"Last Will, Testament & Probable Murderers"
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As I lie here in bed, dying of a deadly butt fungus, I have decided to record this, my last will and testament and list of my probable killers.
I, Reginald Henry Leopold, being of sound mind and body, hereby bequeath/accuse the following:
To my first likely killer, Jonathan --- I know it was you who killed me. As a mycologist, you had ample access to the many rare strains of butt fungus.
To you, I leave my dog, Buttons. She is a wretched little Yorkie who's never been house-trained and requires three insulin injections per day. You deserve it for murdering me.
To my second likely killer, Samantha Gurdy-Jones --- If Jonathan was not my killer, it most certainly was you. You're the only person who makes regular trips to the Amazon, where you could have easily bought deadly butt fungus on the black market. Also, I know you have never forgiven me for forcing the maid to give you up for adoption.
As my only legal heir, I leave you my mansion and collection of vintage automobiles. Please note, though, that I plan on haunting everything.
To my third possible murderer, Jenkins --- If neither my fungi-scientist lover nor my illegitimate daughter killed me, that must mean you are my murderer. You could easily have laced my hot tub with virulent fungus, knowing that I would be placing my butt in it.
To you I leave one million dollars. Because, if indeed you felt the need to kill me, that must mean that I never told you how much I appreciated all the hard work you've done over the years.
If in fact you didn't murder me, think of the million as a thank you for not killing me. Also for all the hard work.
To my fourth possible killer, Buttons --- I never in my life would have guessed it was you who killed me. You're just an wittle-bitty doggie. But, with all the other suspects cleared, that leaves you.
To you, I leave controlling ownership of the Charleston Shuckers, a minor league soccer team I won in a poker match. Be firm yet encouraging with them.
To my last possible killer, Marie --- It probably wasn't Buttons. She's a terribly mean-spirited dog, but she has no opposable thumbs, which are pretty essential for murder. And, looking back on it, the promise you made me to "never kill me using a rare butt fungus" seems quite suspicious after the fact.
To you, I leave the boat.
Thus ends my last will and testament. If any relatives remaining seek an unclaimed portion of my estate, please avenge my murder, and we'll see what happens from there.
Signed and notarized,
R. H. Leopold III
"Erotic Cake Contest"
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Let me just say, in all my years of judging erotic cake contests, I have never seen a cake with such vividness, such sheer artistry. I have judged literally thousands of erotic cakes, and none have moved me the way yours moves me.
First off, your layer work is incredible. I’ve witnessed dozens of erotic bakers attempt to depict that same position, and all have failed. This cake though—you can almost feel the strain in her hamstrings. It’s breathtaking.
Your frosting coloration is spectacular. What would you call that shade? Three-day-old sunburn? It’s so lifelike. It says to me that this couple is at the end of their honeymoon, enjoying the last few moments of hedonistic bliss before they return to their humdrum lives. It’s at once sensual and melancholic—a whispered longing if you will. Maybe I’m placing myself into the piece too much, but that’s what I take from this.
I also love that you have avoided leathery fondant. Fondant is such a crutch in erotic cake competitions. But, I’ve always said, “If you want to sculpt realistic genitals, you need buttercream.”
I mean, look at the fine wisps of frosting you were able to pipe here. If I didn’t know that was icing, I would swear you put real pubic hair on this cake. In fact, I snuck a little taste just to make sure. I couldn’t resist!
Every aspect of this erotic cake is a masterstroke. From the tips of the marzipan labia to the latticework of the ganache hammock, this is sexy baking at its finest.
It is therefore my honor to award you the blue ribbon in the “Couples and/or Group Category” along with this $25 gift certificate to the Container Store. Congratulations.
In honor of the Real Characters storytelling show I'm putting up tonight (and every first Thursday of the month) at Ochi's Lounge, here's an audio clip of one of my Moth StorySLAM performances.
Unlike almost everything else on this blog, this story is completely true. Still funny, though. Don't worry; I wouldn't subject you to one of my sad stories. That's what I pay my therapist for.
The theme for the night was "Busted," and I'm grateful to fellow storyteller Luke Davin for recording it from the back.
Welcome aboard aboard Flight 209 non-stop from Akron to Orlando.
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Folks, I’d like to welcome you aboard Flight 209 non-stop from Akron to Orlando. I’ll be your pilot today, Captain Wally Briggs. If, for any reason, something should happen to me, which it won’t, my copilot is Alice “Legs” Mulrooney. She’s a very capable, beautiful first mate, and in the rare, miniscule chance that I become incapacitated, she is more than ready to take the controls.
It looks like we’re gonna have clear skies all the way to Florida, where the temperature is a breezy 82 degrees. Should be a smooth flight, unless I have some sort of health scare, which again is highly unlikely.
My personal doctor just this week gave me a clean bill of health, and he thinks we’ve finally got my heart medication balanced out. Plus, I recently gave up caffeine and replaced it with energy drinks, which I assume are much healthier.
On top of that, our entire crew is ready to handle even the most improbable emergency. “Legs” Mulrooney, for instance, has over twenty years of flight experience. We first worked together when she was the most stunning flight attendant I had ever seen.
Speaking of health, by all appearances, hers had held up extremely well. I did catch a glimpse of some sun-damage where her blouse is missing a button, but the muscle tone down there more than makes up for any concern.
If you take a look at your in-flight magazine, that’s “Legs” pictured on page 27 in the advertisement for the airline. Hopefully, her vibrant smile and intelligent eyes give you the same confidence I have in her in the near impossible case that the old ticker gives out.
Ever since Alice here got her commercial pilot’s license, there’s just something about her that’s both exciting and humbling. She’s like an Amazon—powerful yet feminine. As she’s leaning past me right now to stow the wheels after takeoff, even I—a seasoned, manly pilot—feel schoolboyish butterflies in my stomach.
Actually, the butterflies are in my chest. Kind of a tight feeling to the butterflies. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a moment to loosen my tie so I can breathe.
Please enjoy your complimentary XM Radio, and the crew will be in the aisle soon with beverages. If one of them could bring me some water and the tiny white pills from my bag, that would be much appreciated.
[Author's Note: Heeeyyyy!! This is my 100th post!]
Welcome to my home!
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Well, hello! Welcome to my fancy house. It’s very fancy. Please, join me in the foyer, which is French for “fancy entryway.” Ah, I see you’ve noticed the marble floors. Yes, how very, very fancy. And, what’s this above us? A chandelier? Why, that’s French for “chandelier.”
Ah, and ahead, two spiral staircases both leading to the same place. How very, very fancy! They were built by my contractor, Roy. Roy, say hello to the people.
[Roy] Yeah, um so … Yeah, sure, this guy asked me to build him a real fancy house. And, y’know, he drew this picture on a napkin, and it looked like if a castle had a baby with the Acropolis. I mean, there were columns and a moat. It was kinda weird at first that he wanted everything to be white and marble. And, I told him I don’t make marble roofs, because they don’t—
Ha ha ha! Yes, Roy, that’s very interesting, but you’re blocking their view of the fountain. A fountain indoors? How very fancy! Ah, I see you’ve noticed that the fountain has putti, which is Italian for “tiny naked angels” all peeing on that seahorse. How very, very fancy.
And, what’s behind it? Why, it’s a mural on the wall called trompe l’oeil, which is French for “fool the eye.” It’s a painting, but it looks like a window—a window that looks out onto a Greek seaside. But, we’re not in Greece! We’re in my house! Ha ha ha ha ha!
Not for long, though. Why don’t we take a walk outside and see it from the outside? And, we’re walking together. Walking, walking, walking, walking, ha ha ha ha, walking, walking. And, we’re outside looking at the lawn. And, what’s that over there? Why it’s topiary, which is French for “fancy bushes.” And, look at that. A peacock, which is the fanciest bird. I ordered him from the SkyMall catalogue. He’s made out of cement, but he’s covered with the fanciest glass jewels.
Ah, I see you must be going now. Well, enjoy walking down my very fancy driveway. Take a look at my fancy mailbox. It looks like a lion trying to eat my mail! Ha ha ha ha! How very fancy.
Alright then, a bit about little ol' me.
[Text of the above audio. Best read in a deep, Southern Gentleman accent.]
Now, I’m just an old-time southern lawyer. I don’t cotton much to the fancy things in life. If I had my way, I’d spend my days sittin’ on an old porch swing, sippin’ on a nice, cool ginger beer or lemonade, watchin’ the moss grow on Miss Bessie’s willow trees and reminiscin’ on a nice game of golf I saw when I was a young boy.
Maybe run my thumbs under my suspenders—a new maroon pair every Christmas from my wife, Adelaide—and ponder a life lesson or two imparted onto me by a mystical colored fella I met after the war. Sit there hearin’ his soothin’ voice in my head replayin’ gentle words of wisdom about takin’ it easy and enjoyin’ life as it comes along.
Instead, I’m here in my offices, tryin’ to sync my Blackberry calendar to my Google calendar. But, our IT manager has uploaded a new Linux-based OS to our client server, which he claimed would ease some of the bounce back we were getting’ durin’ our batch processin’ of large data dumps for our class action clients.
Every time I boot up the shared drive, I’m gettin’ these Windows registry errors, and I tried to log in as the network administrator and look at some of the lines of code to see if I could recognize any common glitches in the information architecture. But, it seems to be havin’ problems authenticatin’ passwords, so I’ll just ask my assistant, Jeffrey, to do it when I return home from my trip to Dubai on Wednesday.
My thoughts on a recent art show.
[Text of the above audio. Best if read in a thick German accent.]
This weekend, I attended the rather large Armory Art Show in New York, and I found myself pondering the same question that critics and art historians have been asking for decades. Yes, it is beautiful. Yes, it hangs on the wall. But, is it a vagina?
I know, I know, it is the most subjective of questions. I assume many of you have settled on the classic answer: “I know a vagina when I see it.” But, especially in the world of contemporary art, I think it is an uncertainty that demands further study.
Anyone can look at the established, canonical artists like Egon Schiele or Georgia O’Keeffe and see that, yes, this is clearly a vagina. But, what of the work of Jeff Koons or Takashi Murakami, pieces that mix artistic technique with brazen commercialism? Are these still vaginas? (In the latter’s case, I believe it to be a mix. Some work is vaginal, while other pieces are something else completely.)
Can a pile of spilt sesame seeds be a vagina? Is a statue of Scrooge McDuck a vagina? What about a video installation of man hitting his penis with a belt? Surely, we can agree that this is a vagina.
Some of you might scoff, “Tut tut, my five-year-old can glue a triangle of shag carpet to an American flag. That doesn’t make it a vagina.” Well, I think this brings up further questions rather than easy answers. Is the scenario, itself, a sort of meta-discussion on the role of vaginas and their place in our daily lives? Can anything be a vagina when seen through the perspective of an artist?
I don’t believe we can come up with a so-called “answer,” but the topic deserves deep, penetrative analysis. Every day, we must strive to dive face-first into our basic precepts of what is and what is not a vagina.