Enemies List favorite Mara Marini. To commemorate the Academy Awards on Sunday, I created another of my delightful Jonny Comics covers. This one depicted what it would look like if Ms. Marini and I shared the stage as presenters on the Oscar telecast, with typically hilarious results. I posted the cover on Facebook and it got the anticipated avalanche of "likes"and comments, none more meaningful to me than one from Ms. Marini herself who posted "Hahaha. I love you."You heard me; the one and only Mara Marini used the phrase "I love you"in a missive addressed to me and me alone. And when I say that, you must realize is that I have interpreted notes reading "You have been ordered to stay at least 1500 yards away from my client at all times with failure to do so resulting in prosecution and imprisonment" sent to me on Ms. Marini's behalf to mean "I love you." When I got a message from her with that literal sentiment, I could scarcely believe what I was reading. So I submitted the comment to a panel of experts (which was comprised of my psychiatrist, my personal psychic and eight meddling yentas) and they all assured me that the phrase was meant strictly platonically, as one might address it to a nephew or an unusually unattractive dog. I accepted that but I still attempted to have the comment tattooed on the inside of my eyelids so that I could read it while dozing behind the wheel of my car after driving home from a night of binge drinking. When I was informed by my tattoo artist Felipe Galvez that it wasn't possible to carve the sentiment into my hide this manner, I settled for having it immortalized as body art on my belly. That way when I go through one of my periodic bouts of depression and I medicate with some binge junk food eating and marathon alcohol consumption, I can watch our love grow with every mouthful.
Jeebus Burbano. While I was at the tattoo parlor, I had Galvez carve out a tramp stamp that I'd been envisioning for some time that depicts Ms. Burbano (the woman who is personally responsible for my tragically misshapen genitalia yet who still holds an erotic fascination for me, although my therapist informs me that the two may have a distant correlation) as a "sexy"devil. In fact, I had only intended to illustrate Ms. Burbano as a devil but, try as I might, the results always turned out "sexy"no matter how many scenes of baseball games or background images of elderly grandmothers with breasts sagging down to their kneecaps that I included in the picture. After Mr. Galvez had immortalized her devilish visage in indelible ink between my shoulder blades, I high-tailed it to Ms. Burbano's government-assisted housing project to see what she thought of it. She responded "That's so nice I want to cry. But I'm in a semi disgusted with myself for liking being objectified."I was appalled at the sentiment, because the only people who object to being sexually objectified in principle are people who are really just over-compensating for their resentment at never being sexually objectified themselves. As you can probably guess from looking at the condition of my upper torso in the illustrations for listings number 1 and 2, I am almost never sexually objectified and on the few times that I am, several shots of whiskey and at least one roofie have contributed to the condition and the morning after inevitably begins with a suicide attempt from one of the parties involved (it's usually her although I did once try to jump off a balcony when I woke up next to a particularly annoying yenta). The point is that if somebody is sexually objectifying you, you'd better enjoy it while it lasts. Because sooner or later you're going to find yourself being depicted as an elderly grandmother with breasts sagging down to her kneecaps in the background of a tramp stamp to make it look less sexy.
Wonder Woman. My associate Tawdry Baubles attended an exhibition at The Paley Center for Media in Los Angeles which had on display costumes and sets from classic TV shows like Monk's Diner from Seinfeld and Central Perk from Friends. Of special interest to me was a photograph Ms. Baubles posted on her Facebook page of Lynda Carter's costume from the series The New Original Wonder Woman, which I have written about lovingly on these pages in the past. But when I looked up Ms. Baubles' photo of the cherished relic from the 1970s that got me through so many tortured nights during my puberty, the iconic costume which was once the symbol of super-charged erotica that once teetered on the limits of Family Time sensibilities was now nothing more than a few shreds of fading satin. It was only after several hours of meditation that I concluded that the vital element which was missing was a 29 year-old Lynda Carter stuffed inside the costume. I surmised that Ms. Carter and her costume were like a yin and a yang which each required the other to fulfill my teenage lust so completely, until I remembered that repeated viewings of my VHS copy of Bobbie Jo and the Outlaw (inevitably freeze-framing the action eighteen minutes into the narrative) proved that Ms. Carter during that era was even more erotically pleasing without the Wonder Woman costume. I haven't yet determined how the math works out on that but I'm hoping to borrow the costume from The Paley Center for some laboratory-controlled research. It's my theory that I'll be able to detect some remnants of the costume's erotic molecules (even without the addition of Ms. Carter to the mix) by burying my face in the star spangled panties while I choke myself. Only through selfless experimentation like this will science learn the truth about such mysteries.
The mysterious Fred Glick, who felt compelled to announce to the world "Job title I just saw on a résumé: Head lice removal specialist." The less imaginative amongst you probably assumed that the curriculum vitae listing referred to something as mundane as someone who went through infested scalps with medicated shampoo and a tiny comb at a middle school or perhaps a futuristic salt mining concern on a distant planet where Sigourney Weaver will inexplicably show up to do battle with a blood relation of the original Alien. But you overlook the fact that the United States is the greatest country in the world with the highest standards for everything from the ultra-purified water that we drink to the monkey-tested cosmetics that we smear on our faces. This yardstick also applies to the lowly lice that encamp themselves in our school-age children's scalps in order to suck the nourishing protoplasm just beneath the epidermis, which means that every louse which enters our nation's border much be inspected and transported to inner cities teeming with uninhabited craniums by a licensed and bonded lice removal specialist. These talented professionals inspect the lice at the Mexican border and give them the stamp of approval to be trucked to Los Angeles, Chicago and New York and the thick thatches of unkempt hair which reside there. Lice removal specialists were once in high demand in the job market, but with the advent of superior hair care products and the popularity of Brazilian waxes in the U.S., fewer and fewer lice are looking to relocate here and thousands of lice removal specialists have been given their walking papers. But I feel good about the chances of the guy Mr. Glick happened across to find another job, because at least he was a head lice removal specialist. The assistant lice removal specialists will have a tougher time of it.
Trish Veranos, who won the prediction pool at my annual Oscar-watching party with an astonishing 20½ correct picks (she only got one of the two winners in the tie for sound effects recording, and I'm a stickler for accuracy). Mrs. Veranos' prize was a coveted Enemies List coffee mug, which displays the famous logo for the website on the front and the stern disparagement that "I'm VERY disappointed with you people" on the back so that she can be reminded of how much she's let me down while she's sipping on her morning Pumpkin Spice Latte. The thing that irritated me about Mrs. Veranos winning the pool was that she did not even attend the party. While I was watching Bro Joe clean out my liquor cabinet while savagely critiquing Oscar emcee Seth McFarlane so that no one else could hear a word emanating from the TV, Mrs. Veranos was on a plane to Florida (allegedly for a business meeting although everyone in attendance suspected it was really to see her long-rumored Miami-based "other"husband, who legend has it is African American and has genitalia that reaches to past his knees). She was allowed to take part because she sent her predictions with her L.A.-based husband, my financial advisor Kenny Veranos (who is of mixed race and legend has it that his genitals can only be seen with the naked eye on the warmest days of the summer months) and also because she included a tasty plate of pastries for the party-goers to enjoy (which Joe devoured along with the contents of my liquor cabinet). Still, I couldn't help but be a little bitter about Mrs. Veranos claiming such a valuable prize in absentia and briefly considered a rule that next year's winner had to be in attendance to take home the swag. I thought better of it when I realized that it might be just enough to tip the scales to make her Florida husband visit her for a change and come to my Oscar party himself. I wouldn't be able to pay attention to the Oscar show as I spent all night stealing surreptitious glances at his knees and realizing that no matter who won the prediction pool, he was the real winner.