Letter From Dr. Phil

By: David Martin

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Dear Nancy,

Well, I guess this is it. I always thought that there was hope for us. But now that you’ve served the divorce papers, it’s clear that you want out.

I don’t know what more Ted and I could have done to make this work. Sure, he cheated on you. But, as you’ll recall, he was willing to do what it took to remedy that shortcoming by agreeing to participate in episode 126: “Cheating Husbands.” Sadly, you refused to take advantage of that generous offer.

Then he slept with your sister and all you could think about was yourself. As a couple, you would have been perfect for episode 177: “My Husband Slept With My Sister.” He even got down on his knees and begged my producer to call you and convince you to come on the show.

Nancy, don’t ever say that man never cared. From what I could see, his biggest crime was that he cared too much. And not just about the show. From my many third-hand conversations with Ted, I know that he cared about you, too. Admittedly, maybe not as much as the show. But let’s just say you were often in his thoughts.

Like the time he slept with your sister’s husband. Surely you had to know that all he really had in mind was a chance for you two to appear together on episode 246: “My Husband Slept With My Sister’s Husband.” If you could have just stopped thinking about yourself for one minute, you would have seen that this was an attempt to help mend your troubled relationship.

But someone who couldn’t see that her husband’s wearing of her undergarments wasn’t just about her was unlikely to be big enough to admit that there’s always fault on both sides. You had to know that we were then in the planning stages for one of our most successful episodes to date – no. 301: “My Husband Wears My Undergarments.”

You may think that Ted was simply obsessed with getting on my show. You know as well as I do that that is simply not true. Just ask Maury, Montel or even Jerry and you’ll know that his obsession, if that’s what you want to label it, was not as narrowly focused as you might have once thought.

And don’t say I don’t know Ted. Through the dozens of letters, faxes and e-mails he exchanged with various members of my staff, I believe I got to know him almost as well as some of my actual guests. The fact that the security folks here at the studio repeatedly kept him at bay does not lessen my respect for Ted one iota.

Couldn’t you see, Nancy, that Ted’s actions were a cry for help and a manifestation of his true, albeit somewhat unusual, love for you? Do you think that a man undergoes a sex change operation lightly? Surely you must have known that, at the time, we had already outlined what was to become episode 357: “My Husband Had A Sex Change To Get On TV.”

Suffice it to say, that’s all water under the psychological bridge. If the fact that Ted subsequently had his sex change reversed is not enough to elicit an “I’m sorry” from you, all I can say is that you are a cold woman who definitely needs the kind of help only a TV therapist can provide. And that’s exactly what I could have offered you if only you had agreed to be part of episode 399: “My Husband Had His Sex Change Reversed.”

If a divorce is what you truly want, then a divorce is what you’ll get. Ted isn’t asking for anything. You can have the house, the cars, the kids and all the money. All he asks is that you briefly participate by phone in our upcoming episode: “Rather Than Come On Dr. Phil With Me And Discuss My Latest Infidelity Or Peccadillo, My Wife Divorced Me.” I hope you’re a big enough woman to grant a shattered man that one small wish.

Please, Nancy, stop thinking of yourself so much and think of Ted for once. Or at least do what Ted has so selflessly done and think of the show.

Sincerely,

Dr. Phil

P. S. If all else fails, give me a call. I’m sure we can work something out just between you and me. I’m thinking maybe “My Husband Was Obsessed With Getting On Dr. Phil” or “Dr. Phil Saved Me From A Crazy Spouse.” Call me. Let’s talk.

Before They Were Literary Giants They Submitted Lists To Hip Online Humor Magazines

By: Gladstone

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The Probable Causes Of My Demise

By Edgar Allan Poe

Buried alive through misadventure

Buried alive through devious intent (by a mortal enemy)

Sleep deprivation induced by stifling nightmares of live interment

Being –- not buried, but — enclosed, restricted or encased, in a confined area until suffocated or starved over a long period of time

Same as above, but possibly sooner if a sharpened pendulum be incorporated

Alcoholism

What I Found In My Pocket This Morning

By Charles Bukowski

An empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s

Blood

Jizz

Blood (someone else’s)

The memory of a life not lived

Herpes-riddled chapstick

My Good Friends And What I Think Of Them

By Ernest Hemingway

F. Scott Fitzgerald: Lazy Drunk

Gertrude Stein: Lazy Dyke

John Dos Passos: Overrated treacherous hack

Ford Maddox Ford: Pompous, wheezing dilettante

James Joyce: Considering he’s an Irish, emaciated, nearly blind bookworm, he can string together some decent prose.

Harold Loeb: Jew

What I Did Today And The Thoughts That Followed

By Nathaniel Hawthorne

Cooked up some eggs — Judging others is wrong

Mailed letter to Melville — It is a sin to impugn evil to another

Lightly dusted my bookshelf — Witch-hunts are bad

Attended a comedic performance — We are all sinners

Ate pot roast for dinner — I must endeavor not to believe myself holier than thou

Readied myself for bed — Christ, I don’t remember that demon postmaster stamping my letter!

What To Do If You Are Confronted With An Absurd And Impossibly Cruel Fate

By Franz Kafka

Rail against it pointlessly

Accept it inconceivably

The Far Starboard

By: David Litt

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The Weekly Standard, a magazine whose editorial positions are often indistinguishable from those of the Bush administration, will be testing the waters with its first-ever cruise. — Foward.com, August 1, 2007

(The night is dark. On the deck of The Weekly Standard’s cruise ship, the USS Titanic Freedom, the band plays and wealthy conservatives dance, poorly. On the bridge, the lookout, Harrison, stares ahead, searching for dangers lurking in the waves. The visibility is next-to-nothing, but Bill Kristol, the captain, editor-in-chief, and featured speaker, steers the ship with the same righteous smugness with which he does everything. All of a sudden, a massive object appears on the horizon — and the ship is heading right for it!)

CAPTAIN KRISTOL: Stay the course!

LOOKOUT: But there’s an iceberg, dead ahead. We’ve got to adjust our heading.

CAPTAIN KRISTOL: And admit defeat? What kind of message would that send to our enemies, Harrison?

LOOKOUT: Sir?

CAPTAIN KRISTOL: The world is watching, Harrison. If we surrender this patch of Artic Circle, we send a message to icebergs everywhere: “The Weekly Standard Cruise is weak.”

LOOKOUT: But sir, I’m not sure the USS Titantic Freedom is built to handle…

CAPTAIN KRISTOL: When George Washington was crossing the Delaware, he could have turned back, but he continued to the other side. Today, the Weekly Standard Cruise faces a similar choice. No matter how great the setbacks, we must not falter in our mission.

LOOKOUT: But we have to do something.

BILL KRISTOL: You’re right, Jenkins. That’s why I’m a strong proponent of the “surge,” a plan to add twenty knots per hour to our ship. That iceberg hates us, Jenkins. It hates our way of life. If we are to persevere, we need to show it that the Weekly Standard Cruise still possesses overwhelming force.

(On the first-class deck, Mary Paulson, a homemaker from Orange County, is enjoying a glass of champagne with executive editor/first lieutenant Fred Barnes when she hears a sudden crash. Lt. Barnes goes to see what the matter is, and five minutes later he returns. Mary is alarmed.)

MARY: What’s going on?

LIEUTENTANT BARNES: Certain liberal elements of the crew report that the ship is filling with water. However, as usual they neglect to mention the good news – two engine rooms still aren’t flooded, for example.

MARY: How long do we have to get to the lifeboats?

LIEUTENTANT BARNES: To put a timetable on your departure would be irresponsible, Ms. Paulson. However, we’ve been examining the options, and there’s a possibility that members of the Weekly Standard Cruise will maintain a presence on the cruise ship eternally, particularly those in steerage.

MARY: But…

LIEUTENTANT BARNES: Don’t worry. It’s like Korea.

(Five hours later, in the cold, black water, Rose Buckley III, a young attorney in the justice department, is floating on a piece of driftwood. Struggling to hold on to her is Jack Goodling, a dashing Cato Institute Fellow she met on board. For a while, Rose tries to help him, but soon she gives up, and he begins drifting out to sea.)

JACK (Yelling): You promised me you’d never let go!

ROSE (Yelling, but evasively): I’m sorry, Jack. I don’t remember the details of that meeting.

Whole Foods, Half Truths

By: Mollie Wilson

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“Rahodeb was an online pseudonym of John Mackey, co-founder and chief executive of Whole Foods Market Inc….For about eight years until last August, the company confirms, Mr. Mackey posted numerous messages on Yahoo Finance stock forums as Rahodeb. It’s an anagram of Deborah, Mr. Mackey’s wife’s name….Rahodeb expressed pride in the CEO’s work. ‘While I’m not a “Mackey groupie,”‘ he wrote in 2000, ‘I do admire what the man has accomplished.'” — The Wall Street Journal, July 12, 2007

No official reaction has been issued by the Unauthorized John Mackey Fan Club or its officers (president Jonathan McKey, vice-president Mack Johnny and treasurer Johnny Mack Brown). The issue has not been raised in the club’s very active online discussion forums (most popular thread: “What Do You Love Most About John Mackey?”).

Fact-checkers are advised not to rely on Mackey’s personal Wikipedia entry (currently locked to prevent further editing), which has, on various occasions and without citation, described the CEO as “handsome,” “too smart for MENSA,” “really good at Monopoly” and “consistently underestimated and underpraised by family, friends and competitors.”

Amateur investors may want to reevaluate their reliance on the “Supermarket Spotlight” blog — updated daily by “produce enthusiast” Deb Raho — which has named Whole Foods Market its “Retailer of the Week” for the past 93 consecutive weeks.

Readers should not be excessively influenced by comments posted to the “Supermarket Spotlight” blog by “R.H. Adobe” (the site’s only commenter), including, “UR so right about Whole Foods!” “Waiting in line is just part of the experience!” and “I’d rather shop at Whole Foods than do just about anything, except eat the delicious food I buy there!”

Customers have flagged as “unhelpful” a number of product reviews on Amazon.com, written by “Top 1000 Reviewer” B.D. O’Hare, that mention Whole Foods or its products favorably (e.g., “Justin Timberlake and Timbaland are a delightful team, as fruitful as the partnership between Whole Foods and Jamba Juice!”).

Local authorities are investigating a series of pizzas ordered over the telephone by “Herb Ado” and delivered to the home of former Wild Oats Markets Inc. CEO Perry Odak on several Friday nights this past winter (always with a topping of locally-grown wheatgrass, at an additional $6.50 per pie).

Human Resources departments at several major corporations are questioning the authenticity of a reference letter from Professor Jack Yame, recommending Mackey “in the strongest possible terms” for “any job for which he might apply” — despite Mackey’s failure to complete his college degree, which Professor Yame says “would have been an empty formality, in this case.”

Journalists have called attention to several comments on Mackey’s MySpace profile, complimenting his facial hair (“Nice ‘stache, bro! Wish I had one!” from “HoleFudsboy”), “Books” selections (“I luv The Little Prince too OMG its so amaaazing,” from “Deb Rules”) and management style (“You are the best boss to work for! I tell everybody! They are so jealous they don’t work for you too! But I tell them they should move to Denver where your store is hiring part-time employees! I tell them interviews are held between 9 and 11, Monday thru Wednesday! And they should bring 2 copies of their résumé! Whole Foods is an EEO that does not discriminate on the basis of race, sex, religion or sexual orientation! TTYL!” from “Mack the Knife”). Further investigation reveals that all of these comments come from users whose profiles list “Whole Foods CEO John Mackey!!!” under “Who I’d like to meet.”

High school classmates of Mackey’s cannot vouch for images in his “Prom Memories” photo album — including those captioned “Posing with my date,” “Crowned King and Queen!”” and “One at a time, ladies, one at a time!” — which closer inspection reveals to be composites created using craft paste, an X-Acto knife and back issues of Seventeen magazine.

Permanent record files at Mackey’s grade school offer no explanation for a third-grade report card on which someone, reportedly Mackey’s teacher, wrote “Grate job this year!” in suspiciously amateurish cursive.

The members of Whole Foods Market, Inc.’s board of directors have been asked to disregard an anonymous letter sent to their homes, signed “A Concerned Silent Partner” and insisting that Mackey’s actions are “probably not illegal,” “really quite shrewd, when you think about it,” and “certainly not the sort of thing that should inspire a vote of no confidence on your part.”

NPR Interviews In Half The Time Or Less

By: Michael Fowler

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The NPR theme is heard, played on a classical guitar. Fast fade.

Melissa: This is National Public Radio’s All Things Considered. I’m Melissa Block.

Michele: And I’m Michele Norris. Ahmed Bey is a cabdriver working in Baghdad. Mr. Bey, you state that yesterday you picked up a very unusual passenger.

Bey: That’s so. I was cruising through Sadr City, looking for a fare, when I stopped near a flaming mosque to get a coffee. A man in a western suit jumped into the passenger seat behind me, having shot off my rear door. I turned to look at him, and found myself face-to-face with the vice president of your country. Before I could say, “Where to?” he said…

Michele: Mr. Kahn, thank you for talking to us today.

Bey: Huh. You’re welcome.

* * * * * * *

The NPR theme is played on a button accordion. Very fast fade.

Melissa: From NPR news, this is All Things Considered. I’m Melissa Block.

Michele: I’m Michele Norris.

Robert: And I’m Robert Siegel. There’s been an astonishing discovery in a cave in Old Jerusalem. Wine expert Abe Crocus and his team of archaeologist vintners claim to have uncovered a cask of the wine that Christ made from water two thousand years ago. Mr. Crocus, what can you tell us about this wine?

Crocus: Due to its miraculous nature, it has not decayed at all. As for its taste and bouquet, well, I’m just this second pouring myself a glass…now a quick sniff…and down the hatch she goes.

Robert: Mr. Crocus, thank you for taking the time to be with us today.

Crocus: Good Lord. In that case I won’t tell you what it tastes like, or describe the total absolution from sin I’m undergoing.

* * * * * * *

The NPR theme is played on a chromatic harmonica. Almost immediate fade.

Debbie: This is NPR Weekend Edition with Debbie Elliott. In an area of undeveloped brush near the coastal tourist city of Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, a race of hominids has been discovered who have remained in secrecy and isolation for years, living on the sewage and dumpsters of a nearby Holiday Inn Express. Joanne Tickle is part of the anthropological team now embedded with the tiny, gentle people she calls Inn Men. Joanne, what can you tell us about the Inn Men and, I suppose, Inn Women?

Joanne: Having evolved and developed in total isolation for thousands of years in a harsh environment and only recently gained access to modern luxury trash, these people show some amazing adaptive characteristics and unexpected lifestyles.

Debbie: Joanne, thank you for being with us today.

Joanne: For example, they use discarded luggage trolleys to…Where’s everyone going?

* * * * * * *

The NPR theme is played on a claw hammer banjo. Instant fade.

Michele: Michele.

Melissa: Melissa.

Robert: Robert. Astronomer Ron has spent his adult life scanning the known universe for signs of intelligent life with the aid of a radio telescope. Ron, how goes the search? Quickly.

Ron: Possibly a breakthrough. Radio telescope picking up patterns in signals from Crab Nebula. Now, patterns indicate…

Robert: Faster, Ron. No wait, you’re finished.

Ron: Hold it a sec. I must refute the five reasons that some say support the idea that no intelligent life has evolved outside our galaxy. The first…

Robert: Get off the air, hog.

Ron: Listen, anchorman. Never again will I…

Robert: For All Things Considered, I’m…(abrupt fade).

* * * * * * *

The NPR theme is not played.

Melissa: This is National Public Radio. For All Things Considered, I’m Mi…

Robert: And I’m Robert. What were you saying, Mr….

Mr….: I was try…

Robert: And then…

Mr….: What seem im…

Robert: Thank you for…

Mr….: My plea…

Robert: And now the news.

An Open Letter To O.J. Simpson From The Real Killer

By: Mike Richardson-Bryan

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Dear O.J.,

It’s me, the real killer. I bet you never expected to hear from me, and yet it was inevitable that you would. Allow me to explain.

I had committed the perfect crime. Two innocent people lay dead, victims of my murderous rage, and I had gotten away scot-free. The possibility that an innocent man might be wrongfully convicted for my crime was an unexpected but positively delightful bonus. Everything was going my way.

Imagine my surprise when, upon your acquittal, you dedicated your life to tracking me down and bringing me to justice. I had a good laugh about it, at first. “Oh, no,” I said to myself, feigning a tremble, “O.J. Simpson is gonna sleuth me out.” But the laughter soon gave way to panic when it became clear that you were serious. Dead serious.

I’ve been living on the run ever since, and it hasn’t been easy. Indeed, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in twelve years — twelve years! — and when I do sleep, my dreams are haunted by the slow, soft, unrelenting tread of your Gucci loafers as you draw inexorably closer. Oh, how I’ve come to despise you and your noble quest.

And yet, I must also tip my hat to you. No one would have blamed you for retreating from the public eye and living a life of quiet dignity on your meager $25,000 / month NFL pension. But instead, you took to the streets, determined to clear your name and avenge your beloved ex-wife and what’s-his-name.

If only you knew how close you’ve come over the years.

You almost had me at that country club in Miami. I was so intent on my form that I didn’t even see you coming. If I hadn’t sliced into the trees off the third hole, you would have spotted me for sure. Fortunately, you stopped to belittle a caddy, and I, recognizing your commanding voice from afar, lay low amongst the dogwoods while you played through. Call it a mulligan.

You almost had me again at that Indian casino in Fresno. I was hitting the tables hard that night, trying to forget my troubles. I had just rolled a hard eight when you rounded the slots, your laser-like eyes scanning the room for signs of villainy. If those frat boys hadn’t accosted you for autographs, I might have had to ditch my chips in my mad flight for the exit. I guess Lady Luck was with me that night.

But you came closest of all at that spa in the Hamptons. I was working as a towel boy in order to get close to my next victim, a beautiful blonde hot-rock masseuse and part-time ear model from Newfoundland. I had just about won her trust when you appeared and ordered the works. Oh, you were good — even ensconced in a detoxifying full-body seaweed wrap, you remained in a state of cat-like readiness, set to pounce the moment I showed myself — but I hid in a hamper until you were gone. Another clean getaway.

The masseuse, like so many others, is alive today only because of your meddling. But do they thank you? No, to this day they condemn you for a crime you didn’t commit no matter how much any reasonable man in your position would have wanted to. Yet you press on, undaunted, like Batman or Spider-Man or Black Vulcan, as heroic as you are misunderstood. Perhaps when your doubters read this letter, they will finally understand.

The shame is that the two of us are a lot alike. In different circumstances, we could have been friends, if not brothers, or even twins, identical in every way except for the fact that I’m a cold-blooded killer whereas you’ve never killed anyone in your life, not even some ungrateful skank who totally deserved it and her poncy friend who should’ve minded his own business. But the cards are dealt and there’s no going back now.

And so, my worthy adversary, our deadly game of cat and mouse continues. I will never stop, driven as I am by murderous impulses not shared by yourself even when provoked. And you, in turn, will never flag or fail in your single-minded pursuit, driven as you are by a thirst for justice that no quantity of Cristal can quench. On and on we will go, hunter and hunted, predator and prey, until only one of us remains. So be it.

Good luck, and may the best man win.

Yours truly,

The Real Killer

Notes for Mothra’s Memoir-in-Progress

By: Eric Ylst

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You’re probably used to thinking of me as a party girl. That’s how the press portrayed me for the first decade of my career, and I suppose there was more than a grain of truth to it. Hey, it was the 60s; who didn’t party? But as I got older, my priorities became clearer.

It’s the simple things, really: family, relationships. I didn’t know that when I was young. I had a lot of anger.

That’s probably what attracted me to Godzilla in the first place.

*******

My children are the most important thing in the world to me. I have 9,342 of them. Of course, 8,437 have moved out of Tokyo, but they still visit when they can, and I get to see the others often.

Those were my actual children who appeared in Godzilla vs. Mothra. But I discouraged them from staying in the business after that. I wanted them to have a chance at normal life.

I’m a grandmother now. That’s the best. They call me Gramothra and I spoil them with all the tour buses their parents won’t let them have. They’re so overprotective! But I suppose I was as well with the first thousand.

*******

I’m sorry I didn’t have more children. I would have, but I put off childbearing to concentrate on my career, and then once I finally started, my clock was already ticking.

*******

All right, I suppose this is the time for total honesty. Another reason I didn’t have more children is because of all those years I wasted on Godzilla.

The studios made us keep our relationship secret. They said it would alienate the fan base.

I loved him, but he just couldn’t commit. I deluded myself for decades. “Just give him more time,” I told myself. “He’ll come around.” Then one day I watched him batting an airplane out of the sky and all of a sudden it came to me, clear as day: “He’ll never grow up.”

*******

When I think of it now — all that time and love poured down the drain!

Gamera tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen.

*******

When I heard he’d died rampaging in Tokyo, I didn’t take it the way I thought I would. I wasn’t angry, or even sad. I suppose I had accepted his fate years ago when he told me rampaging was in his blood.

*******

But there’s no use dwelling on the negative. Those years with Godzilla made me who I am today, and even though looking back now, sometimes I feel foolish, I believe that sadness heightened my sensitivity, made me a better monster, and later, a better mom.

It made me a better friend to Gamera when he was finally ready to come out.

*******

So, I have no regrets.

*******

Well, maybe one. I’m sorry about destroying your city. But how could I regard that huge bug zapper as anything but a threat? Remember, I’d started my family at that point.

I had my children to think of.

Barry At The Bat

By: David Litt

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The steroid case seemed airtight ‘gainst the Giants’ aging baller,

His head had swollen up in size, his testes had grown smaller.

But fans still came to watch him play, although his past was checkered,

For Barry, mighty Barry, might soon break the home run record.

In former years, Bonds made his name by swinging for the fences.

He’d shattered single-season marks, and also innocences.

So when the hulking player left the dugout where he sat,

A silent hush grew o’er the crowd — ’twas Barry at the bat.

The slugger strode up to the plate, and did not seem to worry.

He still had all the arrogance he’d shown to the grand jury.

For Barry’s ‘tude was tough and cruel, and Barry’s heart was barren —

He was, except for all his stats, the anti-Henry Aaron.

He set his stance, and flexed his arms, built up from God-knows-what

He’d put in a syringe, and then injected in his butt;

And also from designer drugs, known as the cream and clear,

Which both were taken topically, instead of in the rear.

This scandalous news, the BALCO case, had broken in oh-three.

The allegations ran in print, they echoed on TV.

Yet though all his denials sounded spurious and flat,

‘Twas Barry, guilty Barry, who remained there at the bat.

So countless thousands listened to the radios in their cars.

They gathered in the stadiums, they gathered in the bars.

They packed Pac-Bell and watched, and though they knew their right from wrong,

They could not help but want to see if Barry would go long.

And now the pitcher’s ready, and he takes the ball and flings it,

But Barry’s juiced-up muscles hold the bat, and now he swings it,

And now the ball is going, going, gone, over the fence,

And San Franciscans cheer for him, defying common sense.

Oh, somewhere in the distance is a cleaner world of sport,

Where drugs that boost performance are not there a resort.

Someday, perhaps, we’ll reach that place, at least that’s what we’re hoping;

But there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Barry has been doping.

The Six-Month Benihana Job Evaluation of Mindfreak’s Criss Angel

By: Gladstone

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Date: March 14, 1993

Appearance:

At the time of Mr. Angel’s retention, it was explained that while Benihana hires employees of varied races, our customers have certain expectations regarding their chef’s appearance. To this end, many of our Latino and Filipino employees have successfully affected an air of “Japanese” through a combination of training, demeanor, and attire. Mr. Angel claimed creating such an illusion would be “wicked easy” because he had been “schooled by an ancient Oriental mystic.”

Despite our high hopes, however, Criss’s appearance has consistently failed to meet expectations. While we truly do “get it” that the late martial arts actor Brandon Lee was partially of Cantonese descent, we fail to see how coming to work in makeup influenced by The Crow is in keeping with Benihana’s goals, particularly as a Japanese restaurant. Furthermore, Criss’s more recent Kabuki-theater justification seems similarly half-baked.

Benihana would also like to stress that our continued insistence on hairnets is dictated by a faithful adherence to governing health code ordinances, and not this corporation’s desire to “slay [Mr. Angel’s] dragon spirit.” On a related note, we are fairly certain that Health and Safety Ordinance 114020 contemplated only soap and water when requiring employees to wash hands. Mr. Angel’s self-prescribed “fire baths” are not a safe or adequate substitute for this practice — nor do we consider Svarog, Slavic Spirit of Fire, a recognized authority on workplace sanitation procedures.

Rapport with Customers:

Benihana prides itself on being a family-friendly establishment. Customers come here for first-class food served with a dramatic flourish — not to have their “reality shattered by freaky awesomeness.”

Good customer service also means accommodating reasonable special orders. For example, many of our guests abstain from shellfish due to allergies or religious concerns. Accordingly, when guests refuse the shrimp appetizer, the appropriate response is not “Why? Did my flaying technique blow your mind?”

Clear speech is also an essential part of customer relations. As many of Benihana’s chefs speak English as a second language, we tend to be forgiving of indiscretions presented by the foreign tongue. Still, a Long Island accent coupled with a crippling lisp is simply beyond the limits of Benihana’s patience. After all, people come here to eat.

Dexterity Performing Required Tasks:

Mr. Angel has proven his dexterity in performing all required Benihana cooking presentations, or as Criss insists on calling them, “culinary freak-outs.” He executes the onion volcano flawlessly, and has never failed to catch a shrimp tail or balance a bowl of rice on a spatula. Still, Benihana continues to receive complaints due to Mr. Angel’s fundamental misunderstanding of both Teppanyaki-style cooking, and what constitutes entertainment in general.

Benihana has a proud tradition of praising employee initiative, but Criss’s innovations have brought terror in place of joy. For example, Benny Tsubo was promoted to head chef in 1979 when the flick of his well-placed spatula brought forth life from the heart-shaped chicken-fried rice and laughter from patrons nationwide. By contrast, no one is pleased by Criss’s ability to make the rice heart bleed. For one, it’s disgusting. And secondly, ketchup does not complement a traditional Japanese meal. Also, while Criss’s ability to insert a bowl of rice into his back and pass it out through his abdomen is impressive, it’s hardly surprising that no one is eager to eat said rice after this miraculous journey.

Attitude:

Employees should always provide supervisors with honest straight-forward answers to fair questions. Nevertheless, when asked about his frequent disappearances, Mr. Angel’s standard reply is, “a magician never reveals his secrets.” Such responses are wholly unacceptable, and, frankly, childish. Benihana also takes issue with Mr. Angel’s more recent practice of claiming to have been on the premises in invisible form and then producing a hysterical 16-year-old girl to attest to this miracle. While this display is strangely compelling, Benihana remains skeptical that such allegedly unbiased accounts could constitute credible testimony.

Summary:

Benihana will be refraining from its traditional practice of providing suggestions for improvement. Such suggestions would be moot as Mr. Angel has proclaimed repeatedly that he takes advice only from two men: The Highlander and Ronny James Dio. Accordingly, Benihana feels it is best to make a clean break at this time.

We hereby terminate Mr. Angel’s employment, effective today. His uniform and culinary tools were repossessed this morning, and when Mr. Angel emerges from the 15-foot block of ice he currently occupies in the meat locker, we ask that he be forcibly removed from the premises.

My Name Is Jabba And I’m An Alcoholic

By: Tyler Smith

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This is my first time at an AA meeting. I’ve been sober for one day. First, I’d just like to say how moved I am that you all have agreed to hold this meeting in the gymnasium. I think we all know it would have been a little cramped in the Sunday school room. Oh, dang it, that’s embarrassing. I’ll pay for the chair. No, I’ll just lie here on the floor. Okay, well, I’ve been an alcoholic for, oh, I guess about six-hundred years, give or take a decade or so. I started drinking in high school with my friends on Tatooine. I’m sorry? No, it’s not outside of Sacramento. Anyway, I didn’t always look this bad. As a teen I actually did a runway show in Mos Eisley. But then, a few drinks with my pals became nights alone with a bottle of something blue, just listening to old Genesis records. What? No, before Phil Collins. Well, Peter Gabriel, of course. He absolutely was. No, I’m afraid there were a number of albums before Invisible Touch.

Look, I’m trying to heal here. No, you brought it up. So, after a while I fall in with some really bad folks. I mean, you find that denial likes company. If you surround yourself with people who all have a problem, you perceive there is no problem. So the next thing I know, I’m pushing about three-thousand pounds, drinking like a maniac every chance I get, roistering, sleeping around and eventually I’m head of this enormous crime syndicate. My wife left me about a hundred years ago. Excuse me? No, not three-hundred, three-thousand pounds.

Well, I appreciate that. I look thinner in beige. I did have a trainer for a while, but it didn’t work out. No, I ate him. I don’t blame you all for looking at me like that. I was so drunk, I’m ashamed of myself. I’m so ashamed. But that’s what it’s like, you know. Hell, a few years back I had this guy who owed me money frozen in carbonite. It’s like an alloy made from frozen carbon dioxide. What do you mean, “can you drink it?” It’s not like a margarita, if that’s what you’re thinking. Even if you could, you certainly wouldn’t want to. No, he managed to get out, actually. It’s not like I wanted him to escape. He had help, you know. He didn’t just waltz right out of the carbonite. Some kid called Skyscraper or Skymall or something. I don’t remember. Well, maybe next time you should try running a syndicate full of bounty-hunters, smugglers, assassins and criminals of every type along with the entertainment; the dancing girls, droids, the bitchy house band and enough reprobate aliens to occupy Cloud City! I’m sorry. I’m sorry. God, I get so tense. No, sit down, sir. Do I look like I could take it outside? Well that really hurts, sir. Would you like it if I called you a “poo-covered slug?” I didn’t think so. Can I continue? Please? Thank you.

Okay, uh, oh yeah. Take tomorrow, for instance. I have this thing tomorrow. I was going to have a bunch of people dumped into the Sarlac pit. No, it’s not in the woods. Just think of it as a big anus-looking thing with teeth, okay? Yeah, it’s kind of like a monster, but different. The thing is, I really want this process to work. I’m serious this time about staying sober for me. So, I’m thinking I might just call the whole thing off, you know? What better time than the present to change your life. It’s like what Goethe says, you know, “Nothing is worth more than this day.” I’m just so scared. I mean, the blackouts, the rum-shakes. It’s every single day. I’ve missed out on so much. I never learned to drive. I’ve never seen Lohengrin performed at La Scala. I’ve got a ski lodge on Hoth I’ve never even been to. No, it’s an opera by Wagner. Of course it’s good. I’ve never skied or snowboarded, so I don’t know. I’ve heard Aspen is nice. Too many tourists, you say? Well, what can you do? No, I’m not trying to be dismissive, it’s just been my turn to talk and you keep interrupting. Just because you’ve never been to Hoth doesn’t mean there isn’t one. I’m not trying to be pretentious. Look, I have a problem and I need support right now. Oh, that’s very clever. Yes, it probably would take the Chrysler Building to support me. I’m fat. I’m a drunk. I’ve done some terrible things, but one of the first things we said after the prayer was that we weren’t here to judge one another. We are here to admit we’re powerless against alcohol.

Okay, sir…I’m sure you do know the blue book better than I do; like I said, it’s my first day. I am legitimately proud of you that you’ve been sober for two years. Hey, I’m not trying to make it a contest. I just want to stop drinking. I wasn’t saying I knew more about Genesis than you do. Why are you so hell-bent on antagonizing me? I know he did “Shock the Monkey,” but before that he was in Genesis. Albums? Well, there’s The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway, uh…Selling England by The Pound…I beg your pardon? Look it up then, dingleberry! You know what — I’ve had it with you. I’ve had it up to here with you and this group and that stupid chair in this stupid gym with this stupid meeting. Salacious! Salacious Crumb! Come in here and give me a hand, you little troll. No, screw you. Screw ALL of you. Ouch! Hold on, I’m not all the way in the harness. Oh, Jeez, I think my gall bladder just popped. No, I’m leaving. Take your twelve steps and shove them up your cans…Salacious, are Han Solo and all those idiots still up by the Sarlac pit? Well, come on. Stop fidgeting, you’re freaking me out. No, we’re doing it today. Today! Man, I need a drink.