Enemies List favorite Mara Marini. I became obsessed with one of my delightful Photoshopping projects on Tuesday, this time creating cover artwork for faux pulp fiction dime novels depicting annoying hot chicks of my acquaintance like Amy Ball (Reefer Girl and Poker Night), Stephanie Fredricks (Devil Woman), Jeebus Burbano (Adam and Evil) and Harmony Sanchez (The Cougar) in steamy, film noir scenarios. Not surprisingly, Ms.Marini's stunning visage showed up on the most covers, with titles like Crime of Passion (my personal favorite, in which her temptress offers to satisfy my vile lust for her on the condition that I bump off my beloved Pug Winston), Love Triangle (a perfectly plausible tale in which she and the equally gorgeous Paige Simon plot against each other to have me to herself) and for a change of pace, What the Heart Wants…, a romance novel in which I must choose between my pristine love for Ms. Marini and my savage lust for the gardener of my palatial estate (portrayed by Jonny Award winner Jesse Merlin). Ms. Marini was her typically giddy and encouraging self when I unveiled all the covers, until the last one when she pointed out an unfortunately-placed scarf around my neck and mocked "am I sucking on your ascot or trying to kiss you?" At first I was furious at my mistake in positioning the ascot so it looked like Ms. Marini was Hoovering it down her perfect esophagus, but then I realized that the plot made it totally logical. Here was a woman so deeply sexually frustrated by her lover's distracted attention to another that she's willing to try any perversion to win him back, including 18th century Kerchief Porn (the act of sucking on your partner's kerchief, or "kerching" as it was known in the day, until he would pass out from asphyxiation in mid-climax). After all, when she has a rival as hot as Mr. Merlin to compete against, a girl's got to be willing to go that extra mile to keep her man.To see all of the Jonny Pulp fiction covers (including the one for What the Heart Wantsin which I fixed the ascot so that I don't have to maintain that lame "kerching"gimmick), click here.
The fore-mentioned Stephanie Fredricks. When I posted the cover to Devil Woman on my Facebook wall, it received a piddling 4 "likes"from the stingy nimrods who comprise my list of so-called Facebook "friends."Yet when Ms. Fredricks reposted the cover on her own wall, it was immediately sanctified with over 30 thumbs up from her chums on the social network. I'm not sure why Ms. Fredricks' pals fell all over themselves expressing admiration for the thing while mine couldn't be bothered to send me a cyber-rat's ass, but I think that it's time for me to find some new Facebook friends (preferably some who like to mingle in the seedy world of Mickey Spillane and Raymond Chandler). On the face of it, I should simply acquire Ms. Fredricks' list of Facebook friends since they've already indicated that they enjoy my handiwork, but their taste in other areas makes me reticent to want to take them on. After all, they "like"Stephanie Fredricks which is usually a red flag that someone has severe psychological issues and should be placed in a rubber room. So I made another Pulp Fiction cover depicting that. Her friends will love it.
Jeebus Burbano, who sent me a link to an eBay auction for something called a "Men's Sexy Bag Bikini Thong." The garment is essentially a sack that you put over your junk and tie in place with a string; the kind of thing I would make when I was suffering the pangs of puberty and had the house to myself so I would cut off the end of a sock, slide it over my frenzied genitalia and pretend that I was stalking Sheena, Queen of the Jungle. Regrettably, if I were to attempt to wear something like that now, I would be considered the polar opposite of "sexy" and if anyone saw me in it at the beach, a team from the EPA would be called in to sandblast the vomit from off the coastline. Not only that, but achieving the aesthetic ideal while wearing the bikini bag would require to wax my pubis completely bald, and it's my trademark to manscape it into the shape of a lightning bolt. So I'm afraid Ms. Burbano will need to get her kicks some other way than watching me run across a sun-baked shore with only a small bag covering my wang and nutsack. Unless she wants to come over to my place and pretend that she's Sheena, Queen of the Jungle.
Speaking of sartorial matters, Bro Joe, who recounted to me a conversation he had overheard which he began with "A flamboyantly clad, 60-ish screenwriter ran into a friend and told him…."I immediately asked Joe what "flamboyantly clad"meant, and he responded "He was wearing - tinted glasses, where the top half of his bifocals were rosy, and the bottom half clear; a red ascot; kind of a Lord Fauntleroy blousy shirt; egg blue pants; and alligator shoes. His hair was a longish Sir Lancelot cut - kind of straight across the forehead and very long in back."I suppose that would conform to anyone's definition of "flamboyant”; especially Joe's, who wears tee shirts that are so ancient that their molecular structure lose stability to the point that they can be classified as gaseous material. But far from being judgmental of the dandy's foppish bent, Joe praised him as "having a bounce in his step, to be sure."
Tom Ashworth, who is directing me in the upcoming play Three Really Offensive Scenes About the Founding Fathers. During a break in rehearsal, Mr. Ashworth complained that I used the same photo of him in profile over and over again in my delightful illustrations. Trust me, I'd rather see almost anyone else's photo than Mr. Ashworth's but the sad fact is that in my game, I am beholding to the egomaniacs who pose for pictures in the biggest variety of poses (unlike most normal people who only have pix of themselves staring blankly at the camera and smiling). Any picture of someone I know in profile is considered the Holy Grail because it has so many hysterical uses. Alas, one of the few of those images in my collection is of Mr. Ashworth, which forces me to use his disturbing mug far more often than I'd like. I am therefore calling on my dedicated fan base to have pictures taken of themselves in profile and e-mail them to me at firstname.lastname@example.org. You'll get the ego boost of having my comedy radar trained on you when I include you in one of my hilarious graphics, and the world will be that much more beautiful to mankind by not having to get another glimpse of Mr. Ashworth. Everybody wins.