Barack Obama, who started the year by issuing a proclamation that made January 2014 National Stalking Awareness Month. Mr. Obama writes in his proclamation that "During National Stalking Awareness Month, we extend our support to victims and renew our commitment to holding their stalkers accountable." As many of you know, I have been unjustly accused of "stalking" Enemies List favorite Mara Marini for trying to win her affection with such innocent pursuits as attempting to watch her shower by looking through her bathroom window with high-powered binoculars (always thwarted by the potted plant next to her sink which blocks my view). Today is Valentine's Day which means that I intend to take my efforts up a notch. That means Ms. Marini can look forward to a day of receiving romantic presents from me like a plastic bag full of my pubic hair or wedding photos that I've Photoshopped of us together that are inexplicably sticky. If "date movies" have taught us anything over the years, it's that if a hot chick meets a dude she finds repellent, she's going to wind up falling madly in love with him by the closing credits and it doesn't matter if he's played by Brad Pitt or Jonah Hill. Yet if Mr. Obama has his way, my beautiful tokens of affections (which Ms. Marini and I will be fondly recalling to our children decades from now, once she comes to her senses) would be used as evidence against me in a stalking trial just because we're towards the beginning of the second act when she's still complaining to her "ugly" friend (who in real life just posed for a photo layout in Maxim but she's wearing eyeglasses and a loose sweatshirt in our story so you know she's not hot) what a pain in the ass I am. I plead with Mr. Obama to drop this "stalking"proclamation on Valentine's Day so that romantics like Ms. Marini and me can properly play the game. Or if he must keep it on the books, at least have the website where women report stalkers created by the same people who made the one for ObamaCare. That will buy me lots of time.
My nemesis Misty LaRue, who a Facebook application named as my closest friend on the social network. As if that weren't indignity enough, when the announcement was posted on my newsfeed, my Facebook acquaintances were reticent to try it themselves because the application stuck its nose into your private message database to determine who is your BFF in cyberspace. For those namby-pambies, I would advise that they take a hard look at what their private messages are comprised of before they fall into Mark Zuckerberg's oily hands. My correspondences with Ms. LaRue are primarily her saying "FU, asspotato" and my threatening legal action if she refuses to leave me alone. I'm really not all that worried what Facebook applications or government drones know about that, especially since I write at least a dozen letters to the government a month in a vain attempt to have Ms. LaRue deported and if they saw what she was writing to me on Facebook, it could only help my case.
Becky Epstein Roberts, who bemoaned "I got out of the shower this morning to find my cat with his dick stuck in the plastic ring that holds my bra strap to my bra. Apparently he was randomhumping on my bed and got trapped. If this is my day, I don't want it." Ms. Epstein Roberts went on to express befuddlement over her cat Skeletor's random act of lingerie abuse by disclosing "He doesn't even have balls,"but I would counter that it takes a lot of balls to hump somebody's bra when you know there's a strong possibility that she's going to walk in on you doing it. As for my beloved pug Winston, I have never caught him trying to have sex with my underwear but many's the time I've discarded my briefs on the bedroom floor before going to sleep only to find that he's pooped on them during the night. This leads me to believe that he has a bizarre scatological fetish that makes Skeletor's sexual curiosity towards his mommy's lingerie positively tame by comparison. I mean, nothing gets Winston more excited than when I put a spiked collar around his neck and walk him around the neighborhood on a leash. How sick is that?
Stephanie Fredricks, who recently served as a runway model at a jewelry fashion show; specifically jewelry for the face. Ms. Fredricks looked quite stunning and exotic as she walked down the runway with her bedangled visage on display for the magazine photographers and fashionistas to gawk at in admiration as they planned their fall lines, so much so that I attempted to recreate the look when I trolled local bars in search of women who hadn't yet met me and know about the weird stuff that I'm into. So I went into my bathroom with some Krazy Glue and a few dozen Centimes left over from my last trip to Haiti and did my best to match what I had seen in the fashion photos. Alas, what looked elegant and sheik on Mr. Fredricks' mug gave me the appearance of having a severe case of eczema (best case scenario) or an STD that was quickly boring a hole into my brain (worst case scenario) and the few women I encountered who didn't run away from me screaming only offered to donate a few bucks to the leper colony that they had assumed I was raising funds for. Either way, the closest I came to getting any that night was when Winston took a dump on my Fruit of the Looms laying in a pile on the floor while I slept, forcing me to conclude that gluing baubles to one's face is a game best left to the professionals.
Jonny Award winner Jesse Merlin, who starred in Tonya & Nancy: The Rock Opera. Mr. Merlin was kind enough to call me to extend a personal invitation to the opus, which I was forced to decline because accepting would have forced me to be in close physical proximity to Jesse Merlin. During our conversation, Mr. Merlin disclosed to me that he was going through a mid-life crisis, an odd state of affairs since to my aged eyes, he is a vigorous and youthful man. He explained that most men claiming to have a mid-life crisis aren't "mid-life" at all, since they would have to live to be at least 100 to be at the center point when they started buying red Corvettes and dating girls who work the deep fryer at Wendy's. I refute Mr. Merlin's statement and offer as evidence this photo of him as a child. He's doubtless a good-looking young fellow, full of the coolness and brash self-confidence that you would expect in an embryonic Jesse Merlin. But you wouldn't immediately tag it as a photo of Jesse Merlin because it's not Jesse Merlin; it is, at most, a boy in training to be Jesse Merlin. That's because the first 25 years or so of our lives are a Mulligan; they're vitally important to making up who we are but there's a statute of limitations on them so that they don't follow us into adulthood. Any sins committed during this early phase are written off as youthful high jinks and any triumphs are dismissed (as Bruce Springsteen so aptly put it) as boring stories of "glory days." So if you're in your 30s or 40s and lamenting that your time on this planet is already half over and you haven't accomplished any of the stuff you were hoping to, take heart in knowing that you've actually only just begun and you have plenty of time left to get things done. Unfortunately in my case that means sitting in the audience watching Jesse Merlin in future productions of Tonya & Nancy: The Rock Opera and bitterly mumbling to myself that I could play the part better if only anybody would cast me. Fortunately, I'm still a young man so I have no doubt that will eventually happen.