jerseys.

Despite what you might hear, Henry Flanger Elementary is not haunted. Some of the children will tell you that they hear screaming and that it’s the ghost of Henry Flanger “trapped in the flame of hell’s Bunsen burner.” Young imaginations are precious. The screaming they hear is likely coming from the teachers’ lounge, so don’t be concerned. But don’t come in if you hear it too.

You may also hear that our school was once a penitentiary. This is not true either. Many of our former students have served time from time to time, but only two have been charged with murder, and one of those was found not guilty by reason of insanity. That’s Mr. Bibcock, our art teacher. He’s not insane anymore, but please don’t bring up his late mother or any of the 460 and counting sculptures he’s carved in her memory. You can see some of them, along with a miniature igloo he made out of her teeth, in our display case by the receptionist’s desk.

As part of your benefits package, you’re entitled to free lunches in our cafeteria. We’re sure you’ll enjoy Mrs. Claussen’s home cooking. Try one of her famous corndogs, but go easy – people have choked. To be fair to Mrs. Claussen, three of those people were unaware that the stick is inedible.

You also receive health benefits. The school nurse, Ms. Jenkins, is available if you’re under the weather or have been assaulted. Please do not ask her to check your prostate, even if it’s under the weather or has been assaulted. If you are a woman, please do not ask her to check whatever your version of the prostate is.

You may notice our drinking water has an amber shade and a varnish-like aroma. Don’t be alarmed. Our former science teacher, the late Mr. Solowitz, determined it was “nutrient-rich” and drank eight glasses of it every day before having to swap out his entire digestive tract. If your immune system is weak, inefficient or just plain lazy, you may want to be on the lookout for any of the following symptoms: Howling Bowels, Shotgun Belching or Chattering Anus, which is similar to but slightly different from Stuttering Sphincter.

You will be issued a key to the substitute teacher bathroom, located in the basement, past the furnace, boiler, and our custodian Mr. Canhaus (please don’t wake him between 10:00 and 2:00). There you will find past issues of Highlights magazine to make your time more pleasant, along with a red marker and tests that need grading.

Because children are sensitive and parents like to complain, we no longer issue numeric scores on tests. Instead, please provide feedback by drawing one of the following figures: a happy face, a really happy face, a stoic face or a really stoic face. Please don’t draw any of these figures: a head filled with rocks, a head made of solid bone, a head with a sleeping elf where the brain should be or a head with no ears (one of our students has no ears).

Because of student allergies, never serve any snacks except for plain rice cakes. If rice cakes are unavailable, plain Styrofoam is acceptable (no cinnamon or apple flavored, please).

You may be asked to assist in gym class. Coach Saunders recently had both hips replaced and the children have figured out how to dislocate them. We advise wearing an athletic supporter and/or reinforced cup, even if you’re a woman. Many of the children have bad aim. And some have very good aim, which is why you should wear the supporter.

Because of sore losers, we don’t keep score of anything. Any child who keeps score during a game should be issued five demerits. If they keep score of their demerits, give them five more.

Outdoor recess is held in the field behind the school, right next to the junkyard. The children are allowed to play with the junk, but anything they take they have to pay for, including hubcaps.

You can pick up your substitute teaching uniform at the garage. Ask for Skeeter. Give him your size but don’t let him take your measurements. Despite what he’ll tell you, he is not “the school tailor.” He is an exterminator.

Your uniform may or may not have an unpleasant odor. If foul smells bother you (think three-quarter digested corn dogs), wash the uniform (especially the pants) in a solution of bleach mixed with more bleach. We also recommend setting your dryer to one click short of combustion. This will help with the ticks.

The bus will pick you up at 8:00 am. If you smell alcohol on our driver’s breath, please take the wheel. If he doesn’t smell of booze, don’t criticize his driving. He has anger control issues (that’s why he drinks).

Lastly, please sign the release of liability form. We like to handle complaints in-house and not spend our time making lawyers rich. If you are a complainer, you can contact your representative, Mr. Canhaus, at any time (except between 10:00 and 2:00).

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we usually have more important things on our mind than mere money. Not today, though, thanks to Todd Dorman.

Our $pinning Globe

By: Todd Dorman

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They say money makes the world go round.

But does it really? I don’t remember much from my school days, but I do remember an old science teacher of mine, Mr. Owens, saying something about gravity and mass. Then again, Mr. Owens always wore the same tie, smelled like fish, and wept in the boys’ room about his mortgage payments. So maybe all that talk about gravity and mass was just wishful thinking on his part.

I wonder about the time of the dinosaurs, before money was invented. Did the world not go around then? Dinosaurs had their own kind of money, I guess — the money of “You better run or I will eat you.” That kind of money could have made the world spin a hell of a lot quicker than our paper kind — especially if a lot of dinosaurs were running in the same direction.

That leads me to the big question of how money connects itself to the earth, gets the traction to spin it, and then lets go fast enough to not get spun around itself, in a huge cyclone of money. Or am I missing the piece where money gives itself to some secret company with a giant Spinner Machine?

Money does seem to like to hide things. Like itself, from me. Sometimes I think the best way to find out how money makes the world go around would be to just get all the money together and ask it. But whenever I put money in the same place it seems to be replaced, eventually, by empty gin bottles, shot-up drone kits, and ‘cease and desist’ notices from the fine folks at sexygungirls.com.

As a result, science suffers.

Maybe what they mean is that money makes the world go around in a more spiritual sense. You could get that idea from a lot of places, like church. When you go to church, they tell you about God, and then they ask you for money. But why? Does God need money to spin the world around, like a service charge? If I were running things down at the church, I would just say, “Forget it, God, we’ll keep the money for ourselves — let the world stop spinning.” What’s the worst that could happen?

I told my minister that idea, expecting she would be happy about all the money she could save the church. But she just looked at me in that certain way she has that’s so money in itself somehow, and said maybe I should worry less about what makes the world go around and more about what kind of job I’d like to get.

I said her job, and she said I could have it, but it turns out she wasn’t serious about that.

After a while it occurred to me that maybe the answers were on the money itself. The next time I got my hands on a dollar bill, I examined it closely. George Washington had nothing to tell me, though he did look a little smug. On the back were the bald eagle and the pyramid. The eagle held a tree branch in one talon, and that made me think: maybe eagles grab the trees and flap their wings so hard that the world turns? But I haven’t seen that happening much. Anyway the eagle had a bunch of arrows in his other talon, so does he somehow fling those the other way in a wild display of centrifugal force? No, he does not. What do crazy flapping eagles have to do with making the world go round? The eagle is a red herring.

Then there was the pyramid with the eye. It’s very mysterious. But the more I studied it, the more it seemed to be saying, Egyptians knew all about this and you don’t, you stupid idiot. Which is why you only have one dollar.

Finally, I thought maybe I should take the minister’s advice and look to myself. Maybe the world is like me, I thought. What makes me spin around? And that brought me back to my empty gin bottles and my poor shot up drones, and the poor slighted folks at sexygungirls.com who try to give a free public service to every poor American who likes to see babes in their underwear shooting at stuff, and to the poor SGG lawyers who want their clients to be able to put out their wares just so, instead of having secondary angles taken from far above with high-powered lenses that sometimes fall out of the drones — and most of all to the poor startled babes who already have enough trouble in life without telephoto lenses falling on their heads while they’re shooting.

Maybe they’re wrong about money making the world go around. Maybe it’s not money — it’s liquor, bullets, and artistic integrity. I remembered that one time I poured all my gin out in the yard and vowed to change my ways and gave my drones to the neighborhood kids to have some fun with. And I thought, “Well, maybe I’ve done my part.”

In the end, I don’t really know if money makes the world go around.

I do know that I want some more money.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where weightier considerations have kept us from making something so devolved as a fat joke. Up until now, that is. There's a first time for everything, as Erik Cofer proves in his first piece for us.

I Will Eat My Way Into Your Memory

By: Erik Cofer

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Sure, I could lose some weight. I could devise an effective workout regimen and commit to it, maybe even establish a little muscle definition. More importantly, I could eat healthy foods in moderation instead of consuming and consuming until I succumb to the overwhelming fear that if I shove anything else down my gullet I won’t reach the toilet before an eruption takes places in my pants. I could do all of these things, but they just seem like futile measures for someone such as myself, someone seeking celebrity. When was the last time a friend stopped you on the street and said, “Hey, look over there. Do you see that slightly out-of-shape but not extraordinarily overweight guy?” Most likely never.

That’s why I can no longer settle for garden-variety fatness. I must eat my way into public consciousness. I will mine the human spirit and discover its core. Then I’ll douse that already sweet, succulent core in a thick layer of Kansas City-style barbecue sauce. It won’t be long before I’m too monstrously corpulent to even walk down the street. Two dozen pygmies will guide me through traffic on a hospital gurney, with a television crew following me the whole way. The head of the crew will be named Alex, and I’ll look up at him and ask, “How am I doing, Alex?” and Alex’ll smile, shoot me a thumbs up, and say, “You’re doing just fine, bud.” Sidewalks will clear as I approach. I will be a VIP, like the President of the United States, except morbidly obese and crested atop a steel-reinforced gurney.

I will be a media sensation. The paparazzi will close in and won’t be able to get enough of me. I mean literally, they’ll be too close to capture my entire torso in a single frame. Subway will hire me for a testimonial ad about what happens when you don’t eat Subway for every meal of your entire life. A reserve basketball player that few have ever heard of will use me as a prop for the NBA Slam Dunk Competition. He’ll finish with a perfect score, and he’ll get laid that night. I won’t, but only because sex will be physically impossible for me by that point.

I’ll feign modesty and annoyance at all the attention, but inside, I’ll be smiling and gleefully battling myriad health problems with varying degrees of severity. “It takes a concerted effort to be this fat,” I’ll tell Maury Povich. “Most days the eating is a chore,” I’ll insist to Katie Couric, with KFC gravy dribbling down my chins and onto the gown I’ve crafted out of a king-sized bed sheet. Letterman will dare me to eat his hand. I’ll reach down and begin to coarsely and vociferously devour it. He’ll raise both hands in the air and start to laugh, revealing the gag to the audience. After I’ve finished ingesting the plastic hand I’ll start laughing too, as if I was in on the joke the whole time.

I will have my own star embedded on Hollywood Boulevard made out of a crystallizing agent that eats away at the other stars. When Kim Jong-un flies me out to his palace and offers me a position as his human shield, I’ll politely decline. “There’s not enough food in your country to feed me,” I’ll say. He’ll reluctantly agree. On my flight back to the States, I’ll inject myself with the liquefied bacon my personal trainer smuggled on board for me, keeping one step ahead of my competition. “I never asked to be a role model,” I’ll tell Oprah via satellite, from my bed. I’ll plug my show, which airs every Tuesday at 9:00 p.m. on TLC.

I won’t make the mistake that’s hindered many of my porcine pupils. I shall not toy with the gods of decorated excess. The path to celebrity fatness is a one-way street, a flight with no return, something like an STD for the sexually deprived. Never will I face the mass derision that accompanies a highly publicized, triumphant case of weight loss. Believe me, I’m just as sickened as you are by the unadulterated smugness of the fat-to-fit crowd. Rest assured that I will content myself with the fame and fortune that my indiscriminate eating habits bless me with, not once allowing myself to forget that it’s about the people, not my own personal health nor general well-being.

Thanks to the staggering support of my fans across the globe, I’ll still be remembered long after I’ve infamously attempted to triple the world record for most cheese Danishes consumed in a 24-hour period, gone into cardiac arrest at cheese Danish #56, and died. The world will recognize my name, my face, the blubberous sub-cranial region where my neck used to be, and the graham cracker crumbs scattered about my bloated stomach in the photo taken for the cover of the New York Post. I will live on through the wildly unoriginal photo caption memes that your children will view on Facebook, 4chan, and reddit, and that your children’s children will view on whatever sites replace those. Your children’s children won’t have children. An asteroid will wipe out the human race before then.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, which we are reasonably sure does not cause cancer. At least not the big, messy, incurable kind. However, reading your horoscope does cause cancer, according to our editor Kurt Luchs.

Your Falling Stars

By: Kurt Luchs

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CANCER (June 21- July 22)
Stop worrying. Just because you are a Cancer doesn’t mean you have cancer. Not necessarily. Heart disease is the number one killer, not cancer. Cancer is only number two. A big number two, but still nowhere near as popular as your workaday heart attack. The chances are that you’ll have a cardiac arrest on your wedding night before your liver ever turns black and swells up like a malignant watermelon. Don’t think about it. You don’t have it. Or do you? God, what if you did and you never knew until it was too late? You have been coughing an awful lot lately. And that sore hasn’t healed yet. Was that tiny lump always there, or…? Oh, don’t be silly. It’s probably benign, whatever it is. Don’t think about it. They say thinking about it makes it happen. So don’t think about it.

LEO (July 23-August 22)
Count your blessings — you never know when one might be missing! But seriously, just be thankful you aren’t prone to cancer, like some signs. At least you have a fighting chance.

VIRGO (August 23-September 22)
Death is something we all have to face sooner or later. To some — the lucky ones — it comes quickly, quietly, even beautifully. Say, in a heart attack. To others it is an insidious lingering illness, a mysterious and unrelenting assailant, a terminal horror. The Greeks had a word for it. They called it cancer. But what the hell did the Greeks know? They drank hemlock for kicks. They liked little boys. Where do they get off talking about your cancer? Wait a minute — you say you’re a Virgo? I thought you were a Cancer! I’m sorry. I was looking at someone else’s chart. You don’t have cancer at all. You’ll live to be 150. Probably die in a train wreck. I didn’t mean to frighten you. My mistake. Won’t happen again.

LIBRA (September 23-October 23)
You will probably get up today. If not, you are already dead. What are you reading this for? Go on, get out of here. You bother me. And take your cancer with you.

SCORPIO (October 24-November 22)
Never say never. No matter how bleak things look, there’s always hope. Every year they spend millions of dollars on research. They kill thousands of innocent laboratory rats trying to save one person like you. Eventually they’ll find a cure. They’ve got to. It simply can’t go on like this, year after year, people dropping like flies, helpless against the enemy within. It’s madness. It’s got to stop, that’s all. Don’t give up. If you were a Cancer, I’d say give up. But you’re not. Hang in there, old buddy.

SAGITTARIUS (November 23- December 21)
You will see something today you have seen before. Copper is the chief mineral export of Chile. Titan is one of the moons of Saturn. Cancer is “a malignant tumor of potentially unlimited growth that expands locally by invasion and systematically by metastasis.” Good luck.

CAPRICORN (December 22-January 19)
You are “any of various hollow-horned ruminant mammals (esp. of the genus Capra) related to the sheep but of lighter build and with backwardly arching horns, a short tail, and usually straight hair.” It could be worse, right? You could have cancer. Maybe you do. Just kidding!

AQUARIUS (January 20-February 19)
Oh God, help me. Please. The doctors say it won’t be long now. All they can do is ease some of the pain. Why me, God? Why me? I raised two beautiful kids and slaved to buy a house for this? What did I do wrong? Sure, I used to smoke two packs a day. Now I can’t even lift one little cigar to my lips. People would ask me nicely to stop and I’d just blow smoke rings in their faces. “Everything causes cancer these days,” I told them. “When your time is up, you’re gonna go.” I was joking, Lord. You know that. I didn’t know it would be like this. Not so soon. Help me. Please.

PISCES (February 20-March 20)
You’re being hysterical. The actual release of radiation at Fukushima was minimal. The public was never in real danger at any time. This world needs nuclear power. There are risks involved in everything. You are more likely to develop cancer by standing in the sun than you are by standing next to a nuclear power plant. Next question.

ARIES (March 21-April 19)
What would you rather have — a few pesticide residues, or billions of bugs all over everything? There’s no proof any of that stuff causes cancer. Anyway, you’re only talking about a couple of migrant farm workers and a few California Condors already on the way out.

TAURUS (April 20-May 20)
“We are all under sentence of death.” Kafka said that. And look at him today. If he were alive, he’d probably have cancer.

GEMINI (May 21-June 20)
It is later than you think.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where you can pay your debt to society and all your other debts with this amazing new online cash transfer system, courtesy of our good friends Molly Schoemann and Matthew David Brozik.

PayPaul

By: Molly Schoemann

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Hey, man. Did you eat five slices of pizza the other night but chip in only a couple of bucks because that’s all you had on you? Did you borrow my new Xbox game and then leave it on your car dashboard where the sun melted it? Did you drink all my vodka at the party last weekend and figure I wouldn’t notice? Well, I did. Fear not, though, moocher friends — there’s now an easy way to settle your debts with your old buddy Paul — through a new online payment system I’ve set up called PayPaul.

Pretty sweet, right? Now, with just the click of a mouse, you can get me back for a few of those late-night Taco Bell runs I took you on when you were too drunk to drive yourself home after a late gig. You can toss in a ten-spot — or more; no reason it can’t be more — to help pay for that lap dance you insisted on buying your little brother at that strip club that wouldn’t accept checks. With PayPaul, you can put cold hard cash in my pocket as effortlessly as you lifted a joint out of it the other night when you “borrowed my jacket for a minute.”

And it’s super-easy to set up a PayPaul account: All you need to sign up is your name — even a nickname is fine, T-Bomb — and any major credit card, and you’re well on your way towards compensating me for the hour-long cab ride we had to take home from that party in Jersey where you thought MetroNorth stopped but it didn’t (and where your friend had said we could crash for the night but then we couldn’t).

There are no fees to use PayPaul, and you can even earn 1% cash back when you reimburse me for your half of the electric bill from August since you ran the A/C full blast that whole month and our bill was like double.

But Paul, you might be thinking, what about those less tangible goods and services I may have swiped from you over the years, items that might have little or no monetary value, but which are nevertheless irreplaceable, such as the lucky sweater you were wearing when Josh Homme pulled you up on stage during an Eagles of Death Metal concert, which I later borrowed and then left in a cab? Or the affections of your ex-girlfriend, Vanessa, who broke up with you right after I did acid with her at that bonfire last year?

Why, I’m glad you asked! Those scenarios are the reason for PayPaul’s convenient auto-debit feature, which allows you to make installment payments on a monthly basis — as little as $10 a month! — until either I deem that your debt has been sufficiently repaid or you can convince Vanessa to give me another chance, you dirtbag. Or, you might throw in a date with your mom, or maybe a joyride in your cousin’s Corvette; something like that could significantly reduce your balance right off the bat. Never let it be said that your old friend Paul isn’t willing to negotiate.

As an added benefit, loyal PayPaul customers will enjoy elite GoldFriend status. GoldFriend club members are eligible for additional special offers, including front-row seats at all my band’s shows, free pet-sitting (no spiders or snakes), unlimited access to my Xbox Kinect, and the occasional weekend trip to my parents’ timeshare in East Islip, as long as you bring your own beer, don’t smoke anything inside, and are cool with crashing on the floor.

I’m sure you’ll also be pleased to learn that payments through PayPaul are tax-free in every state but Delaware and Hawaii. And I don’t even have any friends in either of those states, so no problem. (Wait, where does Alex live now? Yeah, I thought so. No, we don’t talk anymore. But if you see him, do me a favor and give him the link to PayPaul. Here, I wrote it down on this napkin.)

Finally, if making regular monthly payments via PayPaul seems daunting, especially for those of you who are still on your parents’ cell phone plan, just remember: The sooner you stop eating my leftover takeout, jumping on my bar tab, and swiping (and then scratching) my Dark Knight Collector’s Edition DVD with the director’s commentary, the sooner your obligation to make PayPaul payments will end!

PayPaul: No, You Got This One™

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we often believe that the French are -- how do you say? -- full of it. Alena Dillon seems to agree. Please eat a Freedom Fry in her honor. Also, look for her collection this fall, I Thought We Agreed To Pee In The Ocean, from Martlet & Mare Books. And check out her web site at the link below or in our Blogroll at the right-hand side of this page.

Le Tour Defraud

By: Alena Dillon

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Bonjour, et bienvenue. For those hailing from outside the civilized world: learn French, you unnecessarily hygienic ignoramuses.

Before we commence today’s tour through the creations of one of France’s most treasured sons — and unopposed holder of Wikipedia’s “Bearded Beret” title — we wish to pretend to regret to inform you that half of the Rodin Museum is closed for renovation, but we are pleased to announce that you will still be visiting the partial museum at full price.

Although the great masterpieces are not available for viewing, please take comfort in learning they remain somewhere on the premises, so you can go home and tell your family and friends that, in a way, you were in the presence of genius.

We acknowledge that you paid full admission price under the pretense that you would admire his famous works. This is not a surprise to us, as we are strategically making this renovation statement after your nonrefundable transaction. It may help to remember that art is priceless. Except, of course, for the mandatory fee at which we’ve valued it.

Allow me to offer some further advice — don’t dwell on our faux pas. It would be a waste of your precious time. You are in Paris, for God’s sake! Home of the Eiffel Tower, the crusty baguette and the sophisticated pout. There are plenty of other attractions out there just waiting for their chance to dupe you.

To buoy your disappointment, we here at Chateau Rodin have made a Continental effort to fill the gaps created by missing gems with some extra crap we found on the museum grounds.

On your right is the first objet d’art, for which we use the words objet and art rather loosely. It may appear to be only a scrap of plaster, but curators have been paid to believe that this is a scrap of plaster the artist might have touched. Word to the wise, and to the Canadians: there isn’t much to see in this museum, so to get your money’s worth we recommend lingering as much as you can stand. Don’t just glance at the junk. Like a fine Bordeaux, give its insignificance time to mature. Look closer. See the corner? Inside that crevice? Some say if the lighting is just right and you’ve had enough to drink, you can see the Virgin Mary’s face there. On the other hand, some say you can’t.

You may be familiar with Rodin’s statue The Age of Bronze, a life-size nude male cast in 1876. In lieu of displaying this particular piece, we have a doorknob. We chose this item to represent the statue because many doorknobs are also made of bronze. This one, however, is not. It is of glass. It sounded like a good idea five minutes ago, when I tossed it on that rattletrap of a TV table, but the stand-in seems silly now. I would be embarrassed, except I am French and unfamiliar with that particular sentiment.

This is a tissue used by Rodin — not the artist, the museum security guard we nicknamed Rodin (or “Rody” for short), coined for the Thinker pose he assumes on the toilet without ever locking the bathroom stall. It may interest you to know that some of my more vulgar colleagues call this pose “The Stinker.”

And now for the pièce de résistance: an exit sign. Rodin met the original sculptor (became cadaverous, went to his narrow bed, fell to room temperature, bought a pine condo) sometime in the early 1900s, before the rise of exit signs (although don’t quote me on that — I don’t claim to be an expert.) Because Rodin was around before exit signs became so popular, it can be argued that the whole concept of exit signs can be attributed to the innovations of his lifetime. It would be an argument based on zero evidence, but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t be argued. Don’t think on it too hard. It’s art — just let it do what it’s supposed to do. Inspire.