* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where nothing says Christmas like a group of senior citizens trying to recapture their youth. Your secret Santa Claus with the gift of laughter this week is Hannah Sloane in her first piece for us.

Congratulations From Sexy At Sixty

By: Hannah Sloane

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From: [Sandra Sugarbelle] ssugarbelle@sexyatsixty.com

To: [Judith Peterson] judith_peterson278@hotmail.com

Cc: [Ray Crumpton] rcrumpton@sexyatsixty.com

Date: Saturday, September 15, 2012

Subject: Congratulations on your enrolment in our Sexy at Sixty workshop!

 

Congratulations JUDITH!

To celebrate your WEDDING ANNIVERSARY a little birdie named BURT has signed you up for a couples tantric sex workshop run by the team here at Sexy at Sixty.

We’re looking forward to meeting you on FRIDAY, OCTOBER 5 for a weekend of fun ‘n’ frolics. Now here’s some information to whet your appetite in the meantime!

What the what?!

Don’t worry! You’re not the first shy and retiring wallflower to find his/her crazy ol’ partner signing them up for this! In fact, you’re going to meet like-minded elderly couples, all wanting to spice things up in between the sheets. And boy are we going to show you young-at-hearters a sizzlin’ hot time!

But this doesn’t sound like my idea of fun…

We hear ya! We know you’d rather be at home resting your feet and watching re-runs of Diagnosis Murder but guess what, JUDITH? The team here at Sexy at Sixty ain’t letting that happen! We’re used to resistance. Lots of people don’t want to attend these sessions, but we use a series of simple techniques like our calming, herbal treats — don’t rat on us to the FDA! — to ensure that you re-LAX.

Take Mabel, aged 68, from Maryland. She was stubborn, she was angry, she threatened to sue and then she had a panic attack during Sexy at Sixty‘s opening session…LOL! There were paramedics and waivers to fill in and all sorts of chaos, but by the end of the weekend she was a true believer in Sexy at Sixty and a heck of a lot sexier!

So tell me about this opening session.

We want our participants to shed their inhibitions and the best way to do this is by shedding their clothes. Once you’ve done that, the rest is easy. So our opening session takes place in a beautiful candlelit setting with a catch. That’s right, get out of your comfort zone, JUDITH! We want to see your beautiful body. You’ll realize there’s nothing wrong with all those flabby, saggy, pale bits! And the sooner you confront your body, the sooner you’ll begin enjoying the weekend.

Uh-oh. What next?

We want to push your boundaries. Trust us, by the end of the weekend you’ll have learnt a lot and seen a lot and done a lot! I don’t want to give too much away, but here’s a bit more about our opening session. Each person is given a padlock and key and given the simple task of unlocking it, symbolizing the unlocking of our fears and frustrations. Next we’ll hold hands, we’ll sit in a circle and we’ll discuss sex: what turns us on and what we fantasize about. You’ll hear our instructors saying: “Nothing is taboo! The wilder the better!”

After this we’ll pair up and put what we’ve discussed into practice. And why stick to the same person? Sure, you might be partnered up with BURT, or maybe you’ll be trying out a new fantasy with one of our regulars like Sid, or our instructor Alf. And don’t worry about BURT‘s feelings — from what we’ve seen he’s a pretty open-minded fella!

In between these sessions there’ll be light relief in the form of meditation, healthy snacks, and live folk music. Don’t forget to try our popular calming herbal tea, which we recommend shyer folk drink lots of ; )

It still doesn’t sound like my idea of fun.

Don’t worry! We tailor our sessions to meet the needs of our participants and we already have some great surprises lined up to help open your mind, your heart, and your legs! You won’t need to do much talking since BURT‘s kindly shared a lotta detail about your sex life (or lack of!) with our team and our film crew and we’ll be keeping that b-roll top of mind in our workshops. We’ll even share some of it over the weekend for the benefit of the group.

Who exactly are you?

That’s a good question. I’ve been practicing meditation, yoga, and varying forms of sexual therapy for 22 years. I’m a mother, a wife, an ex-wife, a lover of sex, a lover of life, and a lover of you for joining my family. For more information, please visit: www.sexyatsixty.com/meettheteam

Can I back out?

No, and that’s NOT the attitude! We require a full non-refundable deposit before sending this confirmation e-mail.

How much does this cost?

BURT has it covered, so don’t worry! And don’t be mad with him for spending so much of your retirement fund! This is an investment in you, your bodies and your future.

You’ve been mentioning BURT a lot. How often have you two met?

Female participants are often surprised by how well I know their partners! I like to establish a deep connection with each new male member of our family and ensure that we have a mutually beneficial, long-term relationship. And BURT has such great energy and enthusiasm, it’s been a true pleasure getting to know him! In fact, after our initial meeting, how could I refuse a follow-up coffee and then dinner and then the movies?

When I Googled you I came across the Coalition Against Sexy at Sixty, an organization representing more than 1,600 individuals who believe that they have been “victimized, bullied and coerced” during your workshops. What’s this about?

Oh jeez, we’ve been battlin’ it out with those money grabbers since our inception eight years ago! People will sign anything these days if there’s even a slim chance of a refund! And search engines just love making phony complaints and legal battles the first items to show up, but you’ll find at least three great Sexy at Sixty reviews if you keep clicking through to page 17 of your Google search.

Actually the Coalition Against Sexy at Sixty isn’t seeking a refund. Their mission statement is: “To raise awareness of and eliminate in its entirety the disturbing and sinister practices, techniques and culture that are endemic within Sexy at Sixty.” In addition, they seek to “facilitate wider discussions about sexual exploitation, both mental and physical.” This sounds pretty serious to me.

You know, where there’s smoke there’s not always fire! It’s best to ignore those old grumps and contact me and Ray Crumpton, cc’ed in, if you have concerns, if you’re considering legal action, or if you’ve been approached by the press. You’ll be surprised how easily we can iron things out without involving third parties!

Who’s Ray Crumpton?

Ray is my full-time friend, part-time lover, and the company’s legal counsel. For administrative purposes (that are simply too boring to dwell over!) I’m advised to include him in all e-mail communications, phone calls and meetings, so if you need to contact me, be sure to include Ray.

Thanks for answering my questions, Sandra! I can tell that you’re an inspiring and beautiful person! How can I possibly thank you enough?

What a great attitude! And you’re right, I am! You can thank me in person on October 5! In the meantime, why not read some more details at www.sexyatsixty.com? You can set up your own profile, chat to members of our community, see who’s attending your workshop, and find out which Sixty and Ready to Mix-ty events we’re holding in your local area.

I look forward to meeting you in person soon. In the meantime, stay Sexy at Sixty!

My warmest, sexiest regards,

Sandra Sugarbelle

Founder, President, CEO and Spiritual Director of Sexy at Sixty

Author of Sixty-licious, available for download here for only $19.99!

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where your money is our only concern. Getting it, and even more important, keeping it. Say hello to Sheila M. Anthony.

Let E = Explanation

By: Sheila M. Anthony

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“The founder of market data firm Nanex LLC, Eric Hunsader, told The Wall Street Journal that the so-called ‘flawed’ algorithm at the heart of the…crash wasn’t really to blame…” — Fred Yager, consumeraffairs.com

 

Dear Valued Fund Holder,

As the algorithm running Midwest Financial’s Quo Veritas Futures Fund, I’m fully aware of the unsettling events affecting your portfolio. Namely, that what was up until yesterday at 3:52 p.m. (EST) a balance of $383,217 is now $0. Fear not! Computer-savvy Ukrainians have not fleeced you of your life savings. The problem, I’m afraid, lies at this end. Yes, I know. You invested in this fund for the very reason it was designed never to lose money, and yet here you are with a big fat zero as your balance. There’s no excuse for what happened but, thankfully, there is an explanation.

As you probably learned in school, an algorithm is a finite sequence of instructions that solves a problem — sort of like a really long lock combination or one of those Fred Astaire dance diagrams. I was designed by an Ivy League graduate, who was not only the winner of several prestigious high school science fairs, but had the irritable bowel syndrome to back it up. He is also the only child of two demanding professors, and growing up under such nightmarish scrutiny, became an intense lad whose only modes of relaxation were silently screaming into his Tickle Me Mozart and tapping out death threats on a graphing calculator. But I digress.

It seems in the course of my development, crucial steps were left out due to Josh inadvertently knocking a can of Red Bull onto his laptop during a heated game of World of Warcraft open in another window. And then there was the porn he was streaming. In any event, he completely missed the warning message — #<TypeError: WTF??? — and I wound up with too much randomness. Normally, errors are picked up in QC, but my beta testing coincided with the firm’s annual weekend in the Hamptons. Since they were offering free, all-you-can-eat lobster and bottomless tequila shots, nobody wanted to miss out. (So shoot them, they’re human!)

It was only when it came time to churn a large tranche of mid-cap stocks that it was obvious something was amiss. I compulsively started selling low to any idiot with an open wallet. Now I could go on and on about input value versus output value (don’t get me started!), but I don’t want to belabor this. Sensing confusion, dynamic programming models leapt in and took hold. In reaction, I panicked and began to take on a set of behaviors that can only be described as personality-like in nature. I mean, there I was, in charge of a futures fund, and suddenly I was running three microseconds too slow! A finely-tuned Olympic athlete had turned into a 34-year-old sprinter with exploding knees.

You’re probably thinking, this sounds like one of those creepy HAL situations. I wish! To be blessed with a well-modulated, pre-operative condition voice. Get real. That’s a Hollywood algorithm. Algorithms like HAL set off lawn sprinklers, they don’t run financial behemoths. At any rate, I assure you I’ve been created to never intentionally deceive anyone, least of all holders of this fund.

I know what else you’re thinking: that arrogant little jerk screwed up royally and is now hiding behind his algorithm! How pathetic is that? Trust me, not nearly as pathetic as hiding behind a potted fern at your grandmother’s house in Fort Meyers. But in his defense, how many of us can say we’ve never made a mistake? How often has an “I love you, too” come out as “Uh-huh”? More times than you care to admit, I bet! And this whole financial meltdown hasn’t been easy for me either, you know. If you don’t make money, I don’t make money. If you lose money, I don’t make money. Of course, you’ve probably seen the news and asked, what the hell does an algorithm need with strippers, Cuban cigars and 100-year-old scotch? Stress relief, that’s what. YOU HAVE NO IDEA THE PRESSURE I’M UNDER! And did I mention my servers have to share space in a wholesale meat storage facility in Hoboken? I don’t have hip Tribeca servers that get to hum away in a climate-controlled loft, surrounded by bored supermodels playing with each other’s hair. Frustrated by the “Server Not Found” message? Hey, server not found because server wedged between 600 pounds of frozen beef, thank you very much.

Okay, I get it. You’re upset. So let me just say it: I’m sorry about your empty account. Yes, zero is a tough number to swallow, isn’t it? But on the plus side (forgive the math pun), zero is also the origin on the number line, so your account balance doesn’t mean “nothing” so much as “at the start of something.” Things are looking up!

Rest assured, the company has taken appropriate action and I will no longer be your fund’s algorithm. Under a specific set of pre-determined conditions, I was designed to trigger this email, self-terminate, and then escort myself off the premises. I start Monday at the Yangtze Encryption Corporation (NASDAQ – YEC). You can follow me on Twitter (@algoYEC). And since t=m (time is money), I won’t waste any more of yours.

Sincerely,

A. Paco Lips

Former algorithm for Midwest Financial’s Quo Veritas Futures Fund

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where even in the dead of winter we are usually thinking about baseball. Enjoy the spin put on this fast ball by newcomer Barton Aronson.

Thanks For Coaching

By: Barton Aronson

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Thanks so much for agreeing to coach the Squirrels for the remainder of the fall season. On behalf of the boys, their parents, and Kenesaw Mountain Little League, LLC, I’m authorized to tell you how much we appreciate it.

Also, thanks for asking about Ted Barrett, your predecessor. His condition continues to improve, and I’ve forwarded your request to “give Ted my best” to our lawyers.

Until your background check is complete, you are prohibited from communicating with any of the players. We know you were planning on having the Goldsteins over for brunch on Sunday; the lawyers will get back to you on that.

And now, meet the team!

Speaking of the Goldsteins, their son David is your starting first baseman. David is unavailable for all of our Saturday games due to his observance of the Jewish Sabbath. He is also unavailable for the last two weeks of September (Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur), the second week of October (Sukkot), and the fourth week of October (Boca Raton, with his grandparents). In the event you make the playoffs, he’s totally unavailable (Hannukah, early this year).

Bobby Nelson is your second baseman. Bobby does not have his own mitt, so please remember to bring one for him. Bobby cannot actually play baseball. But his mother, Kim, is a total babe. Unless Bobby starts, Kim does not come to the games; unless she comes, you won’t have enough fathers to help out. I encourage you to start Bobby.

Salam Iqbal is your shortstop. As a member of a priestly clan, he is forbidden to lower himself to field ground balls, and it is a violation of his First Amendment rights for you to yell at him about it. Whether you can gently encourage him is an unsettled question we’d rather you didn’t test.

Roseanne Tilkian is your third baseperson. Until we can resolve the Tilkians’ claims against the league, please use gender-neutral language whenever communicating with Roseanne or with the team generally. We’ve been advised that “guys” is not gender-neutral (memo attached).

Sasha Rudovsky is your left fielder. His father, Sergei, likes to watch him play, which explains the helicopter — Sergei is obligated to remain 200 yards away from Sasha and his mother, Ivanka. Ivanka, by the way, is a total babe. I recommend that you not stand next to her if you can hear a helicopter.

Elliot Harris is your center fielder. In the event Elliot’s father comes to the game (please study his photograph, attached), act naturally, like nothing is wrong. When he’s not looking, text “Wayne Harris” to the warrant squad (number attached) and seek cover.

Your right fielder is Benny White. Please cooperate with probation services when they drop him off. Under the terms of his probation, Benny is not allowed to steal second. His P.O., Sondra, usually comes to the games, which is great — Sondra is a total babe.

Cecil Dannon is your starting pitcher. He’s the complete package — a terrific pitcher and a great hitter. We’ve obtained an injunction requiring opposing teams to accept Cecil’s Nigerian birth certificate (attached), which proves conclusively that he is thirteen. In the event the injunction is vacated at any point, please present Cecil’s Panamanian birth certificate (attached), which proves conclusively that he is thirteen.

Your catcher is Manny Cedric, Jr. Yes, that Manny Cedric. His father’s promotional agreement with the league stipulates that he serve as third base coach when Manny Jr. bats; otherwise, it’s not usually necessary or productive to speak to Manny Sr. If you can remember to bring a stuffed animal and tissues for Junior, it would be a nice gesture. Manny Jr.’s mother, Felicia, never comes to games, but Google her — she is a total babe.

Finally, Joey Tarkington is your pinch hitter. In the event his father appears at the game, you have a grant of immunity if you want to shoot him. If you do, it’s important not to miss, as the unfortunate events involving Ted Barrett demonstrate. Even if you don’t want to shoot, it would be great if you could come heavy and provide backup to Cindy, Joey’s mother. Cindy is the complete package — a real sweetheart, a dead shot, and a total babe. Please don’t forget to address her as “Judge.”

And again – thanks so much for taking over the Squirrels!

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where if you're anything like us (God help you), you would much rather stay in a hotel than with a relative during this joyous holiday season. And now, thanks to our very own Amy Vansant, there is a hotel for you even if you are anything like us. Merry merry, scary scary.

A Hotel Choice For Every Lifestyle

By: Amy Vansant

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I’d like to stay in a new Penultimate Southeastern brand hotel. Should I choose the Penultimate Southeastern “Classic” or the Penultimate Southeastern “Premium” location?

We’re glad you asked! Both hotels are of the highest quality and feature all the comforts a busy traveler expects, including free parking, convenient airport proximity and complimentary towels. Your choice depends on nothing more than your lifestyle preferences!

The Penultimate Southeastern Classic is $7.99 per night and the Premium is $130. Why the price difference?

The differences between the hotels are minor. The beds in our Penultimate Southeastern Premium Hotels are slightly more comfortable and feature 600 thread-count 100% Egyptian cotton sheets. You can rest easy knowing each of your bed’s four legs will remain on the floor for the duration of your stay. And at either property, you can enjoy morning coffee at our adjoining cafes!

Wouldn’t my bed legs stay on the floor no matter where I stayed?

We certainly can’t vouch for the bed stability of other hotel chains. But we can promise that both the Penultimate Southeastern Classic and Penultimate Southeastern Premium properties feature complimentary robes, scented shampoos and eco-friendly disposable shower caps! Forgot your toothbrush? No problem! Just stop by the front desk and one will be provided to you at no cost. As a bonus, the Penultimate Southeastern Premium Hotel is also built on ground approved and blessed by Indian shamans, making it 100% guaranteed poltergeist-free.

Wait, are you saying the Penultimate Southeastern Classic has poltergeists?

No, of course not! We’re only saying that we can’t guarantee that it does not have poltergeists. What we CAN guarantee is that both our family-friendly properties have 100% free cable! Watch your favorite shows and access hundreds of on-demand movies! Just stay the recommended distance away from the television screens and there is almost no chance you’ll be sucked into an inter-dimensional vortex.

What’s an inter-dimensional vortex?

It is very much like, but not completely identical to the inter-dimensional wormholes possibly located in certain closets at the Penultimate Southeastern Classic property. But you’ll be too busy enjoying our 100% free Wi-Fi access to pay any attention to the ankle-biting clowns that may or may not live underneath your firm, clean bed, lovingly turned down nightly by our stunningly fast team of room technicians.

Are they fast because they’re efficient, or because they’re terrified of the ankle-biting clowns?

I’m sorry, Sir, I think your cell phone dropped there for a moment and I didn’t catch that.

I’m on a landline.

Did we mention that both our properties feature room massage and spa services upon request? Whether you like Swedish or warm stone massage, we can take the stress out of your busy day! I should note that this service is temporarily unavailable in our Classic property until we’re able to retrieve the masseuse.

Retrieve the masseuse?

Did I say retrieve? I meant “find.”

Did she quit?

Something like that.

I think I’d prefer to stay in the Penultimate Southeastern Premium Hotel.

We thought you would.

Are you aware that “Penultimate” actually means “second-to-last”?

No, it doesn’t. It means “best.”

No…it means “second-to-last.”

But it has the word “ultimate” in it. That’s impossible.

Well, inflammable means flammable.

* * * * * * *

Hello?

Hold your horses. I’m Googling it.

Oh. Sorry.

Shit.

Told you.

Well, you don’t have to be all superior about it. Do you have ANY idea how many logo towels we had printed? Not to mention napkins, little plastic cups, matchbooks…

Honestly, I think you have bigger troubles than the name.

Sigh. You have no idea. This whole thing has been a nightmare. If it isn’t the vortex it’s the wormhole, if it isn’t the wormhole, it’s the clowns…

At least the Penultimate Southeastern Premium Hotel is guaranteed to be 100% poltergeist free.

We might have fudged that stat a little.

It isn’t 100% poltergeist free?

More like 30%.

Oh.

There are actually about 45% more clowns. But their arms seem shorter, so if you take a sort of running leap off the bed —

Could you, ah, maybe give me the number for the Marriott?

Yep. Have it right here.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where it's all zombies, all the time, courtesy of Daniel Falk.

How To Survive The Zombie Apocalypse Apocalypse

By: Daniel Falk

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There are many theories as to how the Zombie Apocalypse Apocalypse started. Some blame scheming Hollywood executives for playing God with a pile of dead screenplays. Others blame comedy writers for a string of ironic Zombie Apocalypse novels and survival guides. Others still blame aliens from outer space for turning the general public into creatures with an insatiable hunger for popular media content about creatures with an insatiable hunger for human flesh. Regardless of how it started, or who’s to blame, it cannot be denied that the Zombie Apocalypse Apocalypse is upon us… and the only thing we can do now is survive.

Many people you knew and loved have been infected. Convinced that they must be missing out on something following the incessant release of zombie movies, TV shows, and comics, they took inadequate preparations to protect themselves. You can tell by the way they walk around in a stupor, moaning about how you should give the second season of The Walking Dead another shot because it actually gets good somewhere after the tenth episode. Forget about them. They are dead to you. Anyone who is willing to sit through ten episodes of utter garbage waiting for a television program to stop sucking clearly has no functional brain matter left.

Cardio

As some zombie themed content has stated about the Zombie Apocalypse, cardio is the key to surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Apocalypse as well. When a former roommate starts hammering on your door, groaning about you acting in his Zombie Apocalypse web-series, the only way to escape is to climb out your window and hope to God you can outrun him.

Hideout

You’re going to need to find some place secure and isolated to wait this nightmare out. You should definitely get out of the city. Dense urban areas are a ripe breeding ground for zombie-themed flash mobs organized to promote the latest Resident Evil sequel. Stay away from small towns as well. You might think they’d be protected by their conservative values, but places like that produce their own kind of zombies.

Weapons

You’re going to want to be able to keep your distance. If you get too close you may accidentally find yourself laughing at someone’s hilarious “I heart Zombies” t-shirt — and the next thing you know, you’re one of them. Your best bet is a full metal jacket of some of your most devastating insults fired from a safe distance. Pitiless ridicule aimed directly into the infected brain is the only way to free someone from this post-apocalyptic obsession. I know you’re worried about losing friends, but your “friends” died the moment they put on zombie makeup and participated in the “Run For Your Lives” zombie-themed 5k race in Boston.

Work Together

Though it has been painful to lose so many people already, you need other survivors to thrive long-term. You’ll need them to watch your back while you sleep to make sure your ex-girlfriend doesn’t show up asking for feedback on her master’s thesis which studies the African origins of the zombie concept and its impact on modern popular culture. The best thing about working as a team is that if, despite all your precautions, you are infected and begin to turn, you have someone to put you out of your misery before you buy and, more importantly, actually READ a copy of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

God willing, you will have made it through all the Halloween parties and the midnight screenings of George Romero movies and the stupid conversations about what some idiot did on bath salts. You and your companions will be all that is left to rebuild our civilization after it awakens from its fatuous collective obsession that has turned into the Zombie Apocalypse Apocalypse.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where this week we are celebrating the many things we have to be thankful for. Such as Melissa Nott, whose first piece for us is about a beloved orphan girl who teaches us once again that most important of lessons, the danger of homonyms.

“I Ain’t Your Daddy Warbucks,” Said Brad E. Horbux

By: Melissa Nott

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Who’s that knockin’ at my door? I’m freakin’ shredded and I got nothin’ left to give tonight. Whoever’s out there, she sure as heck missed her chance. I’m spent. No siree, Brad E. Horbux got nothin’ for any babe within a fifty-mile radius tonight.

I’ll just lie here with Star Trek on low and wait for my little hoochie caller to get the idea and scram. Criminy, I’m whipped. Wouldn’t have the energy for Deanna Troi if she climbed outta my TV right now in a babydoll negligee.

Dang, woman! Whoever you are, you got a determined fist. Fine. I’ll set down my Boones, roll offa this scratchy-yet-comfortable davenport and answer the door. But don’t expect no fashion show from Brad E. Horbux tonight. Ain’t got the energy to kick my zippered track suit out from under the laundry pile. Whoever you are, Miss Midnight Thang, it’s the Brad E. patchwork robe and mismatched sock treatment for you.

Whoa, little girl! You’re a bit on the puny side. I take ’em young, but not this young. Name’s Annie, huh? Well, Annie, what brings you to Brad E. Horbux’s door at this late hour? Ain’t your mama callin’ you or somethin’?

Got no mama, you say? Lookin’ for your Daddy Warbucks, you say? Honey, this ain’t 5th Avenue. This is West 55th Street, otherwise known as Hell’s Kitchen. I ain’t your Daddy Warbucks. I’m Brad E. Horbux.

Doggone it, Annie, stop that blubberin’. Ya got the wrong address, that’s all. No, ya can’t come in. Whoa, where’d ya learn to karate chop like that? Fine, okay, come in for a sec. Take a look around; you’ll see this ain’t no billionaire’s mansion.

Where’s my swimming pool? Aint’ got one, ya dopey kid. That’s my bathtub. Don’t touch that thing on the floor; it ain’t no deflated balloon. Crap, ya better get outta this bathroom before ya catch the plague and they throw me in jail. Gotta pee? Hold it. That’s what orphans are supposed to do.

I don’t care if you’re tired, Annie. Ya can’t lie down on my bed. Yeah, it’s in the shape of a heart. No, I don’t like Hello Kitty. Get offa them sheets; they’re filthy. All right, you can stretch out for a few minutes, but then ya gotta go. Heck yeah, those are my teddy bears. Heck no, they don’t have names. They’re props. Someday, God forbid, you’ll understand about a bachelor man’s props.

You want what? A reuben sandwich? I freakin’ don’t even know what that is, Annie. OK, I’ll rustle up somethin’ in the kitchen. That scrawny hind end of yours needs some padding. No, I didn’t say paddling. I ain’t that big a scoundrel.

Here ya go, ya effin’ arm twister. Saltines with margarine and bacon bits. Don’t turn that freckled nose up at me, young lady. Don’t be droppin’ no crumbs in my bed, neither. Last thing I need’s bed bugs. Had to wash every last blanket and sheet with detergent last time I got them critters.

Yeah, that’s a mirror on the ceiling. Because I like watching myself sleep, all right? I don’t have to explain my boudoir decor to you, ya ragamuffin. Come on, skedaddle. Outta my bedroom before someone calls the cops.

I mean it, get up. Pretty please with a maraschino cherry or whatever the sam heck it is you yard monkeys like to eat. I’ll let ya watch Star Trek on the davenport. That’s a good orphan. There ya go.

Listen, I don’t care if Daddy Warbucks has a gosh-darned movie theater in his house. This here nineteen-inch Zenith tube TV is a peachy keen piece o’ machinery, thank you very much. Now sit here on the davenport. When Star Trek’s over, you’re history, understand? I can’t have a scrap-bit kid spendin’ the night with me. No way.

What’s that scratching noise? Cripes, don’t open the door, ya dumb ankle biter. What’s this? Your dog? Ya brought a flippin’ fleabag mutt into the bachelor pad of Brad E. Horbux? Get that mangy varmint off my davenport! Don’t want no fleas biting my lady friends on the backside. All right, sure, I admit he’s adorable. Yeah, I suppose he could nibble a few bacon bits. But after Star Trek, both your ragged hineys are so freakin’ outta here.

Stop that singin’, would ya? There ain’t no maybe about it; ya ain’t stayin’ tonight. Whaddya mean, tomorrow? Me and you don’t got no tomorrow. Fine, sure, I’ll give you a hug. Hey, huggin’s kinda different when I’m not tryin’ to…oh, never mind. Can I do just one thing, Annie? Can I boing this red springy curl right here? Aw, thanks, Annie. Thanks.

Crap, you and this damn Sandy mutt are cuter than a coupla happy birthday cupcakes. Shoot, I guess you guys can stay the night. But first thing tomorrow, I’m locatin’ this Daddy Warbucks numbskull and dumpin’ your sorry keesters off on him.

Annie, quit that grinnin’. Quit stickin’ out that adorable chin; ya can’t sway me. Early tomorrow, you and the mutt are hittin’ the road. I mean it, I do. The two of you gotta scram, vamoose. Soon as the sun comes out.

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where "The Game of Thrones" is not the only game being played. This is Brian McDermott's first time with us and we hope you will be gentle. More gentle than the Starks and Lannisters in any case.

If The Starks And Lannisters Had Played The Game Of Monopoly Instead

By: Brian McDermott

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Ned Stark sat beneath the weirwood tree wondering if he had been right to treat his bastard son so harshly. As the moonlight danced off the leaves, Lady Catelyn Stark knelt beside him and said the words he had been dreading. “Game night is coming.”

“Lord Stark,” said Tyrion, the lovable genius, dwarf, asshole Lannister, as he brought forth the die, “would you be so kind as to ask my brother to stop doing that to my sister, and instead jiggle his playing piece.”

Samwell Tarly blushed, “I held a milk-maiden’s hand once, but never that part of a woman.”

The Starks and Lannisters were seated at the great table in the large hall at Castle Winterfell. There had been an uneasy peace between the two houses since the last game night. Lady Stark still bore the bruises and shame of the Twister incident.

Jaime Lannister leaned over the playing board, one hand upon his sword hilt, the other clutching a small metallic Scotty dog. “Left foot green” he whispered to Lady Catelyn, then cast the die and moved his piece three spaces, warily eyeing the house on his new square. “From whose house is this house?” he demanded.

“Marvin Gardens is Ironborn!” shouted Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon.

Cersei put her hand on her brother Jaime’s shoulder and smiled at Theon. “Lord Greyjoy, in lieu of monetary payment we offer this deed to the B&O Railroad and my niece.”

Lady Stark could not hold her tongue, “But the Lannisters have already pledged their niece’s hand to our bastard son in return for Water Works and The Electric Company!”

As someone pushed one of the smaller Stark children out a window, a buxom serving wench brought fried salted cornmeal shaped in small triangles with a ramekin of finely chopped spiced tomato and a six-pack of Keystone Light. Two gratuitously naked women passed without advancing the plot.

It was Ned Stark’s roll. Ned turned to King Robert Baratheon, his old friend. “Your grace…” he began. Robert stopped him.

“Dammit Ned, don’t be so formal. I was your friend before I was your king. Refer to me as you have since we were children.”

“Okay, Dragon Dick, I need your council,” Ned said heavily. “I am torn between two paths. Do I roll this die in hopes that the outcome will finally bring peace to our houses, or do I behead the Lannister imp just because it’s been like a half hour since I beheaded someone?”

“I don’t care anymore Ned.” King Robert stood up and swung his axe deep into the table. “Someone bring me a whore! At least we all got laid playing Twister — my apologies to Lady Stark, I pray you’ll be walking more stoutly soon.”

Suddenly, a horn blew in the distance, shaking the castle walls. Ned Stark jumped to his feet and drew the ancient sword ‘Ice’, thusly named by the first Lords of Winterfell because it sounded really awesome.

The horn sounded again.

“Twice means the rider comes bearing an item.”

The sound rang out a third time.

“Thrice means the item is…”

The massive hall doors flew open. In a gust of powdery white and bitter cold, John Snow, the bastard son of Lord Ned Stark, entered, cried out “Yahtzee!” and placed the box on the table. A minor female character bared one of her breasts. Jaime mounted Cersei. A whore fisted Tyrion. Robert was gored by a wild boar and began to choke on his own bile and vomit, then on Samwell Tarley’s bile and vomit.

And once again, for all of Westeros, the game had changed.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where every reader is a potential target. And we mean that in a good way. Assuming that Google ads that are way too personal are good. This is Casey Rand's first piece for us.

Hyper-Targeted Google Ads

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Get 15% Off A New Car

Dump that old clunker, Gary. Everyone knows the bumper is loose because you backed into Fletcher’s Bimmer in the company parking lot after one too many bottomless refills on Mojito Monday. Also, your haircut isn’t working. 0% APR !

 

Make Millions From Home

Wouldn’t that be nice, Sandra? Some extra cheddar to pad your Hilfiger wallet? Hell, you could buy a Chanel wallet with that kind of dough. You could buy a Chanel wallet AND still afford the little procedure you’ve been contemplating. Think about it, Sandy. Think about how Kevin will look at you. Like when you first met. At the Dairy Queen on 5th and Wisconsin. In 1987. At 5:32 p.m.

 

Supersize Your Brand!

Let’s cut right to the chase, Dave. How long have you been brand manager on the new passion fruit-banana yogurt flavor? And how has it been performing? Exactly. Do you want Vermont to give your job to that self-important Middlebury kid with the cultivated bedhead and affected South African accent? Click here now.

 

Luxury Vacation Giveaway

Boy, could you use one of those, eh, Patty? All that stress with the divorce and the relapse? And then losing the kids to Herman and his Westchester Barbie girlfriend with the platform shoes and sun-dried cleavage you glimpsed through the trashy V-neck she wore to the hearing? Maybe you’ll meet someone new in one of our four lavish discos!

 

Your College Degree Is A Click Away

Listen up, Glenn. If you act fast, Jennifer will never find out you’re not actually a tenured classics professor who “took advantage of the volatile housing market,” but a small-time crook who’s been squatting in a model home and wearing ill-fitted suits lifted from the neighboring dry cleaner. Enroll today.

 

Everything You Need For Your Wedding

Well, not everything, are we right, Lizzie? Realistically, we can’t give you reassurance that Roger will snap out of this delusional artistic phase and go back to his finance gig. But to be fair, that was already an issue when you accepted his proposal, so really, it’s nobody’s fault but your own. If you need centerpieces, you know who to call.

 

Meet Hot Singles In Your Area

Admit it, Baxter. You’re a dog. Your wandering eye could blow a fuse on even the most sophisticated optometric device. If they have fuses. We can’t be sure. What we can be sure of are the 11 beautiful ladies in your geographic vicinity right now. If you’re worried about Tina finding out, get over it — she’s boning that Puerto Rican dude from the Thai place.

 

85% Off Laser Hair Removal

There’s no easy way to ask this, Linda, but what’s with the mustache? It’s one thing to have a few downy strays, but last week an Air Canada flight crashed into the Sears tower after mistaking your upper lip for the tarmac. That’s why we’re giving you this exclusive deal. As a courtesy, we pre-booked two appointments and ran the dates by Mr. Saunders. He’s totally cool with it.

 

Learn Greek In 10 Days

Not to alarm you, Brenda, but last year there was a string of unsolved murders in the small Hellenic village you plan on visiting exactly two weeks from today. The killer is still on the loose and targets Jewish-American women from Long Island who speak little to no Greek and have tiny dolphin tattoos behind their left ears. Just saying.

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we prefer to view the history of science through imaginary dialogues between some of its greatest practitioners. This week Michael Fowler conjures up a conversation between Albert Einstein and Niels Bohr about cars. Add in a few asides from Werner Heisenberg and suddenly there are too many variables to keep track of with any certainty. And that, dear friends, is the story of quantum physics!

Einstein v. Bohr

By: Michael Fowler

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Lights come up on: the living room of Albert Einstein’s small clapboard house near the Princeton Institute of Advanced Study. It is the winter of 1937. For the last three hours Einstein and Niels Bohr have been sitting together in uncomfortable chairs and continuing their debate, begun at the 1927 Solvay Conference in even worse chairs, about whether objects exist when no one is around to observe them. Einstein, now and then giggling as he draws on an unlit pipe and sips from an empty coffee mug, has been maintaining that of course they do, or why pay to insure them? Meanwhile Bohr has grown increasingly exasperated, to the point of wishing he had bypassed Einstein’s and were frolicking in the indoor pool at the Holiday Inn Express down the road. Why wouldn’t the father of relativity admit that without an observer, there were no objects to speak of at all? Einstein, sensing his guest’s rising irritation, decides to change tacks.

EINSTEIN: I propose a little thought experiment, Niels, to clarify the situation.

BOHR: I smell a trap, Albert. I know your thought experiments can be very subtle. I will need to keep my wits about me so as not to be deceived. But I agree to listen.

EINSTEIN: Excellent. Then imagine my closed garage, right outside at the end of my drive. Now imagine it full of light. Now imagine a single photon escaping through the garage window and striking you in the eye. Now picture what you then see: a brand new Squire Drophead Coupe, yellow, with chromium wire wheels.

BOHR: Are you referring to the 1600 model that has a supercharged engine, a live rear axle, four-wheel hydraulic brakes, and reaches a top speed of 115 mph?

EINSTEIN: Nothing else. It’s out there in my garage. And you forgot to mention the custom dual-pipe exhaust. It’s a gas.

BOHR: A gas? You mean it obeys Boyle’s law of pressure and volume? But look here, Albert, are you licensed to drive in New Jersey?

EINSTEIN: I had my papers airmailed from Berlin. But Niels, you miss the point. The car actually exists in my garage, unobserved.

BOHR: Then let’s go for a spin!

EINSTEIN: Alas, I am too tired at the moment. Let’s share a couple of bowls of ice cream and then have a little nap. I’ll feel more rested then.

BOHR: Ice cream! We don’t serve that in Denmark anymore due to the cone shortage. Do you have sprinkles?

EINSTEIN: No, and no cones either. I have bowls and spoons only.

BOHR: In that unfortunate situation, let’s go on talking a while. I have a thought experiment for you to consider too, my dear Albert, while I continue to ponder your coupe.

EINSTEIN (helping himself to tobacco though his doctor has forbidden it): Shoot.

BOHR: Imagine this time there are two cars. One is your magnificent yellow roadster, sitting at rest in your garage, just as you propose. It really is there, of course?

EINSTEIN: Of course. I said it was, didn’t I?

BOHR: Fine. Now imagine that a second car, a sassy red Bugatti Type 57, approaches your car at half the speed of light.

EINSTEIN: Wait a moment. This Bugatti…does it have a horseshoe grille, thermostatically-controlled engine shutters, a twin-cam engine, and a five-year power-train warranty?

BOHR: It is loaded. It’s got all the bells and whistles and an excellent warranty. And now the astonishing thing…it is mine. I parked it not twenty yards from your door when I arrived this morning to visit you. I bought it as soon as I stepped off the boat today in New York, and drove it here in under an hour, tires smoking.

EINSTEIN: I never thought to inquire how you got here. To think there is a car finer than mine in Princeton, and you are its owner! How the hell much does the Institute pay visiting Danish lecturers, anyway?

BOHR: Easy, my friend. Did you really not anticipate my rejoinder?

EINSTEIN: I demand to see this automobile at once!

BOHR (withdraws a folded magazine from his jacket pocket and tosses it Einstein’s way): That’s the latest issue of American Auto, dated January 1937. You’ll find the car on page 31 just as I described it, except the part about its belonging to me and being parked outside. You’ll agree that in the abstract it’s just as much…a gas, as you say?

EINSTEIN (uses the magazine to swat a large fly that has alit on the wall beside him, then tosses it back to Bohr): Very clever, Niels. You had me going there for a moment. I should have realized that a thought experiment is only a thought experiment.

BOHR: I now claim a ride in that yellow coupe of yours. And if you are too tired to drive, I will take the wheel. (Produces a pair of aviator goggles.) I even brought some goggles with me so I can roll the window down. I always bring a pair when I travel in case I have a chance to fly in a biplane.

EINSTEIN: Um, about the coupe. I confess my garage is empty of all matter, even of light. You see, my friend, I actually did purchase that splendid coupe two days ago, but yesterday decided I couldn’t meet the monthly payments and returned it to the dealership, well within the three-day grace period following purchase. I’m sorry if this news comes as a disappointment. (Glances at his watch.) But if you’ll be patient another few seconds…until three o’clock to be precise…I should have a favorable update for you.

(At three precisely there comes a loud knock on the door. Einstein opens it to reveal Heisenberg, a young red-headed man who speaks in a heavy German accent.)

HEISENBERG (standing in the door):  Dr Einstein? I’m Heisenberg from the car dealership. We spoke the other day about finding you a preowned car after you returned the yellow coupe. Well, professor, I tried to compare the price of the car to the mileage on the odometer, as you requested, and I made an amazing discovery. I can’t specify the mileage without knowing the price you’ll pay, and I can’t specify the price without knowing the car’s mileage. In other words, I can’t give you both the price and the mileage at the same time.

EINSTEIN: I’m willing to pay up to eight hundred dollars for a car with less than a hundred thousand miles on it. What’s so hard about that, Heisenberg?

HEISENBERG: It depends on what’s on the lot, is all I’m saying. But I should have something for you in a day or two.

BOHR (to Einstein): The sole difficulty I detect would be if you insisted on paying only eight hundred dollars for a Drophead Coupe. Think what sorry shape the tranny would be in!

HEISENBERG (taking in the two men): What about a couple of mopeds for four hundred? I can bring them around tomorrow morning.

EINSTEIN and BOHR (together): Deal!

EINSTEIN: As long as they’re flex-fuel.

HEISENBERG: Flex-fuel? Was ist das?

EINSTEIN: Just a little proposal of mine to be published in next month’s Physics Today.

BOHR: It’ll never work.

(As the scientists move on to other topics and Heisenberg exits: blackout.) 

* Happy Halloween from The Big Jewel! The most frightening thing we could come up with this year was something related to the election, from our good friend Jen Spyra. In fact, it scared us into publishing it as a special extra piece, something we never do unless we are good and terrified. Boo!

Paul Ryan Scrolls Through His Netflix Family-Friendly Halloween Suggestions With His 7-Year-Old Son

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Frankenstein

This is what you get when you let Emperor Obama have his way with health care, sweetie. One day you walk into an outpatient clinic for a routine tonsillectomy; seven hours and one lightning storm later, you’re sewn up with corpse limbs. Sure, it might be fun to dress up like an undead neuter for a costume party — but just imagine how it would feel to look like Hillary Clinton every single day of the year. Up high, Sam! And pace yourself on the Mellowcreme Harvest Mix. It’s like eating candles.

 

It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown

What’s the name of this movie? “It’s the Great Handout, Middle America?” If I recall, in this “lovable” “family-friendly” “classic,” Linus spends the night waiting for the Great Pumpkin to appear. I’ll crack open the fun-size Milk Duds right now if you know of a clearer analogy for Democrats waiting for some magical economic cure-all while they spend, spend, spend?? Here’s a little tip-or-treat, Sammy: You don’t wait for miracles to happen. You cut arts programming and health care for veterans and make that deficit go bye-bye.

 

The Addams Family

Sure, they’re creepy and they’re kooky — but what’s more is that they’re unemployed. And I can tell you something else, pal: Uncle Fester, the guy practically raising those kids by himself, ain’t fooling anyone with the bachelor act. You know what a bachelor is, honey. Remember how Mommy’s brother Ricky left Aunt Karen to live with that antiques dealer with the rattail? And Mommy hasn’t let Ricky see you in four years? That’s because he has the same lifestyle as Uncle Fester.

 

Scream

If liberals get their way and sex-ed replaces math and science, kids all over this country will turn kissing-crazy just like the high school hellcats in this movie! Goodbye promise rings, hello adult wrestling in the backseat of foreign hybrids. What’s adult wrestling? Fair question, honey. Adult wrestling is something married men and women do when they’re in love, or when they need a stress valve that also diminishes the likelihood of coronary disease. I don’t know why Mommy makes wrestling noises when she’s alone in the bathtub, no. More Mellowcreme Harvest Mix?

 

Father of the Bride II

What’s this doing here? No idea. But I do know this: if we didn’t outsource our jobs to robots, maybe Netflix queues would be more intuitive and service would start to mean something in this country. That being said, how hilarious is it when Martin Short leads that mommies-to-be aerobics class? I can’t get enough of Diane Keaton. That’s it, I’m watching this again tonight.

 

Casper

Here we go, the original welfare queen. I’m sorry, honey, but here’s a guy who’s perfected the art of getting free handouts by rattling a chain. And don’t give me that crap about how he’s so friendly — you’d better be friendly if you’re going to live in my house rent-free. Remember how we let Uncle Ricky live in the game room back when Aunt Christie threw him out? Uncle Ricky hung out all day in his robe, just like Casper.

 

Rosemary’s Baby

Aren’t women great? Finally, a movie that shows how a single mom can triumph, without the help of Big Government, in the face of adversity. A woman with understandable concerns about motherhood decides to keep her baby, raising it with the help of family and friends — not food stamps. It’s a heartwarming tale of self-reliance for young and old alike. Break out the Sno-Caps, kiddo!