Jonny Comics #2 and #3, which finally debuted after a long legal battle with issue #1. The premiere issue dramatized the series of unfortunate misunderstandings which led to Enemies List favorite Mara Marini having a restraining order issued against me. After we had printed two million copies that were packed and ready to ship, my operatives (some of whom got fired as a result) informed me that it violated hundreds of U.S. and international pornography laws that no one had bothered to tell me were on the books when we were designing it. The proper payoffs have been made to certain State Department sub-bureau chiefs as well as a handful of customs inspectors in South America and certain Islamic countries, so we were able to not only ship Issue #1 but roll out #2 and #3. Issue #2 introduces my nemesis Misty LaRue to the narrative, and while Ms. LaRue refused to be associated with the project, our artists were able to come up with a reasonable facsimile of her likeness based on photos of of Yiddish matchmakers in circa 1915 Brooklyn and old Broom Hilda cartoons. Issue #3 illustrates my experiences on U.S.S. Pinafore, the successful Gilbert & Sullivan/Star Trek mash-up that I directed and adapted, which is essentially just a bunch of cartoons of the cast telling me to shut the hell up so that they can do their work while I sulk in the corner. If Jonny Comics takes off like I hope it will, I'm planning a fourth installment that takes place in a fantasy universe in which Ms. Marini and I hook up after bumping into each other at Misty LaRue's funeral. I propose to her and she accepts. Our wedding is the social event of the decade (although I almost don't make it there because on the way to the ceremony I keep getting stopped by various U.S.S. Pinafore cast members who beg my forgiveness). I finally get to the church for a storybook ceremony in which Ms. Marini (wearing a shockingly low-cut and transparent Vera Wang original) gazes at me adoringly while the Dalai Lama has us recite our vows, as my would-be rivals for her affection like Eddie Frierson and "Crispy" Bacon glare at us jealously from the back of the church with one eye fixed in annoyance on their troll-like dates hunting through their purses for a bottle of Vagisil. The congregation erupts into cheers as the Dalai Lama pronounces us husband and wife and the new Mrs. Mullich leaps upon me and scrapes the back of my larynx with her tongue. We escape to the bungalow provided for us by my best man, richest man in the world Carlos Slim Helu, and I seductively slink into the bathroom to strap on the cumbersome equipment that will stretch out my tragically misshapen genitalia into something resembling a normal human erection. When I return to the bedroom, I discover a note informing me that my new bride has run off with a Brazilian fitness model named Jorgé. I'm disappointed, but then I realize that even a story set in an alternate universe has to have some basis in reality.
My long-time foe Dan E. Campbell who, for some inexplicable reason, became unblocked on my Facebook newsfeed so that I was able to read his status "Am I wrong to take offense when I see a TV ad with the caption 'real people, not actors'?" Mr. Campbell is a sometime-thespian who is currently appearing in the Bumfuck, Kansas touring company of Greater Tuna, so I can understand by what he considers as an affront to members of his profession. He is one of those self-styled "artistic" types who wears sunglasses at 2:00 a.m. and a scarf in 90° weather and whose livelihood centers around his expertise with a deep fryer yet always lists "actor" as his profession when he fills out his 1040-EZ tax form on his annual income of $1,500 or less. Mr. Campbell is as far-removed from a "real person" as anyone who falls into the homo sapien class of mammal that I have ever met, so after careful consideration I am forced to conclude that he is wrong to take offense at that statement. Especially when you take a close, hard look at the "real" people who surround him in Bum Fuck, Kansas. While it's true that they only wear scarves in the dead of winter and take off their shades at sunset, they also have an inclination to sport baseball caps with John Deere logos, local NFL franchises and Confederate flags, their beach ball-shaped beer guts have no shame in jutting out of their Wal-Mart jeans, and they feel compelled to advertise their half-baked political theories and/or sexual proclivities on soiled tee-shirts. So as bad off as Mr. Campbell is, he'd do well to take a hard look at the "real" people he's being compared to and thank whatever God he prays to that the media companies make a distinction between them.
My number 9 enemy of 2012 Rob Vestal, who giddily announced on the social network that he had gone scuba diving during his South American sabbatical. Mr. Vestal's Facebook chums naively oohed and ahhed at his spirit of adventure, but I know better what a sick fuck he actually is. As I described in my year-end listing, Mr. Vestal is a self-styled Lothario who went to Colombia in order to bang anything with an XX chromosome. He has obviously gone through the human population of that third-world hell-hole and had read somewhere that if he submerged himself in a body of water larger than the DNA-infused hot tub at the Comfort Inn at which he makes his headquarters, the chances were good that he would be sexually violated by a Tursiops truncatus, or common dolphin. So great is Mr. Vestal's need for new and sicker carnal thrills that he has descended into the seamy underbelly of aquatic erotic. But I worry what will happen when Mr. Vestal decides that his dalliances with the inhabitants of the briny deep have become too tame. My research indicates that the animal indigenous to Colombia which presents the greatest taboo is the capybara (or Hydrochaeris hydrochaeris), a semi-aquatic herbivorous animal that lives in South America, east of the Andes. The ironic thing is that the capybara is the world's largest living rodent, which will represent a come-uppance for Mr. Vestal since this will be the first time that a rat will be fucking him.
The chipper Amy Ball, who posted on her Facebook wall the photo of something called a "Beardo"- a knit cap with a knit faux beard attached to it = and posed the question "Is it weird that I want one of these for snowboarding?" My gut reaction was "hell to the yes" but to confirm my belief, I used my Photoshop genius to view Ms. Ball actually wearing the rig. As soon as I got a look at her Unibomber/Osama bin Laden visage, I knew exactly what she was up to. It's one thing to go barreling down a snow-covered mountain on an old trash can lid looking with a circa 1973 G.I. Joe with life-like hair and kung fu grip; it's quite another to set fire to our stateliest skyscrapers and massage parlors as a means of terrorizing the American people into accepting your personal political manifesto. I don't know what kind of ruthless plot Comrade Ball is contemplating, but one look at that beard puts no doubt in my mind that she's up to no good. And if all she's planning on doing with the get-up is a little snowboarding, she's better plan her winter activities somewhere that's within driving distance. Because if she shows up at an airport wearing that thing, something tells me that she's in for a lengthy random inspection.
My high school chum Susan Trudel, who makes her maiden appearance on these pages. Ms. Trudel offered to her Facebook peeps the piece of Yenta Philosophy "Happiness is being who you are, not what others want you to be." What Ms. Trudel fails to take into account is that being who I am has brought me nothing but misery, primarily because it puts me in contact with yentas like Ms. Trudel. But we are in agreement that being what others want me to be wouldn't be any more satisfying, since most of the people I encounter are desperate yentas like Ms. Trudel who want me to be is a gelded mute whose only reason for living is to listen to the nonstop cackling of a coven of desperate yentas. So the question remains: who can I be that would result in my happiness? After some prayer and soul-searching, I've decided that the answer is George Clooney. Now that we've straightened that out, the only lingering issue is what are we going to do with the original George Clooney after I take his place? I have a simple solution that I think will please everybody: Mr. Clooney will take my place. I'll be happy because I'll be living George Clooney's life. The yentas will be happy because they'll have George Clooney instead of me to irritate. The only person who might not be thrilled with the arrangement is Mr. Clooney himself. But you know what? He's George Clooney, fer chrissakes. It's hard for me to feel sorry for him. And since he's going to be me and that means it's hard for me to feel sorry for myself, that's a bold statement.