A Murderer Sits Amongst You
Someone at this table is not who they say they are. Indeed, someone here is a murderer.
Is it the young ingénue? Did she tire of the attention from her adoring public? Did she long for a thrill greater than the glare of the footlights? Could it be she who planted the blood-stained gloves in the grandfather clock?
Or, was it the gardener? He had access to the library where the victim was found strangled. Just hours before, he was heard arguing with Lord Whimple about the size of begonias. Was that enough to incite murder?
Or, could it be the escaped lunatic, on the loose from the nearby mental institution? He had the motive of already being a serial murderer. After the crime, he was found outside the library wearing the earl’s cracked glasses. What did he stand to gain, besides sating his unending bloodlust?
Could it have been the handsome tennis pro? Rumor has it, he had been seen spooning young Honoria, the earl’s sole heir. Did he plan to hasten her inheritance? Or, could the tennis pro have gotten a taste for blood when the escaped lunatic stabbed him in the leg with a serving fork?
What about Lady Whimple? She’d often argued with the earl over his refusal hire a new cook. Also, she had killed and eaten all of the family pets. No wait, that was the escaped lunatic who did that. Sorry, my notes are a shambles.
Could the murderer be Rupert Pepper, the earl’s personal secretary? He certainly knew his way around the castle library. He had every opportunity to commit murder, what with the entire household searching the grounds for the escaped lunatic.
Speaking of the escaped lunatic, can someone please tighten the ropes binding him to his chair? He’s tried to bite me several times during my speech. Thank you.
Could the murderer have been the bishop? Bishop Dunsberry was no fan of…
Notes on Your Font
I'm going to give you a few quick notes on the font you’ve created. I realize you didn’t ask for notes, but I’ve put a great deal of thought into this, so just shut up and listen. I said shut up!
First off, your ascenders are resplendent! My goodness, I simply adore your ascenders. Many designers get so focused on their descenders they completely forget their ascenders. Your ratio of cap height to ascender height... I’m speechless.
You’re descenders, on the other hand, are boorish and abrasive. Tsk. It’s as though you put all your eggs into your acscender basket, and you forgot completely your descenders. I see a disturbing lack of focus in your descenders. I pity the baseline grid that has to accommodate that lower-case "g."
Moving on to serifs. Solid. Not the worst serifs I’ve ever seen, but certainly not the best. Did I ever tell you about the serifs Lennart Waldenström made for his display font, Kortenkasse Grotesque? Organic. Delicate yet sturdy. Divine. His serifs were something out of Swan Lake. Yours are strained yet passable.
Your em dashes and en dashes, though, are arrogant and ill-mannered.
You’ve overworked your dipthongs and ligatures. That’s a clear indicator that a designer has gotten into typography for all the wrong reasons. The type world isn’t all glitz and glamour. Beware the draw of ligatures. A glyph here, a glyph there--the next thing you know, you’ll be designing dingbats in some dank alley for used copies of Creative Suite.
Listen, I can see by your ampersand that you have a great deal of raw talent. I’m simply trying to bring it out in you. It’s not your fault you don’t know your crossbar from your baseline. You’re young and stupid. That’s to be expected. Stop crying! If I’d wanted you to cry, I would have told you my thoughts on your drop caps.
Honestly, if you couldn't handle a little criticism, you shouldn't have not asked for it.
Your Constant Input
Thank you so much for your constant input. I'm glad you feel comfortable sharing every tiny thought about what I am doing and how I could do it better.
For instance, the advice you gave me while I was driving--very helpful. You were correct that my hands should have been at 10 & 2. I was, indeed, signaling a bit too early. And, while I had seen the sign for the off ramp, it was nice having a backup scream as it approached.
Your incessant input was also appreciated at the conference hall. I hadn't realized my tie was ugly until you pointed it out. Good note. I'm sure everyone within earshot agreed. Also, I am more than happy to work on a "manlier" handshake.
You really are gifted at giving unrequested, unrelenting feedback. Not just to me, either. The wait staff during our business lunch—I’m sure they learned quite a bit about the quality of their croutons. If it weren't for you, our waitress might never have known she was "too tall." It's amazing how often you can find the opportunity to slip in those kinds of "teaching moments."
Thank you, too, for informing me how much nicer your hotel room was compared to mine. Next time I book a room, I’ll be sure to use your many, many helpful hints. The tip about faking deafness will prove especially helpful, I'm sure.
All in all, I'm just so grateful to have someone who assumes he's my mentor. I don't know what I would do without you. I can only constantly imagine.
Your Arm Might Be Broken
Honey, I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m pretty sure your arm is broken. I know you think it’s not broken, but just weighing the evidence, it seems like it’s broken.
For one thing, it didn’t used to bend that way. It used to bend just at the elbow. And, then, only within a 180 degree limit. Also, before, when you gave “two thumbs up,” your thumbs would point in the same direction.
Secondly, I heard a distinct, loud crack when you fell. You said at the time it was the sound of the wicker chair you had been standing on. But, I’ve since examined the chair carefully, and it doesn’t appear broken. Your arm, though—that seems super broken.
I don’t remember much bone being visible before you fell. I could be mistaken, but I pretty sure all bone was safely on the inside your arm. Now, however, that bit of jaggedy stuff near your sleeve … I’m not a doctor, but that’s for sure bone.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m super grateful you got a head start hanging Halloween lights this year. And, I understand getting the ladder down from the garage takes much longer than simply setting a wicker chair on top of the picnic table. But, maybe get used to the idea that your arm might be broken.
No rush. It’s been a week. I’m sure whatever’s done is done by this point. Take some time to admit to yourself that you might need to see a doctor about it.
All I ask is that you sit out of this second round of flag football. You keep fainting from the pain, and it’s making everybody nervous.
C’mon Guys!
C’mon, gents, give me back my hat. Seriously, return my hat. No, don’t throw it back and forth. It’s not meant to be thrown around; it’s meant to be worn on my head. I’m beginning to think you two don’t know what hats are for.
I don’t understand why you’ve singled out me for your amusement. It can’t be because I snickered at your poor grammar. Nor could it be my insistence on calling you slack-jawed dolts. Ergo, it must be that you believe my hat is some sort of sporting equipment.
Well, it’s not. It is a fashion accessory made by a “hatter.” Ah, I see by your perplexed expressions that you assumed all hats were made by “milliners.” You see, a milliner specifically crafts women’s hats. I am a man; that is my hat; therefore, it was made by a hatter and sold to me by a haberdasher.
Clearly, you believe it to be some sort of playground toy. Your limited intellects must have deemed it—
Owe! Owe, my lip! You seem to have accidently struck me on the lip with your fist. Perhaps this is a part of whatever silly game you two are playing. Well, I shan’t be any part of any violent sport. Oof! That was my stomach. You, sir, have pummeled me in my stomach, and I demand an apology. Why I—
Gah, the face again. Please, stop hitting my face. Ouch! I implore you to cease. I will allow you to keep the hat if you will stop hitting my face, you wet-brained buffoons. Oof, I admit that was a poor choice of sobriquet on my part. Owe!
Alas, poor me and my refined sensibility … Ouch! Ooooooh!
I’m Not Clumsy
Listen, I do not appreciate you calling my “clumsy.” It is insulting and belittling and whoops! Sorry about that. Sorry.
Anyway, what were we talking about? Oh yeah, you called me a klutz. I am not a klutz. I will have you know, sir, that I take a great deal of pride in my grace and balance, which has always been my dammit! Shoot. I apologize. That wasn’t my fault. Someone must have bumped into me.
Like I said, your claim that I am some kind of “clumsy goofus” is uncalled for. Why, just the other day, my mother commented on how agile I was when wh-wh-whoa! Hold on … I got it. See?! I didn’t drop it. A klutz would have dropped it—Youch, my hand! Whoops! Dammit.
Alright, maybe I might have a few clumsy moments, but that doesn’t make me a heads up! Look out, coming through! Ahh man! Who leaves a skateboard in the middle of a bar floor? That doesn’t even make any sense.
Okay, um okay. I think that I’m not making my point as well as I would like to right now, so I am going to leave. Will someone please help me get this mop bucket unstuck from my head? It’s awfully dark in here. Hello? Is that somebody’s camera I hear?
This Horrible Oatmeal
Listen, I don’t want to be a jerk or anything. I really appreciate you making lunch, and I can tell you put a lot of effort into it. But, ugh, this oatmeal tastes terrible.
I mean, I’m not an oatmeal expert, but there is something seriously wrong with this oatmeal. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Is oatmeal supposed to be spicy?
I guess I’m just used to my mom’s oatmeal, which was kinda sweet and buttery. Sometimes it had a little apple or cinnamon. I’ve never had oatmeal with chunks of green pepper in it, though. I’m not the biggest fan.
Did the recipe call for green pepper, or did you improvise? Maybe you shouldn’t trust your instincts on this kind of thing.
Sorry. I know I sound ungrateful. It’s not like I slaved over the stove all morning. But, yikes, this oatmeal is gross. Did you try any before you served it? I think you might have spilled some cumin in here. Also, are these kidney beans?
Normally, you are such a great cook. But, for whatever reason this oatmeal turned out kinda disgusting. Next time—
What? It’s not oatmeal? It chili? Oooh, well then it’s delicious! Hey, thanks for the tasty chili, Buddy.
In Disguise
Hey, Brian! Brian MacArthur! It's me, Andy. Your good friend, Andy Ross. Don't you recognize me? Oh shit, that's right; I'm disguised as an elderly woman. That would explain why you weren't waving back.
Shoot, I guess the cat's out of the bag. You've probably figured out that I’m actually a secret NSA operative. And, my day job as a comedy writer is simply a cover story. And, I've had to lie to you and our friends all these years. And, today I’m posing as a feeble grandmother-type. You guessed all that from this costume, right?
Listen, don't tell anybody about the secret agent thing, okay? I could get in real trouble with my bosses. Also, I'm finishing up a year-long mission to capture a dangerous smuggler named The Jaguar. I think I’m finally close to nabbing that murderous bastard. I can’t let him see me coming, though. Hence the disguise.
So, yeah, how ‘bout Katie’s party last night, huh? Crazy. I’ve never seen that many drunk people in one bathroom before. Sorry I had to leave early. I got a phone call from the Pentagon about a stolen submarine or something. Turned out it was fine.
Anyway, what have you been up to lately? Last I heard, you and Jenny were-- What? What do you mean you’re in the CIA? That’s incredible. Two acquaintances both leading separate lives as secret agents? The odds of that have to be staggering. Don’t tell me you’re going after The Jagaur as well? You are? Maybe we should join forces.
I got a tip The Jaguar was making a weapons drop in this very mall. One of us should cover the high ground near the Sbarro-- Brian, look out behind you! Turn around!
Ah ah. Don’t move. Keep your hands away from your body. That gun you feel in your back has killed a thousand men. It is I, The Jaguar, international smuggler and criminal mastermind.
My NSA story was, itself, a cover. Now, keep your hands where I can see them and move very slowly towards the exit. We’re going to have a nice long talk about Pentagon security codes.
By the way, did you see how wasted Tim was last night? I hope he made it home okay. Ooh, H&M is having a sale.
Erotic Cake Contest
"Erotic Cake Contest"
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[Text of the above audio.]
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.
And, bravo!
Invest in Waterslides
Dude, I heard you won the lottery! That’s amazing! What are you going to do with all that money? Wait! Before you answer, let me tell you about a little investment opportunity.
Waterslides.
Hear me out. Everybody loves waterslides. Kids love waterslides. Parents love waterslides. Singles, teens, fat guys, nuns with guitars—everybody loves a waterslide.
Chess players love waterslides. Luchadores love waterslides. Sea World employees love waterslides. Painters, golfers, bike messengers—they love waterslides, too. Buddhists love waterslides. Dutchesses love waterslides. Flight attendants, Shriners, hippies, podiatrists—big fans of waterslides.
Seriously. Newlyweds love waterslides. Truckers love waterslides. Haberdashers love waterslides. Frenchmen, park rangers, jewelers, lawyers, bartenders, Mormons, museum docents, Hollywood celebrities, extreme sports aficionados, copyeditors, dog breeders, international spies, party animals—all of those guys love waterslides.
Particle physicists love waterslides. Roofers love waterslides. Civil War reenactors love waterslides. Knitters love … water … I’m sorry, please don’t interrupt me while I’m listing all the people who love waterslides. I worked a long time on this presentation.
Lumberjacks love waterslides. Fops love waterslides. Security guards love … Hey, where are you going? Come back here. I didn’t tell you how Rastafarians love waterslides yet.