What my coarser readers consider to be the real-life Mara Marini play toy Enemies List favorite Mara Marini. I followed a proud tradition of Jonny's Enemies List by creating the Mara Marini Action Playset, a children's toy collection that includes a Mara Marini doll and such accessories as her little Chihuahua Monroe, a cell phone to take selfies with and a stack of restraining orders that force the Jonny Action Figure to stay at least 500 yards away from her at all times. The playset met with universal enthusiasm although the coarser males who make up my readership pointed out that the real-life Ms. Marini already is a kind of playset, assuming that one of them could fill her up with enough Cosmopolitans so that she couldn't take in his Neanderthal appearance. What the unsightly troglodytes fall to grasp is that one of the accessories that makes up the Mara Marini Action Playset is an action figure of Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, an example of just one of the muscular, square-jawed A-listers who vie to escort Ms. Marini to an ice cream social or Bible study class on any given Saturday night. I've already come to terms with the idea that I'll never be able to compete for Ms. Marini's affections on a real-life level, but I still have hopes that the Mara Marini doll may someday hook up with the Jonny Action Figure, whose tragically misshapen genitalia doesn't look so bad next to The Rock Action Figure's "not anatomically correct" silhouette. I just have to figure out some legal way of getting them closer than 500 yards from each other.
My college chum Speed Sprankle, who saw another image of Ms. Marini that I had crafted — this one depicting me as Romeo ascending a balcony to her Juliet while my beloved Pug Winston serenaded us on the lute — and responded by chiding me "Your impulse control is deeply flawed."To edify Ms. Sprankle, someone who hastily grabs a Snickers bar in the check-out line while waiting to pay for a bushel of organic lettuce may have impulse control issues. Someone who painstakingly Photoshops an illustration of his nimrod self in full Elizabethan garb scrambling up a stone veranda to a woman who's way too hot for him waiting anxiously at the top while a small dog stands on the sidelines playing a 17th century variation of the guitar takes his time in making stupid decisions. You could play a game of Jonny Mad Libs and when you got to "Jonny's (rational behavior) is deeply flawed," virtually anything you suggest would be correct. But one thing I don't have a problem with is impulse control. All of my moronic undertakings are carefully worked out.
Robert Vestal, who discussed with me the possibility of coming up with a less offensive name for the Washington Redskins (although as far as I'm concerned, calling the team The Washington Profoundly Retarded Pinheads would still be moderately less offensive than the name they have now). Mr. Vestal got the ball rolling by suggesting the name Pinkskins but I countered that if we're going to go with a variation of their current moniker, a better name would be the Washington Redheads. The team would only have to make minimal changes to their current branding and the prospect of seeing a bevy of über-hot crimson-haired cheerleaders on the sideline just might spark some interest for me in the sport (which I currently place just behind Olympic Curling as recreational activities that I like to watch on TV). My negotiations with Mr. Vestal finally broke down when he countered with the name Washington Foreskins, which did nothing but send a shudder down my spine. I don't even want to think about what their cheerleaders would look like.
Jonny Award-winner Jesse Merlin, with whom I entered an online conversation when he commented how different he was from "The Jesse Merlin of yore."This prompted me to philosophize that no matter where we are in life, we would be considered "The Me of yore"at some point in the distant future and we shouldn't feel so superior to past versions of ourselves because the "Me of the future"is going to look back condescendingly on the "Me of now"and write him off as an inferior "Me of yore."This all prompted Bro Joe (who had been lurking at our online conversation, ready to pounce for the jugular) to mock that it all ended with the "Me of dead,"who at least will never have to suffer the indignity of being dismissed as an substandard "Me of yore"by a later version of himself. If you look at it that way, the "Me of dead"should be considered the best edition of ourselves because no one will ever look back on him and reject him as not being up to snuff with where he is today. In truth, I think of a dead Jesse Merlin or a dead Bro Joe as my favorite variation of either of those guys, and I hope that they transcend to that model as soon as possible. I may come to regret making that statement, but what the hell…I'll write it off as just another stupid move by the Me of yore.
My Facebook followers, who were aghast when I spent the week making delightful adaptations of classic paintings like Pinky, Blue Boy and The Last Supper by replacing the main subjects with my magnificent visage and secondary figures with those of my minions. Particularly upsetting to my visitors on the social network were my variations on paintings with a religious theme. One follower commented that my version of The Last Supper mocked her religion and she hoped that no one I had inserted in the painting would ever have to suffer like the people it actually depicted did, although I personally thought that reading the yenta's self-righteous yammering was just as bad as having 16d nails pounded into my hands and feet. Also of concern to my fans was my rendering of The Creation of Adam retitled The Creation of Jonny, in which I felt that the genitalia provided by Michelangelo to the first man wasn't sufficiently imposing so I slapped a hog on him that would make for a lucrative career in porn. Even more disconcerting than the giant wang in the picture (at least to me) was the casting of Jehovah and his archangels, which was comprised of the flotsam and jetsam of humanity that desperately suck up to me led by the unsettling image of my hanger-on Tom Ashworth in the role of the Almighty. Then again, if Ashworth really was God and he designed me with junk like what I've got in the painting, I might be willing to put up with his shenanigans as our Creator. They couldn't be any more objectionable than the one we have now.
My college chum Speed Sprankle, who saw another image of Ms. Marini that I had crafted — this one depicting me as Romeo ascending a balcony to her Juliet while my beloved Pug Winston serenaded us on the lute — and responded by chiding me "Your impulse control is deeply flawed."To edify Ms. Sprankle, someone who hastily grabs a Snickers bar in the check-out line while waiting to pay for a bushel of organic lettuce may have impulse control issues. Someone who painstakingly Photoshops an illustration of his nimrod self in full Elizabethan garb scrambling up a stone veranda to a woman who's way too hot for him waiting anxiously at the top while a small dog stands on the sidelines playing a 17th century variation of the guitar takes his time in making stupid decisions. You could play a game of Jonny Mad Libs and when you got to "Jonny's 
Robert Vestal, who discussed with me the possibility of coming up with a less offensive name for the Washington Redskins (although as far as I'm concerned, calling the team The Washington Profoundly Retarded Pinheads would still be moderately less offensive than the name they have now). Mr. Vestal got the ball rolling by suggesting the name Pinkskins but I countered that if we're going to go with a variation of their current moniker, a better name would be the Washington Redheads. The team would only have to make minimal changes to their current branding and the prospect of seeing a bevy of über-hot crimson-haired cheerleaders on the sideline just might spark some interest for me in the sport (which I currently place just behind Olympic Curling as recreational activities that I like to watch on TV). My negotiations with Mr. Vestal finally broke down when he countered with the name Washington Foreskins, which did nothing but send a shudder down my spine. I don't even want to think about what their cheerleaders would look like.
Jonny Award-winner Jesse Merlin, with whom I entered an online conversation when he commented how different he was from "The Jesse Merlin of yore."This prompted me to philosophize that no matter where we are in life, we would be considered "The Me of yore"at some point in the distant future and we shouldn't feel so superior to past versions of ourselves because the "Me of the future"is going to look back condescendingly on the "Me of now"and write him off as an inferior "Me of yore."This all prompted Bro Joe (who had been lurking at our online conversation, ready to pounce for the jugular) to mock that it all ended with the "Me of dead,"who at least will never have to suffer the indignity of being dismissed as an substandard "Me of yore"by a later version of himself. If you look at it that way, the "Me of dead"should be considered the best edition of ourselves because no one will ever look back on him and reject him as not being up to snuff with where he is today. In truth, I think of a dead Jesse Merlin or a dead Bro Joe as my favorite variation of either of those guys, and I hope that they transcend to that model as soon as possible. I may come to regret making that statement, but what the hell…I'll write it off as just another stupid move by the Me of yore.
My Facebook followers, who were aghast when I spent the week making delightful adaptations of classic paintings like Pinky, Blue Boy and The Last Supper by replacing the main subjects with my magnificent visage and secondary figures with those of my minions. Particularly upsetting to my visitors on the social network were my variations on paintings with a religious theme. One follower commented that my version of The Last Supper mocked her religion and she hoped that no one I had inserted in the painting would ever have to suffer like the people it actually depicted did, although I personally thought that reading the yenta's self-righteous yammering was just as bad as having 16d nails pounded into my hands and feet. Also of concern to my fans was my rendering of The Creation of Adam retitled The Creation of Jonny, in which I felt that the genitalia provided by Michelangelo to the first man wasn't sufficiently imposing so I slapped a hog on him that would make for a lucrative career in porn. Even more disconcerting than the giant wang in the picture (at least to me) was the casting of Jehovah and his archangels, which was comprised of the flotsam and jetsam of humanity that desperately suck up to me led by the unsettling image of my hanger-on Tom Ashworth in the role of the Almighty. Then again, if Ashworth really was God and he designed me with junk like what I've got in the painting, I might be willing to put up with his shenanigans as our Creator. They couldn't be any more objectionable than the one we have now.
