Paul Messinger, who supports me in the role of George Washington in Three Really Offensive Scenes About the Founding Fathers, the play I am currently starring in as Thomas Jefferson. Mr. Messinger is a licensed pilot and on Sunday he talked me into joining him for a flight to nearby Camarillo. I have always considered Mr. Messinger to be a terrifying individual, but never moreso than when I found him conveying me through the clouds at an altitude of 3,500 feet inside a sardine can with wings. To be sure, Mr. Messinger is a thoroughly experienced and responsible pilot and spent more time checking out the plane before we took off than we spent in the air. That didn't mitigate my terror of the sight of a man I see on a regular basis depicting the father of our country getting high on hemp (an important plot device of our play, although Mr. Messinger already seemed awfully familiar with the physical effects of reefer use when we began rehearsing) blithely thumbing his nose at the law of gravity. It was a fairly uneventful flight (although Mr. Messinger might describe it differently after I acted out the classic Twilight Zone episode Nightmare at 20,000 Feet for his in-flight entertainment) and when the plane landed in Camarillo, I was so thrilled to still be unexpectedly alive that I got on my knees and made out with the asphalt of the runway like Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in From Here to Eternity. Mr. Messinger allowed me to make a beeline for the airport bar and pound a few kamikazes before breaking the news that in order to get home, I would need to fly back with him on the return journey. In fairness, the flight back wasn't as bad as all that. The plane's baggage compartment turned out to be surprisingly comfortable.
Amateur wine-maker Tom Ashworth, who reached out to his fellow vintners "Mead Makers, what did I do wrong? Waited until fermentation lock wasn't bubbling at all before I racked and bottled it. Slight cloud in head of bottle, bubbles inside. First go at making mead so not expecting much. Fermented right after Christmas 2013." Mr. Ashworth included a photo of a bottle containing a murky yellow liquid, and I knew at a glance what the problem was. It's clear that Mr. Ashworth shares my fate of being in such physical need of alcohol - any alcohol - that he sleepwalks to whatever hooch is nearest his bed and guzzles it in a somnambulatory state. In my case, it's the bottle of Popov Vodka cooling in the toilet tank. In Mr. Ashworth's, it's to the back shed where his handmade vino is fermenting in preparation for the upcoming Armageddon when Trader Joes' won't be as plentiful. Not being an animal, after he shotguns the jug of honey wine he uses the now-empty bottle to void his now-full bladder and returns to bed oblivious of what he's done. That means waking up to the puzzle of a wine cellar filled with bottles of mysterious yellow "wine," some of which smell like asparagus depending on what he's had for dinner the night before. I know it sounds nasty but the only thing worse is drinking actual mead. There's a reason the Vikings died out.
"Crispy"Bacon. I've been putting off a visit to the dentist so when I finally got around to it last week, I was told I needed a deep cleaning to make up for my past neglect. I've had a deep cleaning in the past and remembered it as being about the same level of discomfort as having a filling put in, which to a man of my degree of experience in the dentist's chair (I have far more porcelain in my mouth than in my bathroom) is a walk in the park. But I made the mistake of mentioning in passing on a Facebook post that I was having the procedure done in about forty minutes, and Mr. Bacon responded with dire warning that his own experience of a deep cleaning approximated having a leg amputated without anesthetic. I could be sure, he promised, of unbearable agony both during the cleaning and in the weeks afterwards, which is exactly the kind of thing one wants to hear just before going to the dentist. The truth is that the only pain I suffered was the tension of reading Mr. Bacon's post and the nerve-wracking forty minutes that followed. When I got to the office and explained about the foreboding of incomparable torture, the hygienist gave me a puzzled look and explained that the pain of a deep cleaning was no worse than a stubbed toe. Indeed, I lay motionless in the chair as she cleaned my teeth and entertained myself (as I always do when any dental hygienist was working on me) with fantasies of her engaging in unspeakable acts of perversion with me. The cleaning was seemingly over before it began and any residual pain was forgotten within an hour. The pain of interacting with Mr. Bacon continues to linger.
For the third week in a row, Jessicah Neufeld. Ms. Neufeld was so delighted with her listing last week that she texted me "I am going to marry you. Like it or not." She didn't specify which of us would be the one put out by the matrimonial set-up but I suspect that she'll have issues with it. To begin with, I would insist on a nude wedding. I am not referring Ms. Neufeld (I have no doubt that she will look radiant in a traditional wedding dress) or the guests (if anyone from my side of the family was to show up naked, there wouldn't be enough sawdust to clean up the vomit in the aisle so the wedding party could walk down it). My requirement would be that I alone stand naked in front of the congregation while taking our vows with her in her beautiful Vera Wang and me in my unsightly deformed wang. That way my bride-to-be would be sure to get a glimpse of my tragically misshapen genitalia after any pesky pre-nup had been signed (I'll need one to protect my massive collection of celebrity fecal matter rescued from the sewage pipes of 4-star hotels) but before the wedding night so that she would have some time to absorb the shock of what she would be working with when we enjoy lawful carnal bliss for the first time. And by "working," I am being quite literal. As with all my women, Ms. Neufeld will received detailed PDFs from my social secretary prior to our first encounter containing diagrams and explanations of my various kinks and fetishes so that she will know precisely how to pleasure me as I lay there motionless like a rag doll. It will be a miserable life for her to be sure, but that is the fate of all the Mullich women. She'll learn to live with it. Like it or not.
Mara Marini's Ice Bucket Challenge.
Not pictured: anything good. Enemies List favorite Mara Marini, who took part in the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge; the viral sensation where people make videos of themselves having a bucket of ice water dumped over their heads in support of the ALS Association and then challenge two or three others to do the same in the name of charity. I have long dreamed of seeing a bucket of cold water dumped on Ms. Marini, but always in the context of a wet tee-shirt contest on a beach in Tahiti while she was wearing a thin white wife-beater without a bra. The navy blue flak jacket she wore over layers of undergarments didn't provide the same effect, but that was nothing compared to the disappointment of her naming the anonymous nudniks to take the challenge following her dousing and didn't include her fantasy lover Jonny M. I didn't feel slighted because I have a personal connection to amyotrophic lateral sclerosis or that my legendary visage needs any more exposure on the social network than it currently gets. It's just that since I've turned 40, I've been developing a set of man boobs that rivals Jayne Mansfield's. I have no doubt that the sight of those hooters struggling to break free of a tank top whose molecular structure had been compromised by the introduction of a bucket of near-freezing H2O would raise enough money for ALS to see Stephen Hawking break dancing by Thursday next. It was a sadly-missed opportunity which means that the cure for the dreaded disease probably won't be found in our lifetime. It makes me so depressed that I think I'll take a hot bath to cheer myself up.
Paul Messinger, who supports me in the role of George Washington in Three Really Offensive Scenes About the Founding Fathers, the play I am currently starring in as Thomas Jefferson. Mr. Messinger is a licensed pilot and on Sunday he talked me into joining him for a flight to nearby Camarillo. I have always considered Mr. Messinger to be a terrifying individual, but never moreso than when I found him conveying me through the clouds at an altitude of 3,500 feet inside a sardine can with wings. To be sure, Mr. Messinger is a thoroughly experienced and responsible pilot and spent more time checking out the plane before we took off than we spent in the air. That didn't mitigate my terror of the sight of a man I see on a regular basis depicting the father of our country getting high on hemp (an important plot device of our play, although Mr. Messinger already seemed awfully familiar with the physical effects of reefer use when we began rehearsing) blithely thumbing his nose at the law of gravity. It was a fairly uneventful flight (although Mr. Messinger might describe it differently after I acted out the classic Twilight Zone episode Nightmare at 20,000 Feet for his in-flight entertainment) and when the plane landed in Camarillo, I was so thrilled to still be unexpectedly alive that I got on my knees and made out with the asphalt of the runway like Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in From Here to Eternity. Mr. Messinger allowed me to make a beeline for the airport bar and pound a few kamikazes before breaking the news that in order to get home, I would need to fly back with him on the return journey. In fairness, the flight back wasn't as bad as all that. The plane's baggage compartment turned out to be surprisingly comfortable.
Amateur wine-maker Tom Ashworth, who reached out to his fellow vintners "Mead Makers, what did I do wrong? Waited until fermentation lock wasn't bubbling at all before I racked and bottled it. Slight cloud in head of bottle, bubbles inside. First go at making mead so not expecting much. Fermented right after Christmas 2013." Mr. Ashworth included a photo of a bottle containing a murky yellow liquid, and I knew at a glance what the problem was. It's clear that Mr. Ashworth shares my fate of being in such physical need of alcohol - any alcohol - that he sleepwalks to whatever hooch is nearest his bed and guzzles it in a somnambulatory state. In my case, it's the bottle of Popov Vodka cooling in the toilet tank. In Mr. Ashworth's, it's to the back shed where his handmade vino is fermenting in preparation for the upcoming Armageddon when Trader Joes' won't be as plentiful. Not being an animal, after he shotguns the jug of honey wine he uses the now-empty bottle to void his now-full bladder and returns to bed oblivious of what he's done. That means waking up to the puzzle of a wine cellar filled with bottles of mysterious yellow "wine," some of which smell like asparagus depending on what he's had for dinner the night before. I know it sounds nasty but the only thing worse is drinking actual mead. There's a reason the Vikings died out.
"Crispy"Bacon. I've been putting off a visit to the dentist so when I finally got around to it last week, I was told I needed a deep cleaning to make up for my past neglect. I've had a deep cleaning in the past and remembered it as being about the same level of discomfort as having a filling put in, which to a man of my degree of experience in the dentist's chair (I have far more porcelain in my mouth than in my bathroom) is a walk in the park. But I made the mistake of mentioning in passing on a Facebook post that I was having the procedure done in about forty minutes, and Mr. Bacon responded with dire warning that his own experience of a deep cleaning approximated having a leg amputated without anesthetic. I could be sure, he promised, of unbearable agony both during the cleaning and in the weeks afterwards, which is exactly the kind of thing one wants to hear just before going to the dentist. The truth is that the only pain I suffered was the tension of reading Mr. Bacon's post and the nerve-wracking forty minutes that followed. When I got to the office and explained about the foreboding of incomparable torture, the hygienist gave me a puzzled look and explained that the pain of a deep cleaning was no worse than a stubbed toe. Indeed, I lay motionless in the chair as she cleaned my teeth and entertained myself (as I always do when any dental hygienist was working on me) with fantasies of her engaging in unspeakable acts of perversion with me. The cleaning was seemingly over before it began and any residual pain was forgotten within an hour. The pain of interacting with Mr. Bacon continues to linger.
For the third week in a row, Jessicah Neufeld. Ms. Neufeld was so delighted with her listing 