* Welcome to The Big Jewel, your favorite purveyor of disposable pop culture. This week's piece by Molly Schoemann and Matthew David Brozik brings a synthetic tear to our eye. Almost as if it was intended to.

Now, That’s What I Call Maudlin!

By: Molly Schoemann

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The manipulative geniuses behind Now, That’s What I Call Maudlin! are back with the release of the long-awaited sequel, Now, That’s What I Call Maudlin…TOO! That’s right: The second installment of the critically-acclaimed/lamented compilation that won — and broke — the hearts of thousands is here… with even more Maudlin Moments.™ Packed with such instant classics as “Old Maid Gingerly Caresses Hem of Brittle, Unworn Wedding Dress in Dusty Attic,” and “Sobbing Teen Stood Up on Prom Night, Again — Date Had Promised It Would Be Different This Time,” Now, That’s What I Call Maudlin…TOO! is guaranteed to jerk the tears right out of your eyes!

There’s no question that fans will find that Now, That’s What I Call Maudlin…TOO! is packed with more sappy melodrama than even the first volume…but wait! There’s more! Are you ready?! We’ve also included extended versions of Volume 1 hits, including “Destitute Mother Leaves Infant on Orphanage Doorstep/Note Not Properly Pinned Blows Away in Sudden Wind” and “Hardworking But Incompetent Vaudevillian Is Laughed Off Stage During What Was Supposed to Be His Big Break.”

Can’t seem to get your fill of shabby yet genteel hobos in punched-out top hats heating cans of beans over sidewalk steam grates? Desperate for more scenes of crying second graders who forgot their permission slips and must stay behind during a highly-anticipated class trip to a button factory? Then grab your credit card and call this toll-free number now to order your copy of Now, That’s What I Call Maudlin…TOO! It’s chock-full of just the kind of schmaltz you’ve come to expect from your favorite professional purveyors of overwrought sentimentality.

Not only that, but this compilation features a bonus, behind-the-scenes look at the making of the beloved Volume 1 hit, “Six Year Old Bluntly Discouraged From Pursuing Artistic Career Because He Can’t Draw a Proper Bunny (They Always Come Out Looking Like Lopsided Cars).” And for nature lovers, we’ve also included a second installment of everyone’s favorite miserable microcosm, “Earthworm Perishes on Sunny Sidewalk/Mere Inches Away From Lifesaving Shady Grass.”

Plus! Order in the next fifteen minutes and we’ll send you a tote-bag screen-printed with the passenger manifest from the maiden — and only! — voyage of none other than the RMS Titanic! Pore over the names of the doomed men, women, and children — oh! the children! — who were on board that fateful vessel on that fateful night, and wonder which of them perished in the dark, frigid waters of the North Atlantic! Trust us, it was a lot of them! How awful! Order now!

But that’s still not all! Bonus Volume 2 scenes include mawkish favorites like “Profoundly Lonely Nursing Home Resident Stares Out Rain-Streaked Window at Single, Barren Tree” and “Child Spends All Day Building Helicopter Model — With Real Motorized Propellers! — That Doesn’t Work.” And diehard fans will be rewarded with a secret, hidden track: “Box of Free Kittens in an Alley (But They’re All Dead).” Don’t wait — call in the next fifteen minutes! After all, your heartstrings aren’t going to tug themselves!

 

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel! We'd like to take this opportunity to emphasize that we do not necessarily recommend replacing basketballs with live ducks, although we do recommend you read this disturbingly entertaining piece by Shawn Bowers.

A Modest Proposal To Replace Basketballs With Live Ducks

By: Shawn Bowers

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If men played basketball with a live duck as the basketball, a lot of things would be different about basketball.

First, it would be called “duck,” or “basketduck.”

Next, and this is a big one, a lot of ducks would be killed through the sheer force of throwing them headfirst into a hardwood floor again and again. Ducks don’t bounce, but dribbling will still be allowed, which will surely cause a lot of dizzy waddling and severe head injuries. This adds at least two jobs to every team, that of the Basketduck Wrangler to help guide the wigglies, and the Basketduck Janitor, to clear the injured. Neither of these participants would be considered part of the team, but would serve in the same capacity as a water boy or clipboard holder.

If the duck is still alive or awake after a couple of dribbles, it then becomes the goal of every player to chase the duck until they catch it. It will not be considered traveling if the duck is just running away.

Strategically, a good basketduck player would wait until the duck wobbled into the scoring circle, and then just pick it up and throw it at the hoop. Traditional shooting technique would prove useless, as the direction of the shot would now be dictated by the free will of the duck. Duck psychology, eating preferences and mating habits will be required research, as amazing three point shots become more feasible if you can bait the hoop with the right kinds of bread or a finely-preened lady duck. To that end, hoop baiting will be allowed.

If the duck spooks while it’s still of right mind, it could even fly up into the rafters, at which point the Basketduck Wrangler will be sent to scare it back down and dose it with a mild barbiturate to prevent fly-ups. Glass duck ceilings could be considered, but confused ducks may fly into them and incur the same head trauma they would receive during normal play.

If you’ve been successful in attracting your “ball” to the hoop, you will then have to coerce him through the actual net. This could be especially difficult because ducks, particularly fat ducks, are generally wider than a standard hoop and might not fit. Hoops will not be widened. If you get as far as having a duck wedged within a hoop, this will be considered a score and a stop of play will be called while the Basketduck Janitor either unsticks the trapped duck or replaces the hoop entirely. Hoop budgets will skyrocket.

Of course, there will be quacking. Ducks don’t like men running around trying to carry them from one end of a room to another, or dunking them into things, and they will get upset. The duck may in fact become incorrigible. Rowdy ducks will be removed from play until they can get it together, and there will be a special soundproof box courtside to accommodate these penalties.

If a duck runs out of air, pumps will not help. Assuming ducks are able to get out of breath like other living things, the referee would have to make a hand gesture near his face like a heaving beak to indicate a stop in play for the “ball” to recover. During any stoppage in play, the Jumbotron will play tribute videos to the ducks that have already been lost during that game due to head traumas or runaways. To note, this wouldn’t be depressing because of how inspiring it would be instead, and people will definitely clap and not boo loudly.

Obviously, PETA might be really out to get basketball once the number of dead ducks starts to rise, which could put a damper on the sport and cause a lot of players, especially vegetarians or those who own ducks as pets, to quit. The modified game of basketduck doesn’t require nearly as much athleticism as basketball proper, so these players could be easily be replaced by shorter, fatter people who are better at duck calling. This would also look funnier when they are mixed in with all the stronger, taller players, and comedy is widely regarded as a great addition to sporting events. The Basketduck Wrangler should be both tall and fat, to intimidate the ducks and make them want to stop of their own volition. The Basketduck Janitor can be any size.

Finally, and most importantly, despite all the potential pitfalls of these drastic modifications, the upside is that basketball would now be absolutely adorable and impossible to hate. Non-sports lovers will turn up in droves to see the colorful cast of ducks. Diehard fans will still appreciate the majesty of men constantly dashing back and forth with the added masculine complications of tending to barnyard animals. And even babies, a notoriously difficult market for professional sports, would want to “go to the place with all the quackies.”

For more information on licensing, or to purchase raw materials, please visit my store, Dave’s Surplus Duck Farm and Basketball Hoop Factory.

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where no matter what happens we still believe in love. Kind of. Maybe. Anyway, we believe as much as Bruce Harris believes.

Steve Asks Sheila For A Date

By: Bruce Harris

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Steve’s relief after hearing Sheila’s voice on the answering machine is short-lived. He squeezes the cell phone a little tighter, takes a deep breath, and readies himself for the sound of the beep.

“Um, yeah hi, Sheila? Hi, this is Steve. Steve the guy you met yesterday at the coffee shop downtown. Yeah, shoot. Now I remember you said you were working tonight. Wow. I hope it’s a slow night for you. Get it? Well, I’ve never known a 9-1-1 operator and anyway I was wondering if you and I could go out one night? I hope you don’t mind me saying that you are really hot, especially for a 9-1-1 operator. No offense. I mean, I really don’t know any other 9-1-1 operators, but you know in my mind I don’t think of them as being too hot or anything like that. I’ve never even spoken to a 9-1-1 operator. Oh yeah, I did once but it was like a total accident. I butt dialed 9-1-1 on my cell phone, and I guess that freaked the guy out — it was a guy 9-1-1 operator. I never said “hello” or anything so he really must have thought I was in some kind of really bad danger or something because after a few minutes, my phone rang and I picked it up and guess what? Yup, it was the 9-1-1 operator tracing back my call and he said that he saw I was on the corner of Maple and Main and he asked me if everything was okay. Wow. I mean, that was pretty creepy, but in a really good way if you know what I mean. Have you ever called any of your customers back like that? I guess you can call them customers, right? Oh, here’s a question: when you are filling out an application for like a credit card or something asking for your work number, do you write 9-1-1? Or is there some other secret regular ten-digit phone number there that no one really knows? Sorry. Where was I? Oh yeah, I was thinking that maybe you and I could go out sometime, maybe next Saturday if you aren’t busy or if you aren’t working? Hello? What was that? Sorry Sheila, can you hold for a second? I think I heard someone downstairs.

Hello? Is anyone there?

Oh my gosh, Sheila, I think someone just broke into my house. I’m serious. I’m upstairs and I definitely hear someone making noises downstairs. There has been a rash of burglaries in my neighborhood and it’s been kind of freaking me out. Oh my gosh, I’m so scared.

Hello? I have a gun up here. Don’t try anything. I’m not afraid to use this thing.

Okay, Sheila, I’m sorry, I really have to go, like now, and hang up and call you at work. Sorry, but this is really an emergency.

Hello? Don’t come any closer. I’m calling 9-1-1 and the police are going to be here any second and when they get here they are going to find you dead because I have a gun and it is aimed right at the door.

Oh my gosh, I hear the guy on the steps. I guess it’s a guy. I don’t know why I’m assuming it’s a guy. It could be a female, right? Why not? He or she is getting closer. I don’t really have a gun. What am I going to do?

Who’s there? Don’t take another step. Stop where you are and turn around and leave. If you don’t, I’ll start shooting at the count of five. I don’t care what sex you are.

Okay, listen Sheila, I’m going to hang up now and call you at 9-1-1. Okay? I hope I get you. If I survive this, just let me know about Saturday night when you have a chance. If you aren’t interested, I mean I totally understand and that’s cool and everything. Hey, if you just want to hang out and be friends I mean that’s okay with me too. Talk to you, I hope, shortly.

I have a gun. I’m counting.”

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. Or in some cases playas. If you can't tell which is which, ask Barton Aronson.

Announcements For Tonight’s Performance

By: Barton Aronson

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Tonight’s performance will begin in a few moments.

In case of an emergency, there are three emergency exits in this theater: the two doors on either side of Row T marked “NO EXIT” and the swinging doors separating the saloon from the barbershop in Act I.

Understudies never substitute for listed players unless a specific announcement is made at the time of the performance. Tonight, the role of the Villain in the Black Hat will be played by its understudy, Benjamin Stone. The role of the Black Hat will be played by its understudy, the White Dinner Jacket.

Please silence your cell phones.

Patrons arriving late will be seated during the general confusion sown by the disappearance of the brothel owner’s parakeet during Act I, Scene 3.

In Act II, the role of manly humility will be played by bitchy self-regard.

In tonight’s audience, the role of Dr. Robert Farnsworth’s elegant wife, ordinarily seated next to him in Row M, Seat 114, is apparently being played by a mysterious young tramp in an inappropriately revealing dress.

In Act III, Scene 2, the role of the deadly exchange of gunfire will be played by a catty exchange of insults.

In tonight’s audience, the role of The Idiot Who Thinks the Cell Phone Announcement Doesn’t Apply to Him is played by the guy in Row B, Seat 5, wearing the ill-advised light wash jeans.

In Act III, Scene 3, the strong, silent type will be played by the endlessly prattling foppish twit.

In tonight’s audience, the role of Dr. Robert Farnsworth, ordinarily seated in Row M, Seat 113, is apparently being played by Dr. Farnsworth’s twin brother, the Right Reverend Barry Farnsworth. The role of the Mysterious Young Tramp in the Inappropriately Revealing Dress in Row M, Seat 114 is being played by Rev. Farnsworth’s lovely daughter Tory. Management regrets the error.

In Act III, Scene 4, the naïve optimism of youth will be played by the bitter wisdom of age.

In Act IV, the vast, empty expanse of the frontier will be played by the soot-choked byways of the industrial metropolis. Patrons suffering from bronchial conditions are cautioned not to sit in the first six rows.

No coughing is permitted during tonight’s performance. Those who require lozenges are requested to unwrap them now. Those who dislike the sticky feeling left by holding unwrapped lozenges are requested to pull their Redi Wipes out of the crinkly plastic package now. Those who dislike the greasy residue left by holding Redi Wipes may wipe their fingers on their crushed velvet seats and dispose of the wipes by chewing them silently before swallowing.

In tonight’s performance, the role of the veteran Broadway producer draped suavely over seats 1A and 1B will be played by the theater novice from Wall Street pacing anxiously in the lobby.

Throughout tonight’s performance, the role of brand-named snack goods available at the first floor concession will be played by no-name generic candies made by a company recently acquired in a private equity deal by the theater’s owners. Management regrets the transaction.

At the conclusion of tonight’s performance, the role of the bang will be played by a whimper.

We hope you enjoy the show.

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are always ready to engage in controversy. Here Devin Schiff looks at the difficult issue of guillotine control. Should we allow more concealed-carry guillotine laws? If we outlaw guillotines, will only outlaws have guillotines? Mr. Schiff has the answers.

You Can’t Take Away Our Guillotines

By: Devin Schiff

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Only yesterday, my son asked me, “Why do they want to take our guillotines away?”

We sat at the dinner table, just me and my son, eating sauerkraut and yolks. He was crying while he ate. I took a sip of milk but it fell out of my mouth because I was sighing. I never thought that in this country, where I was born and raised, where my dad first showed me how to use a guillotine, where my high school yearbook photo is of me posing with my guillotines, that they would ever try to take our guillotines away from us.

I told my son that guillotine control punishes everyone for the not so great choices of a few, who have used their guillotines for evil and not for good. But people don’t understand that most guillotine owners are like me: harmless purebred folks who just want to feel safe at the Red Lobster factory outlet. They want to take ALL of our guillotines away. Then they’ll probably take them to a plant where they’ll recycle them and make them into gay benches. They don’t understand that ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-ninety-nine-nine percent of guillotine owners only use their guillotines for self defense. We keep the pieces separated and packed away in locked cabinets that are buried in the yard. The keys we keep in the dog. So when illegal men, armed to the teeth with guillotines, attack us I can defend myself. By cutting their heads off with my guillotine.

They won’t be able to take them away anyway. I’ve built a Rube Goldbergian contraption of overwhelming cleverness. When a force is applied to the door, the kicked-in or knocked-on door tugs on a rope overhead, which tips a hanging bucket, dropping a marble into a chute that travels around a bend before it taps the ‘play’ button on our tape recorder, which plays a recording of old mom’s voice saying ‘come in!’ all sweet like. The marble also hits another marble, which drops into a small metal box, depressing a lighter that lights a nearby wick. As the candle burns down, the hot wax drips onto a simple piece of blue string, which, when burned through, snaps, releasing a switch attached to a hammer, which hits the lever attached to a guillotine, which is above the door. Then the guillotine takes the swift plunge of freedom, severing the head of the intruder, who is sticking his neck out into a way of life where it doesn’t belong. Then I pick up his head and put it on a pike in the yard where the mailbox used to be.

Removing the mailbox is important because if they can’t send us mail, they can’t find us and take away my new guillotine, “Chops,” a ten-blade, six-speed dome-slayer with sonar and it takes pictures during the moment of descent just like they do on roller coasters, and which I only acquired because it will save our lives someday, son. That’s why the mailbox is also buried in the yard.

Liberals say that a responsible guillotine owner is an oxymoron. To that I say, “Look at me. Come see how I live. Bring your cameras. Make a reality show of me. I want to be on television.”

“Will they take away my baseball bat or old mom’s car?” asked my son, his little porkchop face interrupting my reveries. “You can kill people with those things.”

“They won’t,” I said, “because those things aren’t ‘killing machines,’ which is a word that the liberal mean-dia invented to hate on things that they say have no other use besides making people permanently dead. To that I say, ‘Puh-scuse me? This guillotine can cut an acorn squash.'”

“Couldn’t the laws be changed so that no one can own a guillotine?” asked my son.

“No,” I said. “How would we defend ourselves during the next massacre? Unless all people, especially kindergartners like yourself, get outfitted ASAP with a cornucopia of sharp, shiny guillotines, we’re all going to die in a large pile. But they won’t listen. They’re going to take away the second amendment.”

“The right to vote?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “The right to bear arms. Haven’t you been listening? We can’t vote anyway, we don’t have a mailbox. The right to bear arms — a right that our forefathers gave us.”

“You mean metaphorically?”

“No, I mean literally. This guillotine belonged to Andrew Jackson, who used it to defend himself against tons of bad Indians who attacked him in his home or in what he wanted to be his home.”

My son smiled wearily and fell asleep. But don’t you worry son, I know just what to do. When you wake up, you’ll find that I’ve buried both of us up to our necks in the yard. We’re going underground, where our guillotine rights cannot be violated. Best of all, we’ll be really close to our guillotines. We’ll be safe and happy and free.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, a safe place to board your dog. Which is more than we can say for the International House of Ruff and R.T. Sehgal, proprietor.

The Proprietors Of The International House Of Ruff Would Like To Set The Record Straight

By: R.T. Sehgal

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Dear Sir,

We were disappointed to see your recent one-star Google review of our pet boarding center. As our goal is to be the finest animal housing facility in the 1700 block of Broadway Blvd, we strive for 100% customer satisfaction. Please let us address some of the concerns raised in your review.

Concern #1: “My dog no longer understands anything I say.”

Response: As you no doubt remember from our 36-page introductory brochure, each dog spending a week or more here is given the opportunity to spend a portion of their boarding experience abroad as part of our language immersion program. It sounds like the problem is that, while your dog has grown in varied and profound ways, you remain stuck in a past that no longer exists. While your dog wants to discuss the brush techniques and use of effets de soir by the Impressionists, you want him to fetch a bouncy ball. While your dog wants to debate the effects of the current debt crisis on the long-term viability of the euro, you want him to “sit.” Here’s an idea — instead of “sit,” try one of these: “sjedi” (Croatian), “istu” (Finnish) or “said” (Polish). An even better idea: ask your dog about his cultural experience. It will draw the two of you closer.

Concern #2: “House of Ruff cost about $5 a day more than other facilities in the area.”

Response: You do realize we flew your dog to Europe so he could learn Polish, right?

Concern #3: “I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’m pretty sure my dog now has a Republican agenda.”

Response: What do you mean “now” has a Republican agenda? Almost every dog is right-leaning. Family values, strong national defense, personal responsibility — these are core beliefs for the vast majority of canines. It is a complete coincidence that the man who comes by every afternoon to give tummy rubs and spoonfuls of peanut butter bears a strong resemblance to Newt Gingrich and that the man doling out disciplinary snout slaps looks a little like Barack Obama. Our policy is not to support any particular politician or party, although we do encourage active debate among our boarders by providing complementary copies of National Review and the Wall Street Journal.

Concern #4: “I think my dog may have a cocaine addiction.”

Response: This is one of the more common complaints that we hear. First off, let’s not overreact by throwing around the word “addiction.” Many dogs use recreational drugs on an occasional basis without developing physical or psychological dependence.

Since a dog boarding facility is a lot like a college dormitory, all of our dogs are required to watch a PowerPoint presentation originally created for freshmen orientation at Arizona State. It covers topics from binge drinking to sexual harassment, and includes a slide about illegal drug use. So, yes, we do take this issue very seriously.

Now, we do admit that it is pretty easy to get illegal substances here. We suspect this is due to our proximity to and affiliation with Camp Second Chances, one of the nation’s premier rehabilitation programs for household pets. Each Saturday night, we host a mixer for animals staying at the two facilities. The upside to this relationship is the strong positive impact our dogs have on the Second Chance animals. The downside, of course, is that a select few of our boarders may develop a taste for cocaine/ecstasy/salvia or be recruited into one of the local gangs, like the Eastside Kennel Krips, the WestMinster Mafia, or the Kanine Kings.

That being said, shouldn’t illegal drug abuse reflect more on the dog’s parent (i.e. you) than a temporary boarding facility? Let’s say you left your dog with us for a week — that’s like two months in dog years. If you abandoned your son for two months, would you be surprised if he fell in with the wrong crowd? Especially if you abandoned him right next to a camp for drug addicts? Sorry, but this one is on you, chief.

Hopefully this clears up any lingering concerns you have. We hope that you’ll consider the International House of Ruff for your future boarding needs. We have attached a 5%-off coupon, which is transferable to Camp Second Chances in case your dog makes the decision to get off the powder.

Best Wishes,

International House of Ruff

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we hate pests of all kinds, but especially pretentious pests. You know, like fancy cockroaches. Never heard of them? Pull up a rhetorical chair and listen to Meg Favreau.

City Health Advisory: Fancy Cockroaches

By: Meg Favreau

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Several neighborhoods have seen a recent increase in FANCY ROACHES. These pests have many distinct features:

  • Little top hats
  • Tiny spats
  • Fine jewelry on the mesothorax, or in the case of the nouveau roache, all thoraxes
  • Names such as “von Roach” and “Roachafeller”
  • An inability to understand the concept of a “public pool”

If you are not sure if your roaches are fancy roaches, perform this test — when you turn your lights on, do the roaches quickly scuttle into dark corners? Or do they saunter with a sense of purpose back under your fridge, where they have hung tiny works of art and sit on uncomfortable-looking white furniture?

Typically, an infestation of fancy roaches begins when one of their favorite food sources is left out. These include:

  • Charcuterie
  • Any food that can be described as “peasant”
  • Bold, ready-to-drink red wines
  • Savory sorbets, lemon-sage mousse and other mid-meal palate cleansers
  • Other organic matter, including fine imported tobacco, copies of Architectural Digest and topiaries.

REMOVING FANCY ROACHES

It can be very difficult to remove fancy roaches due to their sense of entitlement. Begin by eliminating their common gathering spaces:

  • Granite counter tops
  • Decanters
  • Chaise lounges
  • Bathrooms with two-person showers
  • Wide-brimmed derby hats

The next step is to administer a fancy-roach pesticide. We’ve found that fancy roaches are most repulsed by the sprays available for under $10 at the Walgreen’s perfume counter, including Love’s Baby Soft, Fantasy by Britney Spears and a cK Obsession knock-off called “kC Strong Thoughts.”

While you should never leave out anything labeled “organic,” “imported,” “artisan crafted” or “sushi grade” around fancy roaches, there are some natural products that deter them, such as corn. When ground up and infused with herbs and spices — as in a Cool Ranch Dorito, Flamin’ Hot Cheeto or Sour Cream and Onion Bugle — corn creates a “for-the-masses” snack product that fancy roaches find unpalatable. However, do check a recent issue of Bug Appetit to ensure that your corn product is not enjoying a tongue-in-cheek renaissance. If it is, not only will your fancy roaches eat the snack food, but they will do so with an insufferable sense of amusement gained from “slumming it.”

LESS EFFECTIVE METHODS

Some have reported success with sending tiny limos to remove the roaches, but we do not recommend this — not only do you have to rent a tiny limo for every roach, but you also need to tip off the invertebrate paparazzi and deal with at least two hours of small cars driving in and out of your living space. Plus, some roaches will shun this spectacle, preferring not to advertise their wealth. (Although these more reclusive roaches can sometimes be coaxed out with an invitation to a charity event such as the Scuttle for the Cure, which raises money to research being squashed by shoes.)

IF ALL ELSE FAILS

If you have tried everything else and can still hear classical music and erudite hissing coming from your baseboards, the best thing you can do is move another roach species into your home. You can try one-car-family roaches, staycation roaches, or declining American manufacturing roaches, but immigrating roaches from Africa, Mexico or a Slavic country are especially effective. The fancy roaches will vacate immediately, noting that it had nothing to do with the new tenants; they just thought it was time to look for beachfront property.

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we believe that no life-or-death situation is so dire that resorting to cannibalism cannot help. Apparently John Merriman agrees.

A Candy Store Owner Addresses A Lifeboat

By: John Merriman

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Folks, we’ve been stranded on this lifeboat with no food and little water for a good week now, and it’s come to my attention that some of you doubt my qualifications as self-appointed leader. Okay, all of you do. Well, let me just say that considering I own and manage a store that sells candy, I refuse to accept your vote of no confidence.

You see, the candy business is extremely cutthroat. It’s a take-no-prisoners, eat-or-be-eaten industry that hardens you into a sturdy block of street-smart chocolate, so to speak, and fully prepares you for any situation, no matter how delicious.

Excuse me, I meant to say vicious. As vicious as the hungry school of sharks I capably led us away from yesterday, even though we had to sacrifice Susan’s left arm, right leg, and most of her head to do so. I still maintain she was basically dead, despite her protests to the contrary. But rest assured, your well-being has been and will be my first priority, second only to eating you.

What? No, I said “greeting” you! As in getting to know you! Yes, I know that doesn’t make much sense, but we’re stranded in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. People in this situation will start saying crazy things.

In fact, Robert said something pretty nonsensical yesterday. When he suddenly turned into a giant purple M&M, I realized I was hallucinating because they don’t make M&Ms in that color. But I’m sure that giant, correctly colored M&Ms do exist, because that would be so amazingly good to eat right now. Robert disagrees with me, but I think he’s been drinking too much seawater. Come on, Robert! Get real.

Anyway, back to my leadership ability. I once had to decide whether to primarily restock my store with bunny Peeps or just regular Peeps, and in so doing — okay, Robert, before I continue, I have to ask, are you sure you’re not a giant M&M? Because I’m looking at your thin candy shell right now and — fine, fine, forget it! As much as I love M&Ms, they’re not my favorite candy anyway. That would be Snickers, a giant bar of which has suddenly appeared and replaced Liz.

Oh, that is you, Liz. I apologize. Yes, you’re right — how could you be a giant talking Snickers bar? I don’t remember any on the cruise ship, so I don’t see how one could have gotten on this lifeboat. See, I can reason! Despite the severe malnutrition ravaging my body, my cognitive functions are still working perfectly. Let me at least press hard onto your scrumptious milk chocolate surface. If no gooey caramel comes out, then I’ll know you’re telling the truth.

Paul, since when did your arms become giant Twizzlers? Please, stop tempting me by wrapping them around my hands! I won’t hurt Liz, I promise. But I will lick your juicy Twizzler-arms. And Mike, if you could stop trying to pin me down and punch me in the face, that’d be great. I guarantee you’ll be the world’s worst-tasting Milk Dud if you have my blood all over you.

All right, look — think whatever you want about my ability to lead. But can I help it if you’ve all turned into enormous pieces of mouthwatering candy? And also that we’re stranded in a vast ocean of high fructose corn syrup? Don’t you see? Everything is candy now. The whole world has become my store to run, beginning with this lifeboat! And you sweets will now do what I say! Michelle, I command you to get rid of that silly plastic wrapping and expose your Jolly Rancher body for me to suck on indefinitely! Do it or I’ll use this signal mirror to redirect the sun’s rays and melt all of you! Do you hear me?! MELT YOU ALL!!!

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we agree with Robert Benchley when he said, "There are two kinds of people in the world: those who divide the world into two kinds of people, and those who don't." Obviously Jon Millstein falls into the former category.

Please Allow Me To Enumerate The Types Of People

By: Jon Millstein

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Meet my new puppy, Charlie. He’s a border collie. Do you like him? Oh, well. It’s like I always say. There are two types of people in this world: people who like dogs, and people who don’t. Looks like you fall into the latter camp.

Although now that you mention it, there is another type of person. Some people are more or less indifferent towards dogs. If a dog is around, they’ll pet it, but they don’t seek dogs out. So if we’re going to be rigorous about this, we had better recognize three types of people: people who like dogs, people who don’t, and people who could take dogs or leave ’em. It’s like I always say. Three types.

But let’s be honest with ourselves: what about competitive water skiers? This might seem like something of a departure from the types we’ve already discussed. Just bear with me. Picture a competitive water skier standing alongside a dog lover who’s never once strapped on water skis. Are they the same type of person? Of course not! One spends his days ripping turns across the wake, while the other would prefer to toss around the Frisbee with a pup like Charlie. So now we’re up to four types. And can I tell you something? I’m not even halfway done listing types.

After competitive water skiers, there’s the type of person that attended a private coeducational middle school. That’s type five. Type six describes the students currently enrolled at such a school. Seven through nine? Sedan drivers — of Civics, Passats and Priuses, respectively — and the tenth type of person makes a living leasing sedans to the three preceding types. I didn’t want to overwhelm you with all this earlier. But it’s like the saying goes: there are types of people in this world — lots of ’em.

If we’re going to tackle each one individually, I better pick up the pace.

Type 11: big ears. Type 12: easily spooked. Type 13: holds a graduate degree in Media Studies. Type 14: radiator salesman. Type 15: can’t pronounce the Spanish R. Type 16: subscribes to The Economist. Type 17: reads The Economist. Type 18: afflicted by allergies that preclude dog ownership — remember the first few types?

Type 19s are folks who’ve heard what they say on CNN and admit that the last few winters have been warmer than usual, but are hesitant to attribute the increase in temperature to anything other than — what?

You’ve got to run to a meeting? All of a sudden? And there’s no way you can arrive late? See, I’m a through-and-through type 158: I finish what I start. I’m also a type 2,412: I use passive aggression to detain my friends. That, plus a third subtype — type 2,349,201, Newark-born son of Clarke and Ellen Lesinski — makes me the 8,467,234,694th type of person. But I’ll show you how type combination works in a minute.

My point is I’m not the type of guy to stop enumerating the human race halfway through. That’s type 57,003 and it’s just about my least favorite. Because if you don’t know the diversity of mankind, what do you know? And if you can’t describe that diversity using numbered categories, listed in their entirety at typewiki.org/types, a website that I created and continue to moderate, what can you do? Nothing, that’s what. Absolutely nothing at all.

Not interested in diversity, eh?

Fine. Just remember what I told you. There are billions upon trillions of types of people in this world: people who like dogs, people who don’t, and so on and so forth through people who graduated from Harvard University in the early 1970s, who rose to prominence writing for Saturday Night Live seasons 1-5 and 11-20, and who currently serve as US Senators from the state of Minnesota. Al Franken. He is the final type of person.

Now get out of here. Me and my dog Charlie are going to discuss the dog types. Of which there are none — dogs don’t need any types. Most dogs are basically the same.

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are always doing our part to help the authorities track down the criminals in our midst. Even if the authorities are Canadian. This is where our good friend David Martin proves that the tooth of crime is often a sweet tooth. When you're done reading, click on the link below to see how you can purchase his latest humor collection "Screams & Whispers" on Amazon.

The Great Maple Syrup Heist

By: David Martin

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“Police in Québec have announced the arrest of three men in the theft of six million pounds of maple syrup from a provincial warehouse…” — The Globe and Mail, December 19, 2012

From the food crime files of the Sûreté du Québec

At first it was just another food flavoring heist, much like the strawberry jam container caper of 1997 or the individual ketchup packet robbery of 2003. But it soon became apparent that this was no ordinary theft. This was the big time — six million pounds of liquid gold.

Sure, my partner Bill and I had been involved with maple syrup cases before. More than once we’d done a stakeout at a local IHOP. But those were instances of someone passing off corn syrup as the real McCoy, petty crimes at best.

This, however, was organized condiment crime on a scale heretofore unimagined. As part of the Sûreté du Québec’s Spreads, Jams and Syrups Division, we’d heard stories from veteran officers about jam running in the 1980s when the Canadian dollar was down to 70 cents and no one could afford to legitimately import Smucker’s from the US. But even with the widespread black market and jam and jelly speedboats plying the St. Lawrence River smuggling routes, things never got as bad as they had today with the Great Maple Syrup Heist.

When it all started, we literally didn’t have a clue. After all, there were no maple syrup shortages and no one was complaining about questionable syrup quality. The sap was still flowing and cans of syrup were still on the shelves. The only saps were us, sitting there unaware of the giant illegal operation being carried on right under our tongues.

About three months ago, we got the word from our boss, Chief Inspector D’Erable. He’d gotten a tip from one of our regular snitches, a maple syrup junkie named Sticky Eddie, that he’d seen something funny outside a small diner in East End Montreal.

According to Eddie, some guys unloaded two barrels of high-grade syrup at the back entrance of the restaurant without so much as an invoice or a bill of lading. Eddie said something to the driver who told him to keep his mouth shut and tossed him a couple of cans of Laurentian syrup to keep him quiet.

But like any junkie, Sticky Eddie went through those two cans in a weekend binge of pancakes, waffles and crepes. After the sugar high wore off, Eddie needed more and he came looking for us, hoping to trade information for some more maple nectar.

And then we got our next big break. A local community organization was holding a big fundraising pancake breakfast and someone phoned in an anonymous tip.

It seemed that the organizers weren’t buying their maple syrup by the can. Someone had offered them an entire barrel at an unbelievably low price. So we decided to be there when the barrel was delivered and check out the guys delivering it.

It all went down without a hitch, without a shot being fired and without even a drop of liquid gold being spilled. The three delivery guys confessed on the spot that they had been pilfering barrels from the producers and selling them to retailers and wholesalers at a discount.

And that was the end of the Great Maple Syrup Heist. Thanks to the work of our crack corps of pancake toppings police, Canadian consumers were never even aware of how close the country came to a nationwide breakfast crisis of unimaginable proportions. But thankfully, at least for now, the maple syrup continues to flow freely from sea to sea to sea, and wherever pancake breakfasts are held.