The great Carl Reiner, who celebrated his 91st birthday this week. I have written on these pages about my historic first meeting with Mr. Reiner where I approached him at an event he was speaking at to enjoy a brush with greatness, only to be disdainfully shot down as though I was encountering his hateful characterization of the malevolent variety show host Alan Brady on the old Dick Van Dyke Show. Mr. Reiner's birthday prompted a number of people to remind me of the unhappy meeting, inspiring me to immortalize it in another hysterical Jonny Comics cover which received an even more enthusiastic response than usual when I posted it on the social network. Since I always keep a sharply tuned eye to what my fans are hungry for, I've decided to create a whole series of Jonny covers recreating my awkward encounters with celebrities. The next issue will depict the time that I met Tom Arnold at a party and had no idea who he was until someone told me about it a few days later. The one after that may be about the play I acted in with Star Trek's Walter Koenig and I went on and on to him about how brilliant he was at a Star Trek convention I saw him at in San Francisco only have him inform me that he hadn't appeared at that event at all. The third edition will show when I was dragged to a long-ago Academy Awards rehearsal by a girl I was hoping to have sex with to gawk at celebrities, and my vociferous taunting of Chevy Chase as he entered the theatre earned me a stinging slap on the shoulder by an appalled female reporter. The point is that I know what my fans want, and if they hunger to hear about me being humiliated in interactions with famous names, I intend to provide them. So happy birthday, Mr. Reiner. If we ever meet in the future, I only hope that you'll treat me like dirt again so that I'll have another story to tell my adoring public.
My nemesis Misty LaRue, who posted on her Facebook wall "Good news; bad news. Good news - Finally got my new glasses and I can see what I look like close up. Bad news - Finally got my new glasses and I can see what I look like close up. Oh, what the hell...Life is too short. I am what I am."At first I had assumed that Ms. LaRue was fishing for compliments since I don't believe there has been another human being so enamored of her own reflection since Narcissus was hanging around by the docks. Then I recalled that rather than purchase costly eyewear from an expensive outfit like Lenscrafters, Ms. LaRue saves a few shekels by filling her optometry needs at the discount reading glasses bin at CVS Pharmacy. This inevitably results in her enjoying the vision quality of Mr. Magoo, even to the point where she frequently mistakes her print of Edvard Much's masterpiece The Scream for her bathroom mirror, which is exactly the scenario which prompted her to make her post. In truth, Ms. LaRue is marginally more attractive than Mr. Munch's vision of post-apocalyptic despair, and I was quick to pipe in with my comments about how breathtaking Ms. LaRue actually is because I didn't want her to remember an old grudge the next time that she was at my house holding a sharp object and her PMS kicked in. Perhaps my compliment was the act of a weak-willed nebbish who lives in abject terror of all members of the opposite sex, but I am what I am.
Crispy Bacon. Ms. LaRue's self-deprecating statement drew the predicable avalanche of supportive responses from her coven of yenta cyber-pals, who followed my lead in assuring her how gorgeous she actually was. Everyone except Mr. Bacon, who glumly commented "I know what you mean."Mr. Bacon failed to elaborate on the point: I didn't know if he meant that when he purchased new glasses, what he saw looking back at him in the mirror was just as hideous as the rubbery Japanese monster which she saw. Or perhaps he was pointing out that he had long considered Ms. LaRue to be an unsightly blemish on society and her addition of enhanced visual capability finally confirmed his point of view. The point is that whenever a desperate yenta makes a negative comment about herself on the social network, the only acceptable response is to shower her with assurances that she is the most gorgeous female creature to walk the earth since Lynda Carter was dressing up like Wonder Woman. Otherwise, you're going to wind up with the Internet equivalent of a knee to the groin from a gaggle of bitter women whose sole purpose is to hunt and eviscerate a man whose insensitivity validates every angry rant they've hissed about the gender at group therapy or during a break from palates or line-dancing class. Do you know what I mean?
A recent publicity photo of Mara Marini and... Enemies List favorite Mara Marini, who posted the photograph of herself on the left on her Twitter feed. It is a requirement of Ms. Marini's restraining order against me that I am not permitted to follow her on Twitter, but I have been able to get around that because the document says nothing about her tweets being read by my beloved Pug Winston, the Jonny Puppet or my Internet bulletin board alter ego Manuel Hung. I now understand why Ms. Marini is so intent on my not seeing her posts since her cheesecake photo bears an alarming resemblance to one of the key pieces of evidence that sealed her restraining order against me. A few years ago, Jonny® Publications created a spin-off of our successful Jonny Comics series called Jonny: The Untold Stories, which depicted episodes from my unpublished memoirs. Well, not so much my memoirs as some of my more fanciful sexual fantasies involving nylon rope and strawberry preserves. The cover illustrated my master plan to finally persuade Ms. Marini to fall to my charms, with the accompanying story depicting a tale of romantic byplay which, if acted out as described in the narrative, would have resulted in my serving a 5-10 year sentence at a maximum security prison. Her lawyers were able to persuade the judge in the case that the publication was a clear indication of my so-called "depraved and dangerous mind," but obviously not so depraved and dangerous that Ms. Marini is above living it out for some photographer who's willing to pay her standard modeling fee. I would point out to Ms. Marini that it might be considered unethical to titillate her throbbing fan base of sexually obsessed men by casting her in a lusty scenario and then use that same scenario to ensure that her biggest fan must remain at least 500 yards away from her at any given time. That's called having her cake and eating it too, and I might remind Ms. Marini that what I showed her doing with the cake on page 18 of Jonny: The Untold Stories was what finally convinced the judge to extend the restraining order until August of 2025. I tell you, there's no justice in the world.
...Issue #1 of "Jonny:The Untold Stories." Look familiar?
The despised Proposition B, which mandates the use of condoms in pornographic films shot within the borders of Los Angeles County. Prop B claimed its first victim when the AIDS Healthcare Foundation today announced that it has filed a complaint against Immoral Productions for allegedly filming at least one scene without requiring condom use among its performers. The thing that supporters of Proposition B fail to take into account is that the deadly social diseases they claim to be protecting adult performers against will only be contradicted if bodily fluids intermingle. But I have seen literally thousands of adult films, videos and animated flip books and I have never seen one in which the DNA of one performer is in danger of mixing with that of another. Unless there is a sexually transmitted disease which can be passed along by spermatozoa making contact with the stomach, the small of the back, the bridge of the nose or either butt cheek, there are no health risks associated with porn as it currently exists. Even the one area which performers complain about DNA landing has benefits, as I'm told that it gives hair a bounce and glossy sheen which even the most expensive shampoos can't recreate. So my advice to the AIDS Healthcare Foundation is to leave producers of adult material alone and focus on some real health risks. As long as the money shot continues to be the prized commodity that it is, porn stars are no more in danger of spreading AIDS than my computer keyboard is after I read one of Mara Marini's tweets.
