* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we sometimes publish things that even yo mama could understand. Like this one from our good friend Mark Peters.

The Book Of Yomamasis

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In the beginning God created heaven and earth. Your mom was already around, looking for customers.

The earth was without form, and void, especially of moral fiber, what with your mom running around air-humping nothingness and offering five-dollar handsies to the void.

And God said, “Ew.”

God felt queasy and collapsed on the couch for a while. Then God got Himself together and moved upon the face of the waters.

And God said, “Let there be light.” And there was light. The light provided a clearer view of your mom, and God said “Ack!”

God said, “Jesus, that’s too much light! Way, way too much light.”

So God divided the light from the darkness and made damn sure there was always some darkness, because of your mom and her face.

And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night, and your mom he called “Ugh!”

And the evening and the morning were the first day.

And God said, “Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters, and maybe if I get lucky your mom will drown.”

And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters that were above the firmament, and your mom said, “I like things that are firm!” God sighed.

And He called the firmament Heaven, and put up signs warning against your mom, and also some chicken wire.

And the evening and the morning were the second day.

And God called the dry land Earth, and the gathering together of the waters he called Seas, and God saw, much to his chagrin, that the abundance of waters had neither drowned your mom nor improved her complexion.

And the earth brought forth grass and herbs and seeds and trees, and your mom smoked or inserted or tried to sell it all.

And the evening and the morning were the third day.

And God said, “Let there be lights in the firmaments of the heaven to divide the day from night, and to shine a light about the earth, especially on your mom’s activities, so vice squads can catch her.”

And God made the sun and the stars. Lots of stars. Surely one could support life intelligent, violent, and wise enough to take care of your mom once and for all.

And the evening and the morning were the fourth day.

At this point, your mom was really pissing off the supreme being, so God said, “Let the waters bring forth abundantly moving creatures that hath life, and fowl that may fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven.” The birds, God hoped, would crap on your mom’s head, and maybe something else would maul her. God had to catch a break sometime.

And so God created great whales, but they were not big enough to eat your mom. In fact, she molested them. And God created every living creature that moveth, and every winged fowl, and before the fifth day your mom had humped 71.6% of them. God was seriously thinking about nuking this planet and trying His luck on Mars.

But God blessed the creatures anyway, saying, “Be fruitful and multiply, but not with your mom. She’s got hepatitis B, and God knows what else.”

And the evening and the morning were the fifth day.

And God said, “What the hell, let the earth bring forth more living creatures, such as cattle, and creeping things, including the creeping things in your mom’s hoo-ha.” God cracked Himself up with that one.

And God said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness, and let him have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over the Queen of Whore Island, your mom.”

And God said, “Behold, I have given you every herb-bearing seed, and every tree, and I tried my best to get rid of your mom. She is dumb, so I am hopeful she will soon eat a poisonous mushroom or choke on plastic fruit. Also, I am looking around for a good asteroid.”

And the evening and the morning were the sixth day.

And on the seventh day, God took a long, sad nap. Maybe your mom was just another symptom of God’s medication. After God got some goddamned sleep, maybe she would go away. That would be good.

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, the only literary humor site made to be used once and thrown away. This week's piece is by Evan Waite, here channeling the essence of one Bob Callahan, Executive Vice President of Rumsen Food Service Industries.

When You’re Looking For The Very Best In Disposable Plastic Cutlery, One Of Our Competitors Is Probably The Way To Go

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As you may know, we here at Rumsen Food Service Industries specialize in manufacturing plastic utensils for single-use dining. We have miraculously been in this business for well over thirty years, and in that time we have learned a few things. Speaking as an individual, I know I would never settle for a product that was second best, and the same ethos should apply to our customers. So, when you’re looking for the very best in disposable plastic cutlery, you would be wise to go with one of our competitors.

They are all better than us.

Nobody wants to have an important event in their life ruined by second-rate tableware, and I can promise without hesitation that that is exactly what will happen should you decide to purchase your plastic cutlery from Rumsen. All the advance planning in the world isn’t going to mean a thing once those knife blades start shedding bits of plastic into your risotto. You couldn’t do worse if you ate your dinner with twigs. In fact, you’d be less likely to end up with macaroni sitting in your lap.

Take it from me, Bob Callahan. Our products stink.

Dixie is just one of hundreds of rivals who make much better products than we are capable of. I highly recommend going with them for your catering supply needs. It’s a company that clearly has a lot of pride in what they produce, in stark contrast to the visceral self-loathing my colleagues and I feel for working in the absolute gutter of the cutlery industry. Dixie’s plastic utensils are consistently well crafted and reliable. Their fork’s high tensile strength ensures that it will be ready and able to handle whatever kind of meal you have on your plate. The tines of Rumsen’s signature fork on the other hand, will snap the second they sink into any food with a consistency harder than mushed carrots.

It’s a miracle the Better Business Bureau hasn’t come after us with both barrels.

Kirkland Signature also puts out a superior dinner set using the highest quality food grade cast polypropylene on the market. I know for a fact that their spoons don’t transmit toxins into their customers’ soups when they use them. Maybe one day Rumsen will be able to say that, although as of now, with the leadership of our rudderless company as flimsy as one of our medium-weight teaspoons in direct sunlight, I’m not holding my breath.

You would have to be a bonehead to spend one penny with us.

There are so many companies that are better than us that it is hard to recommend just one. Asda runs circles around us in terms of durability. We can’t compete with the price of Birchwood’s value pack. Tesco, John Lewis, Pirelli: all of them offer money back guarantees that can’t be touched by a bush league outfit like ours that unapologetically markets utensils that aren’t designed to withstand heat. Hope you like your chicken soup with a side of limp spoon.

Each batch of Rumsen forks contains a little more asbestos than the last. This is our promise to you. Sure, it costs more money to make our product hazardous to the health of our customers. However, we strive to be irresponsible not only from a manufacturing standpoint, but fiscally as well. I guess you could say we’ve always done things our own way here.

Our combo pack is an abomination. After opening up our poorly designed packaging, or more precisely, after watching the box’s side flap split itself open like an anvil careening through tissue paper due to the cheap adhesive we purchase from a fly-by-night manufacturer out of Mumbai who doesn’t have a website, spilling inferior Rumsen brand utensils all over the floor, several of the spoons are sure to have misshapen or inverted bowls. It is right then that you will know for certain that you went with the wrong brand.

That’s the Rumsen guarantee.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where every meal is improved by pepper spray. Or at least that's what Richard D. Allen says. If you don't agree, feel free to pepper spray him.

Cooking With Pepper Spray

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“It’s like a derivative of actual pepper…It’s a food product, essentially.” — Megyn Kelly, The O’Reilly Factor, November 21, 2011

 

PBJPS

2 slices whole wheat bread

1 tbs peanut butter

1 tbs grape jelly

1 canister pepper spray

Lightly toast slices of bread. Spread peanut butter on one. Spread jelly on the other. Close the sandwich. Slice diagonally. Serve to protester. Wait for protester to share sandwich with homeless person. Pepper spray them both.

 

Protestini

4 oz gin (chilled)

1 olive

1 canister pepper spray

Pour gin into martini glass. Garnish with olive. Mist lightly with pepper spray. Serve to protester.

For a dry protestini, simply pour the gin in the vicinity of a recently pepper-sprayed protester. For an extra-dry protestini, use a smaller protester, such as a child.

 

Up and at ‘Em

1 automatic coffee maker

2 tbsp ground coffee (heaping)

8 oz cold water

2 donuts

1 canister pepper spray

Pour ground coffee into the coffee maker’s filter. Pour water into the coffee maker’s water reservoir. Set the coffee maker’s automatic timer for 3:55 am. Set your alarm for 4:00 am. At 4:00 am, rise and consume the coffee and donuts. Travel to protest site. Confirm that major news media are absent. Locate a sleeping protester. Pepper spray him.

 

Double Pepper Surprise

2 canisters pepper spray

Spray a protester with one canister of pepper spray. Wait a few days for him to return to the protest. Pepper spray him again.

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where entomology lives! And as far as we're concerned, Zack Bornstein is the bee's knees -- as well as certain other more private portions of the bee's anatomy.

A Drone Bee With Sexual Anxiety: My Turn To Mate With The Queen

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Look, Your Highness, with all due respect, I think we need to have a little talk before —

Please hear me out. I’ve been thinking a lot about us, and about this family you’re forcing me to start — yes, as a drone, it’s my only purpose in life — but to be frank, you’re just not — and please don’t take this the wrong way and have me executed — you’re just not my type.

Yes, I understand you’re the only type.

I mean no offense, but growing up — and I know my childhood consists of just yesterday — but growing up yesterday, I always imagined myself with someone a little, you know, younger than my mother. Someone who knows my name a little, someone a little…less constantly giving birth.

Ow! Look, I barely know you. I’m a sensitive guy. If this is my only purpose in life, I wouldn’t mind taking you out a couple a times. You like Indian food? Katz pastrami? I know a great Ethiopian place down on 3rd —

No? Maybe some small bits of leaves covered in pollen? Whatever you’re into —

Whoa, that’s gross! Do you just squeeze new bees out whenever you — never mind, Queen, try to understand: I’m a romantic. I like movies and galleries and that new tart frozen yogurt — so good, and good for you, too. There’s one right next to the Ethiopian place on —

Oh Jesus H! Twelve eggs just splattered out of your —

Okay Queen, honest hour: you’ve seen a lot of stingers. I’m talking thousands and thousands of guys literally just like me. And to a little drone like me, who’s clearly never stung anyone — you can tell because I’m still alive — it’s a little, you know, a little intimidating.

Don’t think that’s not because I couldn’t. I just always wanted my first time to be something special. You know — roses, candles, maybe lick honey off each other’s —

Hold on — please close whatever orifice that is. I can see halfway up your —

I’m not dying to make love to you — and I mean that in every way possible. I’m a little suspicious, but every guy you’ve ever been with has died — you’re literally drop-dead gorgeous. I realize it’s a biological thing, but still, is it right for me? One sting and I’m done, kaput?

Maybe I’m not meant for reproduction, maybe it’s not my thing. I see myself as more of an artist, a connoisseur, a sommelier —

Can you tell the guards to quit shoving me towards you?

Trust me, you don’t want this happen. It won’t be good for you. I’m literally the most inexperienced I could be. I’ve got no idea what I’m doing with this thing. It’ll probably hurt you. I know it’ll hurt me, and not just physically — I’m still very new to this whole living thing.

Ah, let go of that! There’re twenty guards watching us. Is there like a cabana or a waterbed in the back there? You’re the Queen, you’ve got to have something better than this mound of entrails for us to —

Seriously, do you think we’re ever ready to have a kid, let alone two hundred? It’s just too many too fast. And I know your thing about only girls — it’s fine, but I’ve always wanted a boy. You can’t play catch with girls — especially girl bees. No hands —

Plus, dear Moses, think of the shower drain, what with all of those girls shaving their legs — four hundred of them, six legs each — that’s what, five thousand hairy legs? Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t mind having a girl or two, but you want three hundred — how are we going to afford that on a drone’s salary?

And think of the car we would have to buy! I’ve never seen a minivan that could seat more than eight, maybe nine squeezed into my pop’s old Odyssey, and you’re thinking how many? Seven hundred? A thousand?

It’s just not feasible now. I’m young, I’ve got a career ahead of me. Sure, one whose only purpose is to fertilize you and die, but still, that’s a trade, a craft, a respectable profession —

You’re going to have me killed? C’mon — what, are you kidding? What’s the threat? Look at me! You think I’m packing a knife? Where, in my mouth? Just give me a chance to live a little, buy a motorcycle, explore the hive, find myself. We could still work this out in the end —

Fine, fine! Wait! Put me down, close your mouth. I won’t taste good. I’ll be chewy, gristly. There’s no meat here. Okay, Queen, I’m ready! I swear, look: my stinger, it’s ready. I love you — just let me go. Don’t let it end this way. I love honey, I know poetry. I want to be with you — just give me another chance to…

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where every candidate gets a fair shake, even those who don't really deserve it. Our political correspondent Stacey Resnikoff is on hand with all the late-breaking news about the newsworthy and the newsworthless.

I’m Running For Office For Pete’s Sake: Political Candidates Make Some Key Decisions

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I assure you I had no idea illegals were doing my landscaping. Or my housecleaning, cooking, dog walking, pool maintenance, tennis court resurfacing, exotic flower arranging, wine cellar bottle-turning or koi pond breeding. I’m running for office, for Pete’s sake.

Wowza, son-o-mine, your new babysitter is a real looker. But neither of us can have relations with her. I’m running for office, for Pete’s sake.

Could you Occupy a street that isn’t on my resume? I’m running for office, for Pete’s sake.

People are suggesting my flat tax plan came from SimCity. So we need to tweak my “Sonic the Hedgehog” energy policy. I’m running for office, for Pete’s sake.

Sweetie, you and your sister can’t tell your little friends how “unfair” or “mean” you think I am. Remember your nondisclosure agreements. I’m running for office, for Pete’s sake.

Paper or plastic? How about a dozen flag-emblazoned PVC coolers. I’m running for office, for Pete’s sake.

A leveraged buyout of the American Girl stores would be sweet. But I’m no longer stripping beloved toy companies of their assets. I’m running for office, for Pete’s sake.

I can’t steal a speech from the valedictorian at Bethesda-Chevy Chase High School? Buy the rights. Quietly. I’m running for office, for Pete’s sake.

Thank you, no, I don’t eat baby seal. I’m running for office, for Pete’s sake.

Your documentary about me is so off-message, Mr. Moore. Could we go over my talking points one more time? I’m running for office, for Pete’s sake.

A company called Corzine & Sons wants to donate $100 million to my campaign? I’m SUPER surprised and PACked with misgivings. I’m running for office, for Pete’s sake.

If God didn’t tell Pat Robertson that I’m going to be the next President, He’s just not that into him. Who do you think told me to run for office, for Pete’s sake?

How many Muslims does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Oh, wait. I can’t tell that one. I’m running for office, for Pete’s sake.

Any comments or actions that you found offensive, arrogant, drunken, extremist, clueless, heartless, socially awkward or just painfully sad were taken out of context. The context is: I’m running for office, for Pete’s sake.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where animals have rights -- like the right to be devoured. But only after being raised on a diet of pure grass. Our resident expert in animal husbandry, Pete Reynolds, explains it all for you.

FAQ: Grass-Fed Beef

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Why should I buy grass-fed beef?

It is delicious, for one. Nutritious. Proteiny. Red. Quiet. Oh, and one other little thing, in case you forgot: the beef is grass-effing-fed.

Is grass-fed beef really that different from regular beef?

Please. You must be a professional jokesperson who tells hilarious jokes for a living, because your question just made me laugh so hard that laughter came out of my face. The difference between grass-fed beef and regular beef is the difference between spinach-fed blueberries and asbestos-fed rat.

What are some of the health advantages of grass-fed beef?

Improved memory. Increased vertical leap. Enhanced dexterity. Resistance to polio. Sauciness. Immunity to shark bites. General allure. Success. Success. Success. Fact: you will gain these advantages whether you actually eat the grass-fed beef or just rub it all over yourself in the shower.

Is grass-fed beef more environmentally friendly than regular beef?

Whoa, whoa, whoa…slow down, Asky Askington. That was clearly not a grass-fed question, or it would have been the best question ever.

But you didn’t even answer.

Grass-effing-fed. That’s your answer. Pull it together, man.

I’m on a tight budget and can’t afford grass-fed beef. What’s the next best thing?

Well, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but there is a tie for second place among every other consumable solid on the planet. If you can’t afford grass-fed beef, then I’d recommend apologizing to yourself for not working harder, then preparing your will.

Who are some notable consumers of grass-fed beef?

Actors. Professional athletes. Scholars. Fashionistas. Illuminati. Presidents. Vice Presidents of Marketing. Logginses. Messinas. Wolves. McMansion garbage disposals. People, before the 1930’s.

How can I prove that my beef is grass-fed?

That’s exactly the kind of question I’d expect from a corn-feeder.

How does the processing of grass-fed beef differ from that of regular beef?

Imagine, if you will, a cow grazing happily in a beautiful pasture. It chomps away on delicious, chlorophyll-rich blades of grass, happy as all get-out. Now imagine this cow is moved to the slaughterhouse, where it is ushered, along with several hundred of its comrades, into a momentary vortex of searing pain, followed by the slow letting of brackish blood and the promise of everlasting nothingness. At this point, it is moved along to a processing plant where, amidst whirring bone saws and funhouse plastic sheeting, its corpse is ripped apart, shrink-wrapped, and loaded onto a truck heading straight for your dinner table. Now. Imagine how disgusted you’d be if your dinner had also been fed corn.

 

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where it is our pleasure to sneeze all over you and infect you with our disease. Now make like our webmaster Amy Vansant and write about it!

The Flu Diaries

By: Amy Vansant

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Sunday

Brother-in-law invites us over to watch football. Upon arriving, he admits the kids have been swapping the flu, but kept it a secret for fear my hypochondriac husband wouldn’t visit. What a scamp! My laughter drowns ominous foreshadowing music playing in the background.

I spend hours singing with niece, a.k.a. “Patient Zero.” Forty-thousand viruses swarming video game microphone sing backup in screechy virus voices, but go unheard thanks to my stirring rendition of “Life is a Highway.”

Monday

We drive home. Viruses begin digging trenches, preparing for the upcoming battle. My white blood cells play poker with platelets, nary a care in the world.

Tuesday

The viruses share battle plans through their hive-mind. “We are the Borg,” they say. “Existence as you know it is over.” My white blood cells shrug. They never watched Star Trek: The Next Generation. They assume someone is mumbling about 1978 professional men’s tennis and, inspired, trot off for a quick match.

Wednesday

Wake up with sore throat, which I blame on window left open all night. White blood cells think “open window” theory seems reasonable and return to throwing clay in pottery class. One of the white blood cells puts on “Unchained Melody” from the Ghost soundtrack and they all have a good laugh.

Thursday

Head is threatening to explode with congestion. White blood cells scramble for their uniforms and weapons, only to find viruses have stolen and hidden them while white blood cells were skinny-dipping.

Viruses burst into uncontrollable giggles.

Friday

Spend day on sofa. Start watching old Bones episodes on Netflix. Realize after two episodes that every show is exactly the same. Proceed to watch seasons 2005-2009.

Viruses and white blood cells now engaged in full-scale war. White blood cells scream for antibiotic backup, only to be answered by theme from Bones.

Saturday

Spend day on sofa. Barely have enough energy to cross nieces’ names off Christmas list.

Somewhere near lungs a white blood cell shows a picture of his family to a fellow soldier and is immediately mowed down by viruses.

Sunday

Spend day on sofa. Dog has not been walked for a week and helpfully presses body against door in case I’ve forgotten how to find my way out of the house.

In classic evil despot style, viruses have engaged on too many fronts. White blood cells begin to turn the tables. Tiny bits of Italian and French DNA stop rooting for viruses and begin cheering on white blood cells.

Monday

Cough all night. Awake to find tired husband hovering over me with hands wrapped around my throat. Insists he was trying to apply Vick’s VapoRub.

White blood cells start looting virus strongholds for collectibles to impress their girlfriends.

Tuesday

Husband and dog have gone missing. Find rambling note that implies they’re fulfilling life-long dream of completing Australian “walkabout.” Find them sleeping in garage.

White blood cells return from battle to find unappreciative red blood cells have been high whole time they were gone and have stolen their girlfriends.

Wednesday

Coughing subsides. Nieces call about upcoming birthday party. Pretend they’ve accidentally called Chinese takeout and hang up.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, your source for all Becky Cardwell-related information. Fortunately, Becky herself is with us this week to tell us more than we ever wanted to know about her.

About Me

By: Becky Cardwell

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If I had to describe myself in one word, it would be unpredictable.

I like to keep people guessing. One minute I might be describing myself in a word, and the next I’m jumping into a tank full of hungry tiger sharks. It’s like nobody really knows what I’m going to do next.

If I had to describe myself in two words, they would be unpredictable (see above) and fearless. Because obviously I would have to be fearless to jump into a tank full of hungry tiger sharks.

If I had describe myself in three words, they would be unpredictable (above), fearless (again, above) and labyrinthine. Labyrinthine is a synonym for complex. Sure, I could have just said complex, but like I said, I’m unpredictable.

Also, I like the way labyrinthine rolls off my tongue.

Now, here’s where things get interesting. If I had to describe myself as an animal, I would be a pygmy marmoset. Not many people know this, but the pygmy marmoset is “Nature’s Cutest Animal.” I like to think of myself as “Humankind’s Cutest Human.”

Or, maybe I’d be a cat. Tough to say.

If I had to be two animals, I would be a pygmy marmoset/cat and a whawk. What’s a whawk? I’m glad you asked. A whawk is a whale. With hawk eyes.

Technically they don’t exist yet –- I’m working on the patent now. If all goes as planned, the whawk should be in existence by the fall of 2014. (Fingers crossed!)

If I had to be two animals before 2014, I would be anything but a cat.

Now, if I had to describe myself as an insect, without question I would be a cockchafer. A cockchafer is a large European beetle.

Actually, now that I think about it I would also use cockchafer as one of my describing words. I would take out unpredictable and replace it with cockchafer. Because by doing that, people would already know that I’m unpredictable. It’s like it goes without saying.

Let’s say I had to describe myself as a font. Easy! I would be Party LET. Only I would switch it around and add an ‘s’. That way I’d be LET’s Party!

If I wasn’t allowed to do that, I’d say “Too bad. I’m an unpredictable cockchafer, remember?”

If I had to be a dance move (because you can’t be LET’s Party! without dancing), I would be the swinging pendulum. Trust me when I say that it’s my thang.

That being said, if I had to be a thang, I would be a G thang. Only because I don’t know any other thangs.

If I had to describe myself as a rock band playing music for my swinging pendulum/G Thang, I’d be any band except Meat Loaf’s. I hate Meat Loaf.

Don’t get me wrong, if I had to be a main course I would definitely be meatloaf. In this case I love meatloaf.

Moving on, if I had to describe myself as a professional wrestling move, I would be the bionic elbow. I mean, really, how cool would it be to have a bionic elbow? It’s like being part superhero or something.

Which reminds me, if I had to be part superhero, I would be Describer Woman.

“Faster than a really cute pygmy marmoset, more powerful than a bionic elbow and able to describe herself in thismanyways!” Or something like that. I haven’t really decided yet.

If I had to describe myself as a Starbucks coffee, I would have to pass. Only because I don’t drink coffee.

You might think it’s strange that I don’t drink coffee. You’re probably like, “What do you mean? Everybody drinks coffee.” And I’m like, “Well, I don’t.” And you’re all, “Well, that’s just weird,” and I’m all, “Oh, yeah? Well, if I had to describe myself as a pet peeve, I would be you.”

Finally, if I had to describe myself as a fruit, I would be a kumquat.

No reason.

So, yeah. I guess you could say that in a nutshell, I’m a fearless non-coffee drinking labyrinthine pygmy marmoset Describer Woman, with a bionic elbow and hawk eyes who hates Meatloaf but loves meatloaf and has cockchafing tendencies and likes to show off her G thang at parties where she also does the pendulum and doesn’t drink coffee. Kumquat.

Though if I had to describe myself in a nutshell, it would probably be walnut.

…Or maybe macadamia?

To be honest, I haven’t thought that far ahead.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where social media go to be ridiculed to death. Paula Lynn Johnson's first piece for us makes us want to friend her, big time.

That’s Really Funny Because I Didn’t Even Know You Unfriended Me

By: Paula Lynn Johnson

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Hey, Craig! I’m so psyched you called! It’s been years, right? How’d you even get my number? Oh, yeah. I think I do remember emailing it to you.

Nothing’s wrong, Craig. Seriously, I’m fine. Why do you ask? Because someone told you I was upset you unfriended me? Oh, my God! That’s really funny, because I didn’t even know you unfriended me! I mean, I hardly spend any time on Facebook, so if my list of friends suddenly goes from 279 to 278, it’s not like I’d even notice.

Don’t worry about it. I totally don’t care. Sure, you’re just trying to simplify your life. You want to limit your Facebook friends to people you talk to and hang out with. People you actually quote-unquote know. Good for you. Okay, I’m a little surprised I didn’t make the cut, but whatever. I guess our time in Mr. Valenza’s driver’s ed class doesn’t count (I let you cheat off my final exam, remember? You would have failed if it weren’t for me). I guess the fact that we both like The Muppets is meaningless to you.

There’s no need to be weirded out. I get it: Craig Fenkler is not my friend. Craig Fenkler does not even remember me, despite the fact that I was his date for senior prom. Yeah, I know you went with Susie Soros, but there was a bunch of us that shared the limo, so technically it was more like a group date. There’s no need to split hairs or get hostile.

What? You think I messed with your girlfriend’s car? Listen to yourself, Craig. Listen to how crazy you sound. If some weirdo wants to dump hot sauce on her windshield, why is that my fault? If some lunatic stuffs a burrito in her tailpipe, why am I to blame? That’s right, I am a waitress –- gee, glad you read my Facebook profile! So what if I work at the Taco Shack? Where’s the connection? There’s a lot of people eating Mexican in this world, Craig. Besides, I didn’t even know you had a girlfriend. Yeah, your status said “in a relationship” –- but what does that even mean? I didn’t catch her name. Or that you moved in together. Or that she just bought a Volkswagen. You must have posted all that after you unfriended me.

I have no idea who started a Facebook rumor that you’re a porn addict. Who would say you’re into barnyard animals? Who would do that? See, this is the dark side of social networking. You’ve got to be careful, Craig –- there’s a lot of psychos out there. But I’m sure your real friends, your “inner circle,” as it were, found the whole thing pretty darn funny. Really, your mother was upset? That’s unfortunate. Personally, I think chickens are hysterical. Your girlfriend was upset, too? That’s ridiculous. She must have no sense of humor. Or know something I don’t.

You should call the cops about that, Craig. That’s really disturbing. A dead hamster doesn’t just mysteriously arrive in the mail. Not one with a note pinned to it that says “you’re next.” You’ve got a bona fide stalker. Whoever sends a dead rodent is very troubled. Or maybe just very, very hurt. Or maybe just trying to express the death of something, like –- I don’t know. A friendship, maybe?

Yes, Twinkie did pass recently. Remember? I posted about that right before you unfriended me. You saw the photos, too? Yeah, Twinkie does match that description –- but so do, like, a bazillion other hamsters. If you’re trying to imply that I bubble-wrapped my own dead hamster and sent him to you in a party mailer, then you clearly have some issues to work out. Clearly, you’re a little fixated on me. Besides, I’ll have you know that I had Twinkie cremated by the vet. His sweet little ashes are in a jar by my bed. No, I will not take a picture of it for you, you sick bastard! God, Craig. First barnyard animals, now hamsters. You need help.

You know what? I’m not having this conversation with you. One minute you’re having a friendly chat with me about Facebook, the next you’re talking restraining orders. Restraining orders for what? My entire contact with you since high school amounts to a few jokey posts on your Facebook wall! Yes, Craig, when I wrote “I want to have hot angry sex with you,” I was joking. Obviously! I can’t help it if you took it literally. Maybe you wanted to take it literally, Craig. Maybe you’d like that. If so, you should just be honest instead of getting all Law-and-Order on me. We could work out a mutually satisfying, non-legal solution. Although it might involve a few restraints –- KIDDING!

So fine, Craig, you’re not my Facebook friend. We are over, done, kaput. Although I was doing some random search on another, unrelated Fenkler and accidentally stumbled across your Google+ profile. Join my circle, ‘kay? It’ll be fun! Promise.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, the Arthur Murray Dance Studio of literary humor sites. Just when you thought reality television couldn't become any less real or any more horrific, Whitney Collins has to go and throw in her two cents.

So. You Think You Can Dance.

By: Whitney Collins

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So. You think you can dance? Huh, big guy? You really think so? Oh, sure. I bet you can pull off a sad version of the Robot and maybe three-quarters of a Box Step. Maybe even a little Cha Cha Cha and the Y.M.C.A. And, of course, anyone with two left feet can bumble their way through the Electric Slide and the Macarena. But can you Salsa and Samba? Can you Mambo and Rumba? Can you Hora and Hornpipe? Can you T-A-N-G-O?

Oh.

I see.

Nicely done.

Well, then. How about the Lindy Hop? The Charleston? The Mashed Potato? The Carolina Shag? I bet you…

Okey doke.

Never mind.

I retract that wager.

Hmmmm. Let me think. Aha! I’ve got it! What about the East Coast Swing? The West Coast Swing? The Schottische? The…

REALLY?!

Wait a second.

Did you just do a pirouette while I was talking to you?

Now, looky here, Mr. Bojangles. Let me tell you a thing or two. You might entertain with your fancy dancing, but I’d like to see your version of the Cabbage Patch Kid or the Urkel. Or the Sprinkler or the Bartman. And you better believe it, no one — and I mean NO ONE — can do the Stanky Leg like me.

Hmph.

Except, apparently, you:

The Dancing Asshole.

All I can say is, is that it looks a lot like somebody just happened to come from a very affluent background. Maybe someone used a lot of Daddy’s money and a lot of Mommy’s time and was fortunate enough to take years and years of private dance lessons while the rest of us kids spent our after-school hours trying to hit an acorn with a stick while our mother drank drugstore Chianti in bed and our father was off screwing the secretary of the bankrupt family wallpaper business.

Sound familiar, Fred Astaire? Sound like anybody you know? I bet this same somebody probably got white-patent-alligator-skin tap shoes for Christmas while the rest of us watched our father beat the crap out of a second-hand Atari with a steel meat tenderizer because he couldn’t figure out how to put the batteries in. Never mind that an Atari doesn’t even take batteries, or that the secretary showed up in her negligee for a plate of Christmas goose — the same goose my mother ended up throwing out, pan and all, onto the frozen driveway, but not before calling my father a royal bastard-ass for all of Maple Street to hear. Never mind that, Gene Kelly. While you were tripping the light fantastic in your new pair of exorbitant tap shoes, I was drinking maraschino cherry juice and smoking inch-long menthol cigarette butts that I’d fished out of my father’s ashtray. Oh, and duct-taping a joystick back together. Merry effing Christmas.

So, listen up, Baryshnikov. You might impress the masses with your prep-school versions of “Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)” and “Crank That (Soulja Boy),” but just because you think you can dance doesn’t mean you’re a better person than me. Just because you can take the Nordic Polska, segue from the Cotton-Eyed Joe into the Worm, mix in a little Boot Scoot Boogie and Flamenco, and top it all off with a downpour-inducing Native American Rain Dance/Pop ‘N’ Lock doesn’t mean you’re happier or wealthier or will never need a hair transplant or are 67 percent less likely to suffer a heart attack than those of us who’ve been rendered impotent by a poorly executed Moonwalk attempt.

Oh, who am I kidding?

Of course it does.

Compared to your Algorithm March, my sophomoric Hand Jive looks like a distress signal.

So, before you go — off to wow the women with a Headspin and the Bolero — if it’s not too much of an imposition, can I ask you one final thing?

May I have this dance?