The always-irritating Amy Ball. I made another of my delightful Facebook cover images, this one depicting Winston and me celebrating Thanksgiving amongst some sour pilgrims and some beer-swilling, party-going Indians. The latter group including a couple of Native American hot chicks enacted in the illustration by the blissfully well-endowed Mara Marini and the more streamlined Ms. Ball, who through a series of optical illusions and Photoshop chicanery appeared to have a larger bust of the two. As soon as she got a look at the picture, Ms. Ball commented "thanks for making my boobs look bigger than Mara's. TOTAL fabrication, that. But it makes me feel good." While I appreciate the good wishes, I didn't do it for Ms. Ball but for society at large. For I am working towards a world where Mara Marini is the demarcation point for where tiny boobs begin and women like Ms. Ball can look at her condescendingly and say "Poor girl. She'd be pretty if she didn't have such a small chest." In order to accomplish my dream, women like Ms. Ball are going to need to be fitted with a couple of twenty lb. implants, which sounds like a lot but it really isn't considering how easily I get bored and need as much visual stimulation as possible to forget the pain you people put me through on a daily basis. The additional melon bulk may make simple acts like walking or leaning over to extract dollar bills stuffed in their g-strings more difficult for the ladies who are carting it around, but it will make everybody feel good as a result. I'll feel great having so many enormous boobs to look at, women like Ms. Ball can compensate for their cloying personalities by having hot bodies to show off, and Mara Marini can have the last laugh when she's the only woman on the planet without severe back, neck and shoulder pain or bazongas which will eventually settle down around her ankles. It may just be a dream at this point, but it's a beautiful one.
A rare second listing for Amy Ball, who posted on her Facebook Wall "I want to buy holiday gifts directly from artisans and craftspeople this year," and requested that her pals on the social network cough up the names of artsy-fartsy handicrafters who have wares for sale. Ms. Ball need look no further, since I have been twisting, bending and squeezing ordinary pieces of household notebook paper into the shape of male reproductive organs ever since my own genitalia began evolving into its current tragically misshapen contour. The result is that I have become the male Georgia O'Keefe, with literally thousands of origami wangs filling my warehouse in Long Beach that once served as the hangar which housed the Spruce Goose. That means that the discriminating Ms. Ball and her art-loving friends can own a Jonny original for as little as $5,000 (for the stuff I crumble together from old issues of Highlights for Kids when I'm at the doctor's office nervously awaiting the results of my STD tests) to $2 million (for my epic masterpiece John Holmes Meets Ron Jeremy). I know that sounds like a lot but the value of my artwork is sure to skyrocket after I'm dead, which shouldn't be too long from now if you believe the guys in the YMCA locker room who I use as models.
Bro Joe, who posted on his Facebook page this dramatic photo of himself performing yoga on a rock high above the clouds. At least most of the pretentious nimrods who make up his followers on the social network thought it was dramatic; I thought it looked like he was doing everything he could to hold back peeing and said so in the Comments section, an observation that was immediately deleted from the string by Joe's authoritarian keyboard. In retrospect, I decided that the censor bureau of Joe's harsh regime did the right thing. It's hard for him to project the image of a spiritual holy man to his devoted followers if there are pricks like me around pointing out that his religious rites look like the contortions of a man with a full bladder. On the other hand, his cult worshippers might find the most practical advice when they're lost in the wilderness is how to keep from soiling their pants when they're miles from the nearest public restroom. It may not lead to anyone's spiritual enlightenment, but it will make public park system a lot less gross.
My college chum Larry Zerner, who is the subject of an online debate on fridaythe13thfanatics.com over who is better, Mr. Zerner's signature role of juggling butchery-victim Shelly in the horror classic Friday the 13th Part II or über obnoxious paraplegic Franklin Hardesty in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. At first, it would appear to be a no-brainer since Shelly is a reasonably fun guy who can effortlessly toss juggling clubs at any 3-D camera pointed in his direction to give the illusion that he is actually in the room with you whereas Mr. Hardesty is among the most insufferable characters in the history of the horror genre. On the other hand, Franklin was played by Paul A. Partain, who went on to become a regional sales manager for the Zenith Electronics Corporation so at least he filled a useful role in society. Shelly, on the other hand, was played by Larry Zerner who went on to become Larry Zerner, which I think most people would consider to be a deal breaker. I am nonetheless going to give the edge to Shelly. I'd much rather have the illusion that I was in a room with Mr. Zerner than actually experiencing it.
My longtime nemesis Misty LaRue who makes a return to these pages after a lengthy layoff which I presume was due to her hiding out in the Misty Mountains after accidentally coming across the One Ring and letting its dark lord Sauron consume her mind. I made a brilliant posting on the social network suggesting that when posting a chain status where you make a list of something and then invite people to join the fun by receiving an assignment of their own (like the "Interesting Things You May Not Know About Me" post that's going around), let's say that YOU NEED TO REQUEST AN ASSIGNMENT to follow up rather than merely "liking" it. I think that would eliminate confusion from a lot of people who just "like" your post without actually wanting to play. I thought it was a crackerjack suggestion until Ms. LaRue responded thusly:
At first I was offended by her hurtful wise-assery, but then I realized it might be useful to know the chemical composition of a poster to the social network to fully appreciate the validity of their statement. For instance, Ms. LaRue is comprised of 50% vinegar and 50% water, making her a total douche.