* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are happy to report that our prayers have been answered. We were hoping for a piece that could portray how people REALLY pray, and here it is, courtesy of Kathryn A. Higgins. Blessings.

My Prayer

By: Kathryn Higgins

After the Our Father, when it’s time for me to pray in church, I really just kneel and wish for shit (Petition). It’s not an abstract yearning, like I do in regular life, but an articulation of actual wishes, as if I were in a fairy tale — I’m the fisherman who’s caught the magical golden fish in his net.

I think, subconsciously, that there’s always a catch with wishes. I wonder if I have worded my wishes correctly. I think of the wishes as bargains, and wonder what price I would have to pay if any of my wishes were granted, and I wonder if they are really worth that price. I realize that my prayers (wishes) are self-serving and that God, if She did exist (which I then pause to doubt), would not approve.

So then I contritely think about all the bad stuff I’ve done in the last week that I regret. I struggle to think of anything so bad it’s worth God’s notice, and then I sort of universally apologize for things like getting mad at other drivers and being impatient and hurt when my son answers me in monosyllables and for saying the F-word when I didn’t get a job I’d hoped I’d get (Expiation).

I think that despite all the bad shit, I am happy about my son and daughter, even though they’re adolescents, which is a challenge. I start thanking God for them, and then I remember I did most of the work (Thanksgiving).

I think that even if Christ hadn’t died for our sins, or if He hadn’t actually risen from the dead (and I stop to wonder why this is necessary), then, regardless, He was a really cool person (Adoration). Then, taking Him as an example, I dutifully wish for some good shit for other people, or I think with empathy about those who are troubled or sick or dead, trying to send them good vibes, or I wish that I could be a better mother to my children (still Petition, with an effort at Charity and Love).

Then I think I would indeed be a better mother if some of my original wishes — I mean prayers — were granted. Because I would be happier, more fulfilled, less poor and frantic and bitchy and embattled by horrors like Customer Service and my ex-husband (Resentment).

And then, as long as I’m going there, I pray for some bad shit to happen to all the people who’ve disrespected me, in whatsoever way, so that my circumstances would seem better in comparison or just because I want to indulge in some Schadenfreude, and why not? I think of Sodom and Gomorrah and Jonah (Vengefulness). Then I reel myself back in again and remember that “God” wouldn’t approve (or would She?) (Contrition), and so I end by wishing for world peace for all those assholes out there, world without end, Amen.

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where our favorite love song is called "I've Grown Accustomed to Your Typeface." This week we'd like to introduce Courtney Maum, whose first piece for us is about the love that dares not italicize its name.

The OkCupid Profile Of The Typeface Curlz MT

By: Courtney Maum

Curlz_MT

33/F/Straight/Single

Worcester, Massachusetts

 

My self-summary:

Well, I’m a happy-go-lucky type of girl who’s really into friendship and good old-fashioned fun. I have a lot of girlfriends and a very active life, but I still find myself with times when I am alone and wishing I had someone special with me to share my love of life!

 

What I’m doing with my life:

Well — I guess you could say I work in marketing. I have lots of jobs. I advertise services at like nail salons and pet stores, and I’m on the takeout menus of a ton of high end cupcake shops — that’s one of the reasons I like cupcakes so much. (Probably too much ;-] ) I could probably be more athletic if I tried. If you’re super athletic, you probably shouldn’t message me. I’m more of a homebody and don’t want to gross you out!

 

I’m really good at:

Writing letters

Bicycling sometimes

 

First things people notice:

Um, the whimsical curlicues at my nethermost edges? Also — my curly hair. Lovers of humidity need not apply!

 

Favorite books, movies, shows, food:

Ooofff — so many to think of! Steel Magnolias, Mystic Pizza — basically anything with Julia Roberts, obvs. Loved, loved, loved The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, and the bar scenes from Coyote Ugly make me want to dance! I totally crack for strawberry piña coladas and Chex Mix krispie cakes. Basically, anything with melted marshmallow has my name on it. Like, literally. I would love love love to see a real musical one day. Wicked or South Pacific — your pick!

 

6 things I can’t do without:

Friends and family <3 <3 <3

My SkyRest travel pillow and lavender vanilla sleep spray

“On a clear day” foaming acne cleanser

Pastel Post-it notes

My ten-pack of glitter glue sticks

My signed poster of Gill Sans Ultra Bold (swoooon!!)

 

I spend a lot of time thinking about:

Key lime flavored Jell-O

Apple Chancery, that snoot!

Will I find someone to love me

 

Typical Friday night:

Margaritas w/the ladees == (P. Colada for me!!), a little keno, karaoke. A couple pizzas, bed!

If I had a BF = takeout food and movies, Pinterest uploads, “me time” on the couch!

 

Most private thing I’m willing to admit:

Sometimes I have dreams that I’m Apple Chancery — the most popular decorative sans serif typeface in town — and I have expensive sheets in these dreams and crystal cups of strawberries and I fit into a size four pair of white pants and have gold bracelets on my arms and people take things off my bill at brunch because I’m too pretty to pay full price for my egg-white omelet and I have a beautiful, fantastical, sparkling apple life!

 

I’m looking for:

      Sans-serifs who like serifs!

      Ages 27-52

      Fans of Mac OS X Tiger

      For new friends

 

Last online:  Online now

Height:  Typically, 12 pt

Body type:  Curvy

Drinks:  Um, what?

Drugs:  NEVA EVA

Sign:  Aquarius and it matters a lot

Job:  Sales/Marketing/Biz Dev

Offspring:  Hoping!! Would one day love to make a little wingding of my own!

 

You should message me if:

You are outgoing but only up to a certain point, (like not too embarrassing, like if ur talking to everyone except me in a bar), if you like weekend barbeques with family and friends, parakeets (really) and red chocolate velvet cupcakes with heaps of extra icing! No smokers allowed — yucky — but I will be there for you if you’ve quit.

 

Regardless of future plans, what’s most interesting to you right now?

True love!

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, which is like a finger painting about the art of laughter. This week we welcome our dear friend Phil Austin (yes, that Phil Austin, of the Firesign Theatre), who has an artsy piece all his own. The word picture he paints is not pretty, but then comedy never is.

Art Of The Insane

By: Phil Austin

Well, here you go and there you go. You’re back and I’m still here, week after blessed week. I’m Billy Flamnigan and I’m on TV and today if you’ll stick with me, we’ll find out how to achieve the kind of art on canvas that the truly insane seem to be able to paint with little or no effort or thought.

Haven’t you admired those loony-eyes-on-tramps or Jesus-riding-on-a-locomotive paintings that you used to be able to pick up for pennies but that now you can find selling for astronomically inflated prices in actual galleries in the big cities? Well, none of it is as hard as it seems. I’d like you to go along with me today and try this. Don’t be afraid. It’s just not as hard as it looks to achieve truly insane effects without going through the rigorous training that highly paid insane artists evidently have to pretend to suffer through.

I’m going to show you how to do it standing on your head, although don’t try that. It would be insane.

First, let’s take out a fresh canvas. One of my favorite techniques is to pee all over a new surface before painting on it. It yellows the background and gives the work a smell that will put you in the mood to create some Outsider Art. In fact, you’ll want to step outside every once in a while and perhaps open some windows in your studio. I’m just using my hair dryer on it here…There you go — the odor will put you smack dab in the attic or dungeon or wherever you like to imagine the mad artist painting and scraping and peeing. There, that’s just right.

Now, let’s take some paint…How about this color here? It doesn’t matter what actual color it is, they’re pretty much all the same. Let’s make a clown, everyone knows how to do that, and…let’s have him crying. We’ll use some other color for his tears — this one will probably do. You’ll notice I’m using a brush with a number on it. It really doesn’t matter what number it is, just as long as there is something written on the brush which will give you the authority to just paint away.

Now, I’ve pretty much made a reputation for not painting clowns, as I see those works coming from aging actresses or lounge singers who need desperately to get on midday TV shows, but we’re breaking all the rules today, because the Art of the Insane has its own set of rules. And one of those rules is that your painting should not be just cute or affecting. There’s nothing necessarily insane about a crying clown…unless he’s got a knife.

And speaking of getting on TV, well, take it from someone who already is on TV, it’s a tricky deal to be both insane and famous. Surely you’ve heard of Andy Warhol? That guy is more popular now that he’s dead than he was when he was alive, and people were hoping he would be dead so the prices of his work would be driven up and up. While Andy Warhol was not actually insane, he was so famous that people thought he was, and yet he could never realize the big profits he might have made had he painted Jesus on locomotives or clowns with knives. He wasted his time on detergent boxes and pictures of actors, things a truly insane artist would not look at twice.

Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Let’s have Clowny grasping a knife, kind of waving it around. There you go. And let’s just put a locomotive under him. Locomotives are dark and to achieve the effect, just mix a bunch of different paints together and, easy as pie, darkness is yours. Let’s put a pie in his other hand. You don’t want to put a Jesus and a clown in the same painting, because then you’re minimizing your potential profits. Spread your art out, don’t pile too much art in any one place.

Just wet the brush like this and roll it…There you go. I think they call this color orange, or something like that. Wipe off the brush on your pants, if you’re wearing pants, and if not, just wipe the brush between your legs, because we’re sure to find a clever use for it later on.

Now for some sky. I like sky because it signifies that we’re outdoors, but to the insane artist it has some deeper meaning that we can never know. Put it on with your trowel…Just kind of slap it back and forth. Let’s use some of these tubes of paint that haven’t been used yet. Let’s put a hat on the scarecrow…some death’s heads and a gardenia. I think that’s a gardenia, but who cares really. By the way, I don’t recommend peeing on the painting again at this point. Enough is enough.

And now, before you know it and coincidental with the end of this program, you’ve got something that will look real nice stacked up with a bunch of pictures of seagulls and sailboats at a yard sale, but will do even better at a fancy New York gallery filled with rich people who are convinced they are not insane and can therefore appreciate insanity from a respectable distance. And it will increase in value the more famous you get. So start dying your hair and getting shot by one of your girlfriends, or better yet, paint on one of your girlfriends in a bathtub as she shoots you and then duplicate everything hundreds of times and before long you’ll be the toast of Toast Island and just as unhappy as you can be, the subject of so much stultifying commentary that children of the future are preparing even now to be bored by you and your wacky antics.

I’ll see you next week, when we’ll discuss the kind of collectible Folk Art made of bottles and slag that you can turn into a drive-in chapel or grotto and sell postcards from and live like a prince in a small Airstream trailer on the grounds. This is Billy Flamnigan, for Art of the Insane.

 

*Welcome to The Big Jewel, where your anonymity is guaranteed. Unless you apply for a job with a certain group that shall remain nameless.

Application For Hacker Group Anonymous

By: David Beitzel

Step 1: General Info

Name: (Trick question)

Address: (Again, trick question)

Social Security #: (Seriously, we want that one)

E-mail: (jk; we got it when you e-mailed this)

Online handles: (Xbox LIVE gamertags are acceptable; AIM screen names are not)

Previous experience: (Please exclude successful rickrolls)

Education: (Note: online universities are not the “iVies”)

Ethnicity:

___ Asian

___ Other

 

Step 2: Questionnaire*

*In answers, omit as few vowels as possible and refrain from substituting numbers for letters. Only n00bs do tht. XP

Have you ever been convicted of a felony? (If less than 17 times, please explain)

Can you keep a secret? (If “No,” skip to Step 3)

# of times friends have referenced Hackers movie after finding out what you do: (If more than 0, please explain)

If you could hack into any desert island, what would it be?

Name three pieces of hacker pop-culture that do not contain Keanu Reeves.

How much does your grandmother brag about your “computer job?”

Have you seen The IT Crowd?

What are the three worst things about Internet Explorer? (Everyone seems to hate it, so we just play along and use Google Chrome, but we really don’t know why.)

Speaking of, can you help me Google directions to the nearest The Wall? I have a lifetime guarantee on some CDs I need to exchange.

Do you remember Bing?

Man, you’ve got to see The IT Crowd. Are they bringing that to America?

You work on computers, right? Could you take a look at my PC? I feel like it’s been really slow lately.

How many dozens of anti-virus programs is too many?

We need to know how much you know about how the Internet works. So hypothetically, say someone looked at YouPorn and then cleared his browser history. His wife wouldn’t be able to find it, would she? I mean, I’m cool, right?

Sooooo, would you happen to know where one could see those Scarlett Johansson pics?

Also there’s a gentlewoman whose name the fellas have been bandying about, a Kate Upton, I do believe. She seems like a real class act. Is there somewhere on this “Internet” where one might read more about her background, perchance?

And you said that that person from the previous question is cool, right? Like, even if they’re viewing some slightly “advanced” material?

Why do I keep getting all these e-mails for Viagra and something called Rod Rocket™?

Wait, are you going through my browser history right now? But I cleared that — I thought I was cool!

What do you mean that act is illegal in 47 states!?

Oh my God, you won’t tell my wife about this, will you? It’ll destroy my family. I can’t go to jail.

Okay, get it together, man. We can figure this out.

Seriously, you can keep a secret, can’t you? Don’t narc me out, bro. I know where you live. Wait, no I don’t! GO BACK AND FILL OUT YOUR ADDRESS SO I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE!!!

 

Step 3: Please submit completed application to director@fbi.gov.

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are always ready to fight for truth, justice and the American way. Just don't make us fight in a hole. Especially the hole where Matt Rowan is hiding.

Fight In A Hole

By: Matt Rowan

Hey you — you wanna talk all big, guy? I’m right here. Right down here in this hole.

See me now? Down here? Over here? No, down over here.

Yeah, that’s it.

So like I say, come on down. Fight me. Any time, anywhere in this hole.

Do you see me down here? No, not do you see “the hole.” We already went over that. Of course you can see the hole. Can you see me inside of the hole? Ha! Not really, probably? It’s probably not very easy, guy! I’m really concealed down here, in this hole.

What if, inside this hole, I am a little to your left? Or I’m a little to your right? With a radius of roughly two and a half feet, these things matter. Come down here and find out exactly how much. I’m prepared to be kicked in the face as you climb in. Are you prepared for me to gnaw on your boot with my pretty strong teeth and mandible?

Because you’d better be.

C’mon! Come down here and fight like a man in a hole. Oh what? You’re too “honorable” to fight in a hole like a man who’s so much of a “coward” he has to fight in a hole, using the weapons he keeps in his hole for protection against capable fighters?

You’re not better than me, man; you don’t have your own hole to fight in. My hole heightens my own natural fighting abilities to such an extent that I would literally put myself at a disadvantage were I to fight outside of my hole. For example, there are things I can’t do outside of my hole that, for one reason or another, are entirely within my means down here: biting, clawing at and gouging eyes, tearing scrotums, and spitting in faces, all while screaming. You don’t know what fighting method I will choose! You cannot make me feel shame for my ways as has happened so many times in the light of day, outside the advantage of my hole!

The anonymity you learn in a hole is what makes fighting me in this hole so dangerous. As I’ve said, am I to your left or to your right? Am I extremely tall or portly and dumpy-looking? You can’t know for certain.

Of course this isn’t exactly a hole. I’ve actually burrowed into the side of a hill. It’s really a kind of half hole / half dirt cave sort of thing. I get a lot of dirt in my mouth. But as far as fighting goes, I’m tough to beat. Now, sure, I have been beaten. I don’t pretend to be invincible in my hole, just very threatening and dirty. And I’m close to invincible.

I lose maybe half the time, tops.

Besides, most often I’m fighting my greatest enemy, which is the hole itself. It collapses a lot because I initially neglected to determine the integrity of the soil I’ve dug myself into. I’ve since added load-bearing buttresses that work very well except on those occasions when I knock them out of position and have to dig myself out of my greatest enemy, the enemy within, that I’m within. The hole itself, remember?

Yes, the hole continues to cave in, often smothering me while I sleep. But I’m a feisty digger, which is one among other things that makes me too threatening for non-hole-dwelling society. It’s a large part of why I’ve come to reside here, down here, in here.

So go ahead and try it, buddy. Start something you can’t finish. One man, one hole, one boy not prepared to deal with one man in one hole, that’s what you’ll get in here. And yes, I referred to you as a boy. You can only do something about it down here, so c’mon.

Oh, what’s that you’ve got there? Cute. A “weapon?” I’ve got way better weapons than that down here, than that flimsy old stick. Oh and what are you doing now? You’re sharpening an end of it? What, you think that stick’s even going to fit down here? This hole is maybe, tops, six feet deep. It won’t do you any good down here, but hop down and see. Give it a try. I think you’ll find I’ve learned a thing or two since the last time I was bested by a man wielding a much too long tree branch.

Wait, no, quit stabbing at me from a safe distance outside of the hole. No, come in here and try stabbing! Come fight in the hole! Stop stabbing to the left. I’m to the right. I swear. I wouldn’t lie to you. Don’t be misled by that flesh-puncturing sound!

Ahhhhhhhhhh, my super strong mandible!

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, home of the classic hits, as well as the best of the eighties, nineties and today! And then there's Rick Springfield. His story is so dark and twisted that it takes a dark and twisted guy like Dan Rozier to tell it.

This Diary Is Property Of: JeSsIe’s GuRL!

By: Dan Rozier

8/1/1979

Dear Diary,

It happened!! Jessie and I are officially going steady. He asked me at Dairy Queen on Friday — talk about summer loving! His best friend Rick Springfield met us there and bought us celebratory Dilly Bars — he even knew to get me strawberry! It’s just like they say: the best is yet to come!

8/30/1979

Dear Diary,

Jessie, Rick and I went to the movies. He goes on most of our dates. We’re like the three musketeers except Rick is the only one with a mustache.

9/22/1979

Dear Diary,

Jessie and I had our first real kiss on Saturday at Luke Wimmer’s party! It came out of nowhere! Spontaneous and romantic = total package. Rick was drunk and cornered me. He said something about teaching himself guitar and then stumbled away. Today he told everyone that he hooked up with Tracey Meyer in the bed of his truck, but there’s a rumor it was a bag of yard waste. Tracey didn’t come to school today.

10/3/1979

Dear Diary,

Rick keeps winking at me. When I told Jessie about it he just laughed and said not to worry, Rick has a nervous tick, especially around pretty girls.

10/24/1979

Dear Diary,

Today has been one of those days that makes me really want to graduate so I can do my own thing. Jessie says he wants to go to college, but I’m still on the fence about it. Rick must want to go to architecture school because he has tons of blueprints in his locker.

12/9/1979

Dear Diary,

Today we went to the park and Jessie told me he loved me. I can’t even describe how happy I am right now. My hands are shaking so much I can barely write! I know I’m only a senior, but I think he’s the one. I love Jessie so much. Rick was there, too. He doesn’t know we saw him and what he was doing, but we did.

2/14/1980

Dear Diary,

We’re engaged! Jessie got down on one knee and everything. I’m going to have to get used to being called a “fiancée” — so fancy! We decided we want a summer wedding and I already asked Liz to be my maid of honor. Rick is Jessie’s best man and he was so excited that he immediately started crying uncontrollably!

11/8/1980

Dear Diary,

Sorry it’s been so long! I’ve been so busy GETTING MARRIED! The wedding was beautiful! I can’t believe it’s already over. Jessie even cried a little — he’s such a softy! Rick gave a toast and said something about my eyes and loving Jessie with my body. He needs to find a nice girl, settle down and stop smelling my hair.

3/9/1981

Dear Diary,

Married life is great. Jessie and I are saving for a house so I’m still living with my parents for now. They’re in Florida for the summer but Jessie’s always over. Last night we had a quiet dinner at home, but Rick’s food got cold because he spent the entire night measuring the doorframes and whispering “perfect” to himself.

3/10/1981

Dear Diary,

I think I’m in the trunk of a car.

3/12/1981

Dear Diary,

Still in the basement. I don’t know how I got down here, but I do know Tracey Meyer won’t stop talking and she smells like dad after he cuts the grass.

3/12/1981

Dear Diary,

Whoever’s upstairs is really good at guitar!

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are quick to point out that we publish only fiction, not thinly veiled autobiography by people who should probably be medicated, if not locked up. Please say hello to Sam O'Brien.

It Was The Perfect Con

By: Sam O'Brien

My sweet, gullible Laurie. You played right into my hands with this little ruse I created called “our relationship.” It’s time I came clean. I’m a con man — a master of chicanery, duplicity, and, as you’re well aware, seduction.

I’m sorry you had to find out this way, with me in my Cinnabon cashier disguise, stuffing my rucksack in the bedroom we used to share and rushing off to my next scam. All in front of your new and sudden boyfriend, no less. I can only imagine how embarrassing and confusing this must be for you. The answers will fall into place in due time, my dear — hopefully in a mind-blowing, Usual Suspects kind of way.

What was the con, you ask? Oh, was there a con! The con to end all cons! I bet you’re dying to know how I pulled it off, too. Well, I’ll tell you. And not because Kyle is looming over me, demanding it, but because I think you deserve to know.

It all started when I first saw you at Freshman Orientation. I knew you’d be the perfect mark. I smiled and waved. You rolled your eyes and suggestively turned your back to me. The game was afoot!

I spent the next few years conning my way into knowing everything about you: crying until the registrar put me in your classes, crying until your friends invited me to your party, feigning illness (and crying) so that your roommates didn’t call the cops when they found me in the bushes with my telephoto lens — their sympathy no match for my cunning.

I was patient. This much is key to a successful con. By the time we met, I was armed with all the intelligence necessary to woo you. And you slid right into my hands. Like butter on a piece of bread that is then used to butter an ear of corn.

Are the pieces falling together yet? That chance meeting at the bakery the morning Brad broke up with you (where I’d been working for two years since seeing you eat there that one time), my brazen “Everything okay?” as I handed you your cupcake, and your very sudden, very public meltdown. I took you aside, feeding you sweets and soothing platitudes. And when you were at your weakest and most vulnerable, I seized my moment and asked you out.

After that, coffee dates turned into dinner dates, which then turned into a shared apartment with your name on the lease, but my name on the rent checks. You see, earning your target’s trust is important, but the con man’s greatest trick is making it seem like he trusts his target. This is my specialty. I reeled you in with my finest displays of complete and unjustified confidence: agreeing to an open relationship, allowing you to pay your half of the rent in IOUs and sensual hugs, politely ignoring Kyle’s presence in the apartment the past week. All layers within my intricate onion of deceit.

You may not know it now, but one day, you’ll start to see just how much I took you for. First, it’ll be the small things: a drawer suspiciously lacking our fine IKEA cutlery — rightfully half mine anyway, since I drove you all the way to Jersey for it. Or maybe it’ll be a dusty alley between DVDs, where our box set of The Wire once stood. You’ll be upset, but you’ll also find yourself fighting off the urge to find me, as you imagine me in my new and exciting life, where I’m slicing meats of rigorous consistencies and challenging my sociopolitical biases. You will then take inventory of your home — and your heart — and realize you’re missing something far more valuable than your favorite pair of underwear. Something priceless and me-shaped.

You probably still have feelings for me, but let’s face it: somewhere deep inside me beats the heart of a two-bit hood, eternally rubbing his filthy, cutoff-gloved hands together and plotting his next swindle.

Go with Kyle. He’ll treat you right. It’s time I moved on to my next con anyway. You might see me in the future. Maybe you’ll think you see me in the supermarket, shuffling around in a majestic wolf sweatshirt, flannel pajama pants and Crocs. Maybe you’ll think you see me buying $8 wine, a party-size bag of Funions, and a discount bin movie about a dog that plays human sports. Maybe it is me and that’s my disguise and I’m off on a new adventure in bamboozlement. You have no idea who I am now or who I will be tomorrow. Keep living in blissful ignorance, Laurie. It’s rather becoming on you.

What do you say? One more trick for the road? Pick a card, my dear. It’ll only take a moment. In approximately thirty seconds I will jump out this window, land into a hopefully not-glass-filled dumpster, and make my escape. Enjoy your life with Kyle. Because you have paid handsomely for it. I have outfoxed you.

Was this your card?

I think you’re lying.

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are not ashamed to admit that we never saw The Neverending Story. On the other hand, Sarah Meyer's piece is so good that we don't really care about the source material. Also, it actually has an ending.

What Artax The Horse Was Thinking Before He Sank Into The Swamps Of Sadness: Another Neverending Story

By: Sarah Meyer

Whew, it feels good just to slow down! This has been a heck of a quest. I mean, galloping across the Grassy Plains with Atreyu is my idea of a perfect afternoon, but this has been nonstop! That’s okay — the quest must be really important or Atreyu wouldn’t be so serious about it. He’s so focused! I admire that. I’m such an ol’ space cadet, me.

So this is a swamp? Never seen one before. It’s…a bit gloomy for my taste. But then I’m spoiled, living on the Grassy Plains. The Grassy Plains are the best.

Wow, this mud is relentless. I’ve got mud in all my horse places! And it does not smell great.

Aw, quit your whining, Artax. You’re on an adventure! How cool is that! Just like Daddy always said, your cheerful disposition’ll get you through anything! Thanks, Dad!

I do hope we wrap the quest up soon, though. Can’t wait to get back to the paddock, nice warm blanket, big bucket of oats. Oats are the best.

See, I am just straight up hungry, is all.

And tired. And muddy. Mud is the worst.

Snap out of it, Artax, you’re all right. Besides, this whole thing is bigger than you. There’s so much at stake here, like the future of Fantasia! Apparently. I’m not clear on the specific parameters of the quest. Like, what we’re supposed to be doing. Or why we’re in this swamp. I guess Atreyu’s meeting a quest-related person? Hope we find them soon! Ain’t no carrots in this swamp — ha!

Nope, nooooo carrots. Not a one.

I’m feeling pretty crummy, if I’m honest with myself. And sort of…melon…what’s that word? Melatonin? Melancholy, that’s it. Boy, I gotta start doing the crossword again, my vocab’s gone to shit.

‘Course I never was the sharpest nail in the horseshoe.

Is the mud getting deeper or is it just me? It is just me. Atreyu! I’m, like, four feet tall all of a sudden. What the heck?

Aw, shucks, he can’t understand me. I wish I could talk. Why are there racing snails and giant bats and flying dragon dogs all over the place, but no talking horses? Why no gift of speech for ol’ Artax? It sure is a whimsical, fantastical world we live in. Barely makes any sense, if you think about it.

Atreyu! He’s not even turning around. He’s a man on a mission today. He’s been talking about the Childlike Empress and the Nothing and blah blah human blah for days. Last night he didn’t even read to me.

Lousy quest. What a dumb word. Quest. Sounds like the symptom of a disease: oh, Artax has Fantasian tick fever and he’s questing from every orifice!

What’s gotten into me? I don’t want to blame my surroundings but this swamp is a bummer.

Now Atreyu’s noticed I’ve slowed down. I’m such a worthless slacker.

Quit yanking on my reins you…you buckskin-wearing punk! That’s right, I think your outfit is stupid! Who do you think you are with your shirt open to the navel? You’re fourteen for neighing out loud!

Wow, I’m not budging. I am officially stuck in the mud.

Whatever, it’s probably better this way.

God, I’m fat.

And I bet my foals think I’m a deadbeat sire.

I can’t remember the sun.

Neverending? Whatever.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where there is no such thing as bad children, only bad parents. And none worse than Paula Lynn Johnson.

We Need To Talk About Braden

By: Paula Lynn Johnson

Dear Mrs. Johnson:

Braden spilled paint on another student’s artwork today. Although the student was in tears, Braden refused to apologize. I would appreciate it if you talked to him about the importance of saying “sorry.”

Sincerely,

Joanne MacDonald, Head Teacher, Lil’ Sprouts School (Tadpole Room)

 

Dear Mrs. MacDonald:

I’m so embarrassed! Of course I’ll speak to Braden. Please don’t hesitate to alert me to any more incidents. Working in tandem, I’m confident you and I can nip any problems in the bud.

My sincere thanks,

Paula Lynn Johnson

 

Dear Mrs. Johnson:

Braden had a difficult day. Another student complained that Braden was “touching” him. When I moved their seats apart, Braden persisted in reaching his hands as close as possible to the student without making contact. He then taunted, “I’m not touching you!” This was very annoying and interfered with our game of Alphabet Bingo. Please speak with Braden about the importance of respecting others.

Sincerely,

Joanne MacDonald

 

Dear Joanne:

Thanks for the heads-up, but I think there’s been a misunderstanding. You see, Braden and I are both certified third-degree Reiki masters, via our Mommy and Me and Reiki classes. Braden assures me he was placing his hands near Max merely to clean his aura, which is apparently quite filthy. As such, we can hardly fault Braden for channeling the universe’s positive energy to give a classmate the psychic healing he so desperately needs (and free of charge, I might add).

Alphabet Bingo sounds like fun!

Cheers,

Paula Lynn Johnson

 

Dear Mrs. Johnson:

Braden could not seem to stop talking during Quiet Time today. His constant chatter was disruptive, and I was forced to remove him to the Time Out chair. Please tell me what consequences you are using at home for this behavior.

Regards,

Joanne MacDonald

 

Mrs. MacD:

I’m so sorry about Braden and his big fat yap. In our house, Quiet Time is strictly enforced with television. I’m not sure if you have access to a flat-screen, but if you park him in front of one, you won’t hear a peep out of him. Just turn on some cartoons or, in a pinch, some Dexter (his favorite!) and the little guy will sit tight for hours (assuming you also keep the chicken fingers coming. Seriously, don’t run out of those. Oh — and make sure they’re shaped like dinosaurs or it could get dicey).

Good luck!

Paula

 

Mrs. Johnson:

Today Braden announced to the class that there is no Santa. It was quite upsetting. You need to explain to him why we don’t say such things.

Joanne MacDonald

 

J-Mac:

I’m not sure you’re aware of this, but there is no Santa. Also no Easter Bunny. Sorry to lay this on you all at once, but I figured it was about time you knew.

Peace Out,

P-Jizzle

 

Mrs. Johnson:

Despite my repeated instructions to stop, your son continues to eat our glue sticks. I’m really beside myself at this point.

Joanne MacDonald

 

Yo, bitch!

Have you ever tried glue sticks? They’re really good. Typically, I like to smear them on sourdough crisps and pair them with some artisanal cheese and a nice Sauvignon Blanc, maybe even a Pinot Grigio. Give it a whirl — your taste buds will thank you.

Later,

Funky P

 

Dear Mrs. Johnson:

I am writing to inform you that your son Braden is expelled from Lil’ Sprouts School, effective immediately. As you know, he showed up for our Halloween parade in a clown suit and wielding a large, blood-smeared machete. This is an egregious violation of our zero-tolerance weapons policy and, per our handbook, cause for dismissal. Moreover, it was extremely traumatic for the little ones. You should be ashamed of yourself.

Regretfully yours,

Denise Fritzger, Principal

 

To Principal Fritzger and Posse:

Braden was a Killer Clown. Do you understand the concept? Basically, we’re talking about a clown that kills, indiscriminately and ruthlessly. Drop the machete, and you have a mere circus clown, which misses the whole point.

Let me assure you that the blood was totally fake. The machete, however, was not, and I take full responsibility for that. Braden has been handling knives since he was able to walk, and I suppose I didn’t take into account that the other children are light-years behind him, developmentally speaking. Call this my “teachable moment.” For his part, Braden is heartbroken that he has to miss the class party, as he planned on showing everyone his sword-juggling skills.

My bad,

Paula Lynn Johnson

P.S.: I hope this won’t hurt our admissions application for Caitlyn, Braden’s little sister. She’s half his size, but you won’t BELIEVE what she can do with a crossbow!

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, your last best, hope of surviving the day. Let Beverly Petravicius be your ghoulish guide.

Survival TV

By: Beverly Petravicius

You don’t usually think about the fact that death could be just seconds away. That will change when you watch The Biography Channel’s I Survived, where survivors of freak accidents, horrific crimes and other macabre misfortunes tell how they cheated death. The show ostensibly inspires us with the survivors’ courage. More importantly, though, it alerts us to the potential of being assaulted by a mentally unstable chimpanzee or getting stuck in a combine harvester. The fact that I Survived is now in its fifth season should tell you that the potential is alarmingly high.

The message of I Survived is that a fierce determination to live combined with rational thinking can keep you alive through a seemingly hopeless situation. Of course, most people in those situations die and therefore don’t get to appear on TV. So I Survived is really a lesson in what situations should be avoided. As it turns out, it’s pretty much all of them. While it takes a lot of courage to escape death, it takes some real planning to avoid it altogether.

You don’t have to hike through the Amazon during monsoon season to attract death’s attention. Death isn’t so busy with hang gliders, hitchhikers and the guy on his roof trying to dislodge a hornets’ nest that it can’t find time to mess with someone visiting the library. Death doesn’t need you to put yourself in a risky situation because death is resourceful. You can be driving home, swerve to avoid a deer, and end up with a tree branch lodged in your neck.

I Survived teaches us that interacting with people dramatically increases your odds of dying. So ideally you should never speak to anyone that you can’t outrun. On the job, ignore anyone claiming to be a customer and don’t ever fire anyone. Dating is also a bad idea. Ex-boyfriends are dangerous. Current boyfriends aren’t much better. In fact, all men should be regarded with suspicion.

Death’s favorite place to attack, though, is nature. The outdoors is a dangerous place. For example, people fall off mountains. They usually fall a long way and almost always hit something hard. People on mountains who manage not to fall off are usually attacked by a mountain lion or trapped in a blizzard. Nothing good ever happens on a mountain.

I Survived also teaches us to stay away from water. Water is great when it’s in, say, a bottle. Water in its natural habitat, though, is dangerous. A staggering amount of recreation takes place in water despite the fact that water wants nothing to do with us. We know this because if water liked people it wouldn’t be filled with sharks.

The woods are also trying to kill you. Trees, in particular, should be avoided. Apparently they fall a lot. Bears show up in several I Survived episodes, and they are always in the woods. Bears hate people as much as water does.

Implicit in every episode of I Survived is the fact that while dying is always a bummer, it’s even worse if you die in an unusual way. Your death then overshadows everything about your life. Surviving a bizarre accident makes you interesting. Dying in one makes you odd. Future generations will have conversations about you that go something like this:

Kid: Mom, tell me about great-uncle Bob.

Mom: He developed a cure for cancer.

Kid: Wow! What happened to him?

Mom: He died cleaning the gutters. He fell off the ladder and severed an artery on a pair of nail clippers he had in his pocket.

Kid: What a moron.

Mom: Tell me about it.

I Survived gives people hope that they can live through anything if they stay calm and refuse to give up. Yet the fact remains that most people in these situations will cry, pee their pants and then die. The smartest way to live, therefore, is to stay home, alone. And don’t put nail clippers in your pocket.