My annual Christmas Extravaganza, Jonny's Star Trek Christmas, debuted to universal raves last week. No one was more excited about it than Ms. Sanchez, who expressed her delight by posting a Bitstrip cartoon (a social network application that allows you to insert caricatures of you and your cronies into pre-drawn comics) depicting her jumping up and down on her bed in excitement as she looks at a calendar indicating that it was the day my masterpiece would premiere. It was an almost perfect means of sucking up to me and Ms. Sanchez might have gotten away with it but for one fatal mistake. The sole negative comments about my online extravaganza came from nudniks who were pissed off that I didn't use their photos in the delightful graphics within, since the thing is peppered with Photoshopped illustrations containing cameos of people that I'm trying to suck up to. Ms. Sanchez might have learned a lesson from those few nay-sayers and scored a sycophantic slam dunk, if only she'd thought to include my picture in her cartoon rather than posting a narcissistic solo image of herself alone. I don't think it's too much to ask that the bed she's just awoken in include my still-sleeping likeness, perhaps strewn with discarded condom wrappers from the passion of the night before. Ms. Sanchez has got to learn that when it comes to brown-nosing, the art lies in the details.
Lash LaRue, the progeny of my nemesis Misty LaRue. Young Lash celebrates a birthday this coming Sunday, which wouldn't normally be cause for placement on this list except that Sunday also happens to be the birthday of someone well known to the readers of these pages. And for those of you whose mailman is slow to deliver this month's Jonny Newsletter, I'm talking about myself. December 15th is the international day of celebrating Jonny M. ever since that fateful day in 1961 when I was pulled out of my mother's vagina in a manger after she was denied lodging at the nearest Motel 6 because she was trying to save a few bucks by checking in as a single by having me hide in her vagina. Everything went perfectly for years until Ms. LaRue flipped me an FU by timing her impregnation from a longshoreman in the alley behind a 7-Eleven so that the kid's birth would coincide with International Jonny Day. It took some doing on her part (I understand that Lash's was delivered by Cesarean section seven weeks early just so his birth would fall on the desired date), but it ultimately worked out so that I must now share my birthday with young Lash. Fortunately, I'm a big enough man to be able to go halvsies on my celebration with someone else, so I want to wish Lash the happiest of days on December 15th. I hope he enjoys the envelope I mailed him. Anthrax is a birthday tradition.
The always-irritating Amy Ball, who admitted to nuking her Mac laptop after accidentally spilling hot wax all over the keyboard. I can well imagine the kind of damage hot wax can do to a computer keyboard, but what I can't imagine is how said hot wax came in the vicinity of Ms. Balls' operating system since candles have been unfashionable for lighting most home offices ever since Thomas Edison's invention of the light bulb a few years back. The only popular uses for hot wax these days that I'm aware of are entirely unsavory and since this is a family blog, you're going to have to go to UrbanDictionary.com to find out what they are. Of course, I could also point out the unsavoriness about computers in general ever since Al Gore's invention of the Internet a few years back and the avalanche of porn sites which followed. But I'm not accusing Ms. Ball of carrying on anything untoward while she was online and whatever she was doing with hot wax and her computer is between her and the forgotten pagan god that she worships. I only hope that the deity she follows told her to back up her important files on the cloud. It's going to be a bitch trying to recover .jpg files of a sheep fucking an amputee from a waxy hard drive.
Mother of my love children Monica Sims. Ms. Sims likes to post Facebook statuses that she considers inspirational, and her latest was "Remember that ability is what you're capable of doing/ motivation determines what you/ and attitude determines how well you do it/ Now look in the mirror say I'm the shit!! and have a great day!" It sounded like good advice to me so I retreated into my bathroom to give it a shot. But Ms. Sims' sage-like counsel backfired on me when I realized that I had broken every mirror in the house during various drunken sprees, so I tried her self-help advice by looking at my reflection in the water of my toilet. The problem is, screaming "I'm the shit" at myself while staring at my own reflection at the bottom of a toilet had the opposite effect of what Ms. Sims intended, and I got so depressed that I went on another drunken spree. Today I'm hung over and I hate myself more than ever. Thank God I don't have any mirrors to look at myself in. It would only make me feel like shit.
Enemies List favorite Mara Marini, who sent me the only Christmas card I have received to date in 2013. Being a social pariah, I am accustomed to being overlooked for such seasonal staples and I was flattered that Ms. Marini thought to cast aside our differences (set down so eloquently in the anti-stalking lawsuit Marini vs. Mullich) to be able to wish me glad tidings for the season. The card depicted Ms. Marini sitting demurely on a couch with her equally-attractive roommate, each wearing matching outfits as Ms. Marini's dog Monroe lies lovingly in her arms. Getting that card in the mail was the highlight of my Yuletide until a couple of days ago, when Ms. Marini posted the photo on the left of her wearing a revealing Laker Girl outfit and holding a basketball like it was one of Kobe Bryant's testicles. It made me realize that I was horribly short-changed by Ms. Marini's Christmas card, since apparently she's willing to flaunt some skin to get into the VIP area of the Staples Center but I don't even get a glimpse of some bare midriff to get me through my suicide watch during the Christmas season. If Ms. Marini truly wants to spread some Christmas cheer, I hope that next year's card depicts her and her roommate in see-through nighties having a pillow fight while Monroe acts as referee. It may not have anything to do with the birth of a child in a manger, but it will give me something to live for until Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.
My annual Christmas Extravaganza, 
Lash LaRue, the progeny of my nemesis Misty LaRue. Young Lash celebrates a birthday this coming Sunday, which wouldn't normally be cause for placement on this list except that Sunday also happens to be the birthday of someone well known to the readers of these pages. And for those of you whose mailman is slow to deliver this month's Jonny Newsletter, I'm talking about myself. December 15th is the international day of celebrating Jonny M. ever since that fateful day in 1961 when I was pulled out of my mother's vagina in a manger after she was denied lodging at the nearest Motel 6 because she was trying to save a few bucks by checking in as a single by having me hide in her vagina. Everything went perfectly for years until Ms. LaRue flipped me an FU by timing her impregnation from a longshoreman in the alley behind a 7-Eleven so that the kid's birth would coincide with International Jonny Day. It took some doing on her part (I understand that Lash's was delivered by Cesarean section seven weeks early just so his birth would fall on the desired date), but it ultimately worked out so that I must now share my birthday with young Lash. Fortunately, I'm a big enough man to be able to go halvsies on my celebration with someone else, so I want to wish Lash the happiest of days on December 15th. I hope he enjoys the envelope I mailed him. Anthrax is a birthday tradition.
The always-irritating Amy Ball, who admitted to nuking her Mac laptop after accidentally spilling hot wax all over the keyboard. I can well imagine the kind of damage hot wax can do to a computer keyboard, but what I can't imagine is how said hot wax came in the vicinity of Ms. Balls' operating system since candles have been unfashionable for lighting most home offices ever since Thomas Edison's invention of the light bulb a few years back. The only popular uses for hot wax these days that I'm aware of are entirely unsavory and since this is a family blog, you're going to have to go to 
Mother of my love children Monica Sims. Ms. Sims likes to post Facebook statuses that she considers inspirational, and her latest was "Remember that ability is what you're capable of doing/ motivation determines what you/ and attitude determines how well you do it/ Now look in the mirror say I'm the shit!! and have a great day!" It sounded like good advice to me so I retreated into my bathroom to give it a shot. But Ms. Sims' sage-like counsel backfired on me when I realized that I had broken every mirror in the house during various drunken sprees, so I tried her self-help advice by looking at my reflection in the water of my toilet. The problem is, screaming "I'm the shit" at myself while staring at my own reflection at the bottom of a toilet had the opposite effect of what Ms. Sims intended, and I got so depressed that I went on another drunken spree. Today I'm hung over and I hate myself more than ever. Thank God I don't have any mirrors to look at myself in. It would only make me feel like shit.
Enemies List favorite Mara Marini, who sent me the only Christmas card I have received to date in 2013. Being a social pariah, I am accustomed to being overlooked for such seasonal staples and I was flattered that Ms. Marini thought to cast aside our differences (set down so eloquently in the anti-stalking lawsuit Marini vs. Mullich) to be able to wish me glad tidings for the season. The card depicted Ms. Marini sitting demurely on a couch with her equally-attractive roommate, each wearing matching outfits as Ms. Marini's dog Monroe lies lovingly in her arms. Getting that card in the mail was the highlight of my Yuletide until a couple of days ago, when Ms. Marini posted the photo on the left of her wearing a revealing Laker Girl outfit and holding a basketball like it was one of Kobe Bryant's testicles. It made me realize that I was horribly short-changed by Ms. Marini's Christmas card, since apparently she's willing to flaunt some skin to get into the VIP area of the Staples Center but I don't even get a glimpse of some bare midriff to get me through my suicide watch during the Christmas season. If Ms. Marini truly wants to spread some Christmas cheer, I hope that next year's card depicts her and her roommate in see-through nighties having a pillow fight while Monroe acts as referee. It may not have anything to do with the birth of a child in a manger, but it will give me something to live for until Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.