Jeebus Burbano as I typically think of her

Actress Jeebus Burbano, who was recently cast in a Spanish language songfest titled Menopausia El Musical at Los Angeles' historical Ricardo Montalban Theatre. I have known Ms. Burbano from the time she supported me in the legendary production of A Servant of Two Masters that I both starred in and adapted many years ago, although I rarely see her these days except I when fantasize about having committed some social faux pas and I am using her mental image to verbally and physically admonish me for it (usually wielding some variation of a riding crop) while I perform Swedish massage on my nether regions. While it is rare when I think of Ms. Burbano in this fashion (never more than five or six times a day; and only that many when I've had a couple of Levitras and drank a lot of liquids), whenever I see her in the cobwebbed corners of my disgusting imagination she is sporting a perfectly chiseled body beneath her skin tight latex dominatrix kit and the lineless face of a pert 25 year old woman (decades before the inevitable disappointments of life cause their jowls to sag and their pert bosoms to descend to their ankle socks). I was therefore shocked to learn that she was cast in a project with a title like Menopausia and assume that she will require reams of padding and hours in the makeup chair having painful prosthetic applied to her perfect face in order to enact her role of "The Housewife" who is undergoing the Change of Life. I will be in the front row for opening night Menopausia El Musical, if only because I have a fetish for saucy MILFs whose plumbing has been enhanced to knock annoying unwanted pregnancies out of the picture; especially if they're wielding some variation of a riding crop. There'd better be plenty of Kleenex on hand at the men's room of Los Angeles' historical Ricardo Montalban Theatre.

First-time singer Scott Tomasheski (yeah, right)

My acquaintance Scott Tomasheski, who celebrated his 50th birthday on Saturday night. I was in attendance at the party (which was a major sacrifice on my part, since Saturday nights are usually reserved for masturbating to pictures of the girls in my high school yearbooks) so I was able to witness Mr. Tomasheski cross an item off his "Bucket List"(the inventory of things someone creeping towards old age wants to accomplish before he dies, which – if found by anyone else – will be hidden in the nearest bucket so that they never have to watch him do it) of serenading an audience with live musical accompaniment. This means that I was treated to the display of Mr. Tomasheski warble standards like Song Sung Blue and Come Together to the captive partygoers while a seedy buddy of his strummed a guitar. The Birthday Boy claimed he had only fantasized about the experience prior to that night, which I found hard to believe when the assembled females began sliding their collective thongs and g-strings from beneath their little black dresses and rapturously tossing them in the debuting songster's direction. As I witnessed the squaws swoon, I quickly realized that this was a scam Mr. Tomasheski had played before where he claimed to be living out a fantasy of letting loose his virgin pipes unto the world only to unveil a voice that was a cross between The Velvet Fog and the Chairman of the Board. I was all set to stomp across the room to confront the huckster with my theory but the floor was too slippery after the ladies had dispensed with their undergarments. The bastard had thought of everything.

Mr. Fredricks' birthday
fantasy come to life

Speaking of birthdays; Stephanie Fredricks, who announced that her husband's birthday is approaching and she has no idea how to celebrate it. After tossing about hackneyed plans like trips to Palm Springs or San Diego, a wine and cheese night, or even (God forbid) a bowling tournament, she sensibly took suggestions from the floor where I opined that the perfect way to celebrate hubby's birthday is a quiet evening acting out his favorite scenes from porno movies. Imagine yourself as Mr. Fredricks, sitting around the house in a near-suicidal state with another year having passed and nothing to show for it when there is a knock at your door and the neighbor's gorgeous new au pair who just moved in for the summer is standing in front of you wearing nothing but a towel and saying that her water was shut off and she'd be oh so appreciate if she could use your shower. Or imagine playing out the fantasy of finally scoring your dream job as a pizza delivery boy and making your first drop-off of an extra-large pepperoni and sausage to a 19 year-old coed, only to discover that she doesn't have any money and she'll have to pay for her dinner some other way. The only drawback to this perfect birthday celebration is that the sexual object in both scenarios would be played by Ms. Fredricks, which kind of kills the fantasy since her husband won't be able get it out of his head that she is the same woman who spent the last two hours nagging him to walk the dog and keep his dirty feet off of her freshly-waxed kitchen floor. So to add to the excitement, I suggest that Ms. Fredricks be recast as Enemies List favorite Mara Marini. And since Mr. Fredricks is a devotedly married man who would never dream of cheating on his wife, I will take his place in the role of the put-upon pizza delivery boy. It might not be quite the scenario Mr. Fredricks had in mind, but I still think it will be the best birthday ever.


Robin Fogelson, who mused "Is it bad spouse behavior to manage it so when you put a band-aid on your husband's cut thumb, that you do it specifically so he can't see that you used a Hello Kitty band-aid until it is too late?" I personally think that if you've found a life partner who is willing to apply first aid when you've come crying from the other room after lacerating your thumb doing God knows what with it, you should hold onto her until the Rapture. But if Mrs. Fogelson is concerned about compromising her hubby's delicate masculinity with a bandage that might get him beaten up on the playground later that afternoon, I suggest that she pick up a few boxes of Jonny® brand band-aids available from Mad Beast International. Decorated with the classic Jonny® caricature, your man's poker buddies will be so impressed with his taste in medical accoutrements that they won't be asking pestering questions about what exactly he was doing with that thumb to make him run to Mommy in the first place. And Jonny® brand band-aids come in packages of 500 so when he's confronted late at night with the image of Jonny staring seductively up at him, there will be plenty of reinforcements in case he re-injures his digit inserting it somewhere that nature didn't intend for it to be.


The fucking heat. My thirty year-old central air conditioner finally died a week ago and my AC repairman Felipe Galvez (not to be confused with my attorney, doctor, accountant, or gang member neighbor of the same name) has informed me that he won't be able to replace it until tomorrow. And since I work out of my home office, that means that I've been sweltering in pool of my own bio-filth as temperatures rise to around 95 in my man cave when the sun is at its highest. Bro Joe suggested that I do as he does and ply my trade in the Freon-cooled environment of a Starbucks until the dilemma is past. The problem with that (aside from the fact that I find working in a coffee café akin to setting up shop in the third lane of the Hollywood freeway during rush hour) is that it doesn't take into account that my primary concern during the internal heat wave is my beloved pug Winston. While it's fine for me to set up a laptop in a temperature-controlled Starbucks, occasionally cooling off by downing a frothy Frappuccino® Blended Beverage, Winston would still be burning up in a hotbox like the one they threw Alec Guinness in in A Bridge on the River Kwai. Oh, I considered disguising my pug by slapping a fake mustache on him in the hopes that the coffee shop staff would be too hopped up on methamphetamines to notice his presence, but there was always a possibility that a beefy failed professional athlete who was embittered at having to toss aside his Olympic dreams and take a demeaning job as a barista would see through the ruse and pummel me as a warning to other air conditioned-deprived pet owners who were trying to take advantage of Starbucks central cooling. The only thing to do is sweat it out until Saturday when our new AC system will be installed and I crank it up to the max, all the while downing a frothy Frappuccino® Blended Beverage. I only hope that Starbucks offers home delivery.