Actor Jon Hamm, whose television show Mad Men is preparing to premiere its sixth season opener on April 8th. Columnists who have been writing articles about the saga of 1960 Madison Avenue ad men to whet the appetite of its appreciative audience have been focusing on the show's costume department's challenge of camouflaging Mr. Hamm's massive schvantz from being too much of a distraction, an organ which (judging from the bulges he flaunts while strutting commando-style through the streets of the mean city in front of an army of paparazzi) is the approximate length and girth of the Hindenburg Zeppelin. Mr. Hamm is said to be fed up with the media's obsession with his prodigious man-meat and would prefer that the press focus on some other aspect of what makes up John Hamm: his perfect face for instance, or his muscular physique, multi-million dollar fortune or avalanche of awards that his acting has brought him. I can appreciate Mr. Hamm's reticence at wanting to awarded the mantle of this century's Milton Berle, but he might want to keep a low profile over his irritation about the public's fascination with the fact that God has bestowed him a humoungous wiener along with all the other blessings he's been given. Otherwise guys like me who have been dealt the hand of going through life with a repellent physical appearance, a meager bank account and a dead-end job to go along with our tiny, tragically deformed genitalia might be inclined to think of Mr. Hamm as nothing but a dick.
The irritating Amy Ball, who posted a photograph on the social network that appeared to show her in the family way. Ms. Ball was forced to assure her online followers that her baby bump was created by the dedicated costume department of a web series she was appearing in as a knocked-up woman of medieval times and no one was happier at the news than me. The idea of one Amy Ball crawling the earth is bad enough, but that she has sired a devil spawn who will soon be inflicting me with the same cloying optimism and 78-tooth smile of her momma is enough for me to want to break out a crowd of hysterical villagers with torches to storm the maternity ward. But I'm sure that the junior Ball will inherit Mommy's knack for winning over an angry mob and the crowd that came to expunge the child from doing any future harm to humanity will soon be oohing and ahhing over its cuteness and even I would be so overcome by its adorableness quotient that I would soon offering to change the child's diapers. It wouldn't be the first time that a member of the Ball family had charmed me into dealing with her shit.
Speaking of alarming pictures, Master thespian Tom Ashworth who posted the photograph of himself on the left on his Facebook profile. Mr. Ashworth painted himself in this manner for an audition he had for a job as a mime, apparently feeling that simply being a mime wasn't irritating enough; that he would punish the world by depicting a mime who was a cross between a Halloween skeleton and The Joker from Batman. In fact, if the mime job doesn't work out, Mr. Ashworth might consider auditioning for the role of a super villain in the multi-million dollar film version of my classic super hero comic book Jonny Man. We're looking for an actor who is so irritating that he'll be able to suck the life force out of the titular hero, rendering him unable to complete his task of heroically saving humanity from itself. Of course, if Mr. Ashworth really wants to impress the producers at how annoying he is, all he needs to do is show up at the auditions in the guise of Tom Ashworth. He'll be so annoying by just doing that that he can save performing any mime for the callback.
My pseudo-intellectual acquaintance Jon Hofferman. I performed a rare act of altruism last week when I gave up my Sunday to volunteer at a pet adoption event. It was one of those deals where a bunch of do-gooders meet in a park and look after dogs brought from a nearby pound in the hopes that someone will come by and adopt the furry little ball of delight as their BFF. I got involved because I had heard that the group was short of workers and I decided that my beloved Pug Winston had given me so much joy that I wanted other people to have a similar experience. The day was a fulfilling experience for me and while the doggie I looked after that day (an adorable terrier mix named Daisy) didn't find a "forever home," I was assured that she was in no imminent danger of destruction. I was so happy with the experience that I did what all technically-savvy attention whores do in this day and age; I posted about it on Facebook.
This is where Mr. Hofferman comes in, for while all the other comments I received for my work were oohs and ahhs of enthusiastic encouragement, Mr. Hofferman posted "Your aura of humane cuddliness is getting nauseating," later adding "It's not a bad persona, all in all. (And chicks like that sort of thing.)" I was bemused at the statements because this was a rare time when I wasn't doing or saying something with one eye squarely fixed on how it would be perceived by members of the opposite sex, although Mr. Hofferman was correct that the "chicks" who responded did seem to secrete certain pleasing pheromones as a result of reading about my selfless endeavors. I was suddenly confused, because I was always under the impression that chicks dug bad boys who would reward them with a quick slap to the face for any back-talk before riding off on their Harley-Davidson. But now I am given to understand that the ladies fancy good guys who spend their weekends helping puppies. Mr. Hofferman's statement clarified things for me; for now I understand that what is pleasing to women is neither good or bad behavior. Chicks dig dudes who are pretending to be something that they're not in order to manipulate a positive response.
So if you're a sweet little nonentity who wants to get in good with the ladies, invest in a black leather jacket and some dippity-doo and hang out in front of a 50's diner nonchalantly chewing on a toothpick while wiping down a random motorcycle that's carelessly been parked in a handicapped space. If you're an asshole like me, the best thing to do is spend a Sunday picking up some terrier's poop and engaging any stranger who passes by about how lovable and perfect your mutt is in the hopes that a Mommy or Daddy will be born. And if you're somebody like Mr. Hoffman, you might try pretending that there are people whose "aura of humane cuddliness" is actually simply a desire to do some good in the world. He won't mean it, and the ladies around him will pick up on that insincerity and flock to him like moths to a flame. At least that's the theory. In Hofferman's case, you also have to consider variables like his bank balance and breath.
A chick at a party I went to long ago. The other day a friend of mine posted on his Facebook wall a photograph of himself as a teenager holding a birthday cake which was decorated with the saying " On the way to being a star." One of my friend's online pals innocently responded "did you ever think that back then, on that day, when you held that cake, that you'd end up where you are today?" I immediately jumped down the poster's throat, insisting that no one had "ended up"anywhere. He immediately backed down, but he couldn't have known that I was actually responding to a young lady I had met at a party many years before. She was one of those self-styled Bohemian types who thought of herself as an artist when she wasn't working her day job waiting tables at Denny's. She asked me what I did for a living, and I responded with my then-position as the forms designer for a bank (I job I thoroughly enjoyed). She reacted to that tidbit by rolling her eyes and snorting "Did you ever think that you'd end up doing that?" (her message obviously being that my spending eight hours a day in my corporate cubicle was the same as being confined to the ninth circle of hell for all eternity). I responded that I hadn't "ended up" anywhere, and sure enough fifteen years have passed, the bank I worked for is now out of business and I've had several jobs since, all of which would permit me to buy and sell the arrogant little rat that I met at that party.
I've never encountered her since but I have no doubt that her life's path has brought her on the inevitable high, lows, speed bumps and stop signs that we all encounter on our lazy journey to the finish line. And I hope that when her journey takes her to a dip in the road and some nudnik inquires if she ever that that she'd end up where she was, she'll simply flash him a knowing smile, switch gears and continue on down the road.So if you're ever feeling gloomy at what life has offered you up, try to remember my encounter at that party and realize that the plate that's currently in front of you is far from your last meal. There will be all kinds of delicacies still to be sampled no matter how much of life's lunch trucks seems to have already driven past you, oblivious to your arms desperately flailing to flag them down to stop so that you can get a taste. That parade of goodies is still coming on strong. Of course, it's also important to comprehend that when that party took place, I had no idea who Jon Hamm, Amy Ball or Jon Hofferman was, so the banquet you're currently enjoying could quickly lead to food poisoning.On the other hand, I already knew Ashworth so I had already been feeling queasy for a while.