Breaking Bad creator Vince Gilligan. I was at Zankou Chicken in West Hollywood the other night, stuffing a delicious piece of foul into my face while I listened to my acquaintance Larry Zerner tell me anecdote after anecdote illustrating how his life is superior to mine, when we were interrupted by a man walking out who stopped by to inform me how much he enjoyed my work. I naturally assumed that he was a reader of the Enemies List so I gave Mr. Zerner a kick in the shins under the table to make sure he was paying attention when the man went on to tell me what a great show Breaking Bad is. It was only then I realized that my fan had mistaken me for Mr. Gilligan, with whom I share the same taste in facial hair and corrective eyewear. The man went on his way as Mr. Zerner shot me a patronizing smirk, and I concluded that I was consigned by society the status of looking like Vince Gilligan. I say "looking like"because the rules of the game are that you take two human beings who have remotely similar appearance and associate the similarity in looks based on their relative fame to one another. For instance, if you have Joe Blow and Joe Schmoe, both of who have sunken eyebrows and a uniquely flat cranial structure, you would say that they look like each other. But because of their relative celebrity, you would say that Messrs. Blow and Schmoe look like the Frankenstein Monster, a far more well-known public figure. Such is the case of Mr. Gilligan and me, since unless he is having a meal at some eatery right now and a stranger is coming up to him to assign him credit for Jonny's Prison Christmas (and I would love nothing more than someone else being blamed for Jonny's Prison Christmas), the sad reality is that I look like Mr. Gilligan and not vice-versa. I can handle that second-rank standing, but the added humiliation of having it dumped on my head in front of someone like Mr. Zerner is too much to bear. Only if some faceless entity broke free of the huddled masses to confuse Mr. Zerner for a celebrity with a high q-rating in front of me could my fragile ego be soothed. Of course with my luck, the drone might say that Mr. Zerner looked like Brad Pitt. If that happened, the only thing that would make me feel better is some blue meth.
Jesse Russell and Ronald Cohn, who I recently discovered are authors of a book titled Jon Mullich that is available on most reputable bookselling websites. I was thrilled to realize that my epic saga was finally being set down in print until I learned that Messrs. Russell and Cohn are charlatans who lift public domain material from the Internet (primarily Wikipedia articles), compile them in cheaply-printed paperbacks and hawk them to an unsuspecting public as legitimate books on the subject. I was bitterly disappointed to find that Jon Mullich fell into this scam until I concluded that it was the only book currently available on the topic and I'd better snap up every existing printing at twenty bucks a pop to ensure that all my local libraries and women I'm trying to convince to have sex with me have a copy. Even so, I hope Messrs. Russell and Cohn have a hard time sleeping as their conscience plagues them about the shabby custom of plagiarizing material from Wikipedia for financial gain. That practice should be reserved for college students writing their term papers.
Jeebus Burbano, who giddily exclaimed "My surreal life: shopping for dresses for TV appearances."Ms. Burbano is enjoying the sudden status of being a media darling as she promotes her gig in the Los Angeles production of Menopausia el Musical at the Ricardo Montalban Theatre on Spanish-language television. Ms. Burbano looked quite well-dressed along with her fellow cast members during recent stints on Lanzate on the Univision network and on Spanish-language CNN. Since the yentas who fill out the Menopausia dramatis personae were all cackling away in Spanish, I have no way of knowing what they were talking about, which meant that I didn't have to be irritated by the content of their discussion and could instead focus on their pretty new dresses with plunging necklines that they purchased for their guest spots. I've decided that I'm going to encourage all of the women I know to learn Spanish, since it's so much more pleasant not to try and understand what they're yammering on about. They all seem to be talking in a different language from me anyway.
Jonny Award winner Jesse Merlin, who set a little flaming turd on my day by sending me a photo of himself at a pre-Halloween event wearing a tee-shirt emblazoned with the logo of the gross-out fetish flick Saló, or the 120 Days of Sodom. Mr. Merlin introduced me to this cinematic fecal brick (and if you've seen Saló, you know exactly what I mean by that) under the guise of an "art movie" and I have woken up screaming ever since. The sight of him in his Saló tee-shirt only exacerbates my trauma, so I'm buying him some shirts with images of gentle Disney movies like The Little Mermaid and Bambi to be photographed in so that I don't have a panic attack when I open Facebook. Knowing Mr. Merlin though, I'll open my computer to be confronted by a picture of him adorned with the image of Bambi mourning over the body of his slaughtered mother. But as disturbing as that it, it's still less creepy then a fleeting glimpse of Saló.
Women's Halloween costumes, which inevitably fall into the "sexy" variety complete with fishnet stockings and push-up bras. I attempted to illustrate the demeaning shame by posting a cover image of women in "sexy" Halloween outfits, starting with classics like strict cops and flirty kitty cats and ending with a janitor and a corporate tax attorney. I thought I was pretty clever until The Daily Show reported on an Adult Sexy Prosecutor Costume, making me realize that no occupation that can be filled by a female is safe from being sexualized. So to even the playing field, I've had Jonny® Disguises come up with the "Sexy" Jonny Halloween costume for men, complete with face mask, inflatable muscles, and savagely misshapen genitalia. Now when a hot chick staggers drunkenly into a party dressed as a whorish nurse or a slutty schoolgirl, she'll see you through the intoxicated slits of her once bright eyes and think that Jonny himself is standing before her, waiting to give her All Hallows' Eve a finish that she can Twitter about for decades. And when the night is done and she is doing the walk of shame back to her car with her skanky pirate costume balled up in her purse and the beginning microbes of Chlamydia growing in her snatch, she'll have learned a valuable lesson about not accepting imitations. But the upside is that the encounter can let her stretch the thrill of Halloween into a lifetime because when she gets back to her dorm room and sees that home pregnancy test indicate that she's carrying the child of a loser like you, the frights are never going to stop.