The Jonny's Enemies List
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You people. I decided to expand the range of my influence over you people by finally creating the Jonny's Enemies List Facebook page in order that you might receive my wisdom and moral guidance amongst your YouTube videos about cats and posts about knowing a cancer survivor that try to guilt everybody into reposting it if they know another cancer survivor which are making their way across the social network like a cancer. The first post on the page was the motto of Jonny's Enemies List: "I'm very disappointed in you people."Unfortunately the page has also allowed the flotsam and jetsam who follow me the ability to pass along messages to me of their own. This includes such positive reinforcement as my college chum Robin Greenspan rhapsodizing "This is the page I've been waiting for!" (adding "It's almost like a cure for cancer," which at least would mean an end to those idiotic chain mail posts about knowing a cancer survivor) to such low points as the globe-hopping Rob Vestal (the basis for the Jonny League of America super villain The Dick) tersely stating "Fuck you, Jonny"(I replied that it wasn't going to happen until I saw a ring). Perhaps the most constructive comment on the page came from my former co-worker Nathan Kuntz, who used the page to suggest a theme song for the Enemies List: a ditty called Are You My Enemy by an artist named Joe Buck Yourself. Unfortunately, the Enemies List already has a theme song (Fuck You by Cee Lo Green) but I appreciate Mr. Kuntz's interest so I figure we can be like New Zealand and have two national anthems since when I ask someone if they're my enemy, I inevitably respond to whatever response I get with "Fuck you" (unless I am speaking to Rob Vestal, who has already used the expression when replying to my original question).  The Jonny's Enemies List Facebook Page has also provided my staff with the opportunity to repost timeless material from the Jonny archives, such as classic covers from Jonny Comics, photos of me with celebrities (like Titantic star Gloria Stuart, who seemed genuinely alarmed to be in the same photo as me) and Jonny-themed ads like the one below below for 2010's Win a Date with Jonny M Contest, in which ladies from all over the country could fulfill their childhood dream of going on a date with Jonny. As I recall, the date didn't go exactly as planned since the winner didn't read the fine print that explained that she would be the one paying for the date and my bar bill maxxed out her credit card. She also didn't realize that the rules required her to let me get to at least third base and the eczema I was suffering from at the time caused a nasty yeast infection in her forbidden zone. But the existence of the Facebook page can best be summed up by a message that my staff received from Jonny fan Micki Sackler, who wrote "OK, I liked page. What do I get?" I thought seriously about the question and provided with a response that I hope you will all take to heart: "A moral compass."

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My middle finger. Since there are so many fireworks shot off in my neighborhood on the 4th of July that my block looks and sounds like a war zone in Afghanistan, I have taken to observing the holiday by having my nemesis Misty LaRue come over and watch a movie so that my beloved pug Winston can cuddle with me on the couch to assuage some of the trauma brought on by the Rocket's Red Glare. Alas, my finger had began developing a mysterious infection late Tuesday night so that by the time Ms. LaRue arrived to start complaining about the movie I had chosen, the digit looked like an over-baked summer sausage covered in horse radish. Fortunately, being confronted by someone in agony is Ms. LaRue's Happy Place so the sight of my swollen finger propelled her into full yenta mode and she insisted that we take my throbbing finger to the local emergency room to have it lanced. I knew that we made the right decision when the nurse on duty got a look at the thing and registered a horror that I don't usually see from females until they first get a gander at my misshapen penis. Fortunately, the doctor on call was not only expert at dealing with such situations but was a physician who believed in the healing power of laughter as he began making jokes about how much pain I would be in the next day because of the incompetency of the nursing staff. Or I thought he was kidding as I experienced agony I hadn't known since I was in a relationship with the woman I once lived with when he opened up the finger and a geyser of white goo exploded out of the infected area which rivaled the last time I masturbated to a Sally Field Gidget episode on Nick at Night. After my finger was finally reduced back to human size and I was safely doped up on Vicodin, I returned to the waiting area to find Ms. LaRue. She had an even tougher time of it than I did since she not only had to watch 4th of July-related burn wounds come into the E.R. for two hours, but was forced to put up with the company of Bro Joe who dropped by the hospital to assess the situation after reading about it on Facebook. She finally dropped me off back at my place where I found Winston cowering in the bedroom closet to unsuccessfully escape the sound of explosions that continued until well after midnight. Fortunately my middle finger was feeling more or less back to normal by then so I could lean out of the balcony and put it to good use against the idiots blasting fireworks. Another fantastic Independence Day was on the books.

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The evil genius Lars Fargo, who celebrates a birthday next week. Mr. Fargo is part of a small group of people with whom I associate with whom the only reason that we tolerate each other is through an agreement that we all have to gather together at each other's birthday and buy the Man of the Hour dinner. Time after time I have attempted to remove myself from this contractual obligation except I never manage to come to the decision until I've shelled out enough cash for birthday dinners that I have no choice but to stick around until it's my turn and stick it to everyone involved by demanding that they take me to an expensive French bistro. Since I'm still biding my time with that plan this year, I am compelled to fete Mr. Fargo at an eatery of his choosing this evening. That means a hearty American meal of gooey and chewy Midwestern barbeque, a cuisine which (if offered to me as my last meal before execution) I would request that they just skip the food and give me the lethal injection. But it's Mr. Fargo's choice so I'll keep my mouth shut and enjoy whatever approximates a leafy salad on the menu (although that's not as easy as it sounds since most of the barbeque places Mr. Fargo favors include a cow hoof in their cole slaw recipe) while the other members of the party gorge themselves on pig entrails slathered in Texas BBQ sauce. But so I'm not completely out of place, I'll go into my Village People costume chest and break out my cowboy gear co that when I ask the waitress for crudité, I'll slightly lower the odds of my being tarred and feathered by the other clientele. Although having seen the BBQ sauce they're all coated with after a meal, the only difference between us is the feathers.

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My college nemesis Ja'Son Fogelson. Among other various nefarious activities (including hosting a floating cock fight out of undisclosed ocations in the San Fernando area of Los Angeles and operating a phone sex service that caters to late-middle-aged men with a fetish for whipped cream-like dessert toppings), Mr. Fogelson is an automotive writer and critic. Part of his gig includes having new vehicles delivered to his home so that he can drive them around for a while and give his opinion to the half dozen shut-ins who make up his readership. And I'm not talking about the latest Kias and Hynudais; the ride that he was most recently asked to give his professional opinion on was the 2013 Bentley Mulsanne. While I respect Mr. Fogelson as a critic, he doesn't strike me as the type who would be likely to drive a luxury Bentley. He'd be more at home atop his 1984 Harley Davidson Electra Glide that has a hole punched in the muffler to get back at his neighbors who stay up until all hours blasting their Jim Nabors records. But he was philosophical about the temporary lifestyle change. "It's always cool to drive a Bentley," admitted Mr. Fogelson, "even if it's a little scary to have a $345,000 vehicle parked in front of our house." I'll have to take his word on that since the only vehicle that's been parked in front of my house for any length of time was a Florist's van that strangely had a network of surveillance equipment on its roof and was driven by guys wearing FBI windbreakers. I'm sure Mr. Fogelson is much happier with the Bentley parked in his driveway. Especially after he poked holes in the muffler to get back at those fucking neighbors.

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My beloved pug Winston and The Dick, who won last week's poll for favorite Jonny League of America superhero and super villain. Winston won in a landslide, getting a massive 70% of the tally (JLA members Toilet Paper Boy and The Yammering Yenta failed to get a single vote between them) and The Dick spanked second place enemy The Obnoxious Little Sister (which is ironically the best way to vanquish her) with an impressive 24% of the poll. As the winners of the contest, the pair square off in a special edition of Jonny League of America Comics in which The Dick captures the rest of the team leaving only Winston to save them. The pug arrives just as molten lead is about to be dumped on the heroes so The Dick tries to slow Winston down by giving him a juicy T-bone steak. The ploy works and the other members of the Jonny League all die a horrifically painful death as Winston greedily wolfs down the steak, oblivious to their screams of agony. It's a harsh lesson for the 10-12 year-old readers of the comic book but one they've got to learn sooner or later, so thanks loads to everyone who voted.