Enemies List favorite Mara Marini yet again. I went on another of my excessive binges making faux pulp fiction novel covers. When I created one entitled The Party Killer which included Ms. Marini slithering seductively across the floor, she responded "If I'm totally honest, I thought that the title was 'Panty Killer' upon first read. Had to do a double take" (although she also said that she thought that the image of her crawling on the floor was reminiscent of Gollum in Lord of the Rings, which is like saying that Botticelli's The Birth of Venus is evocative of a sand crab crawling out of a dirty sea shell). Always the gentleman, I concocted a new cover from Ms. Marini's title; which prompted my nemesis Misty LaRue to yenta from the sidelines "Mara is beautiful and talented, but more than anything as your unrequited muse - SHE'S A REALLY GOOD SPORT....You should be incredibly thankful, Jon Mullich." Anyone who doesn't think that I'm grateful for Ms. Marini's presence in my life hasn't been keeping up with my daily blog of sexual fantasies, but that's not the point. Much like Venus herself, Ms. Marini is a goddess who has a responsibility to put up with pathetic, attention-grabbing tributes from mortal smegma like myself. It is part of the natural order for a toad like me to make a fool out of myself in a vain attempt to get her fluttering eyes focused in my direction for even a blissful second. Regrettably, it is also the natural order for a yenta like Ms. LaRue to be annoyed at the ritual and to loudly call me out on it in as humiliating a fashion as possible, thereby making me even more wretched to my divine idol. In the end, I come off in Ms. Marini's eyes as reminiscent of Gollum in Lord of the Rings or perhaps a sand crab crawling out of a dirty sea shell. But at least that makes her aware of my existence, which is all I really wanted in the first place. Now if I could only get off of Ms. LaRue's radar, my life would be perfect.To see the full collection of Jonny faux pulp fiction novel covers, click here.
U.S.S. Pinafore star Tim Polzin. I made the first major change to the Jonny Look in many a' moon this year, growing out my signature goatee into a full beard, primarily because I was sick of being mistaken for Breaking Bad creator Vince Gilligan. Mr. Polzin only noticed the adjustment when I posted a recent photo of my beloved pug Winston and me on Facebook and he expressed outrage at my manly style, demanding that I shave my face to meet the grooming standards of his plastic fantastic Madison Avenue viewpoint. I gently declined the suggestion, to which Mr. Polzin opined "I see the rise if the beard as a result of the Duck Dynasty, Crown of Thrones influence... and I suck at growing a beard." Mr. Polzin's final admission made me realize that the real point of all this is that we often tend to dislike which is beyond our capacity to achieve, but it also makes me wonder if Mr. Polzin would want to give into the Duck Dynasty, Crown of Thrones influence if only his facial follicles would join him. As for me, I grew the beard to get away from the Breaking Bad influence. If making my appearance upsetting to Mr. Polzin means that I can enjoy a meal at a Zanku Chicken without some nudnick bothering me to say how much he loves Walter White, it's worth it.
The City of Los Angeles. I dined with Bro Joe a few weeks ago. Unable to find parking on busy Ventura Boulevard, I left my car at a spot with a broken meter, assured by Joe that I wouldn't be ticketed because of the faulty machinery. Joe proved himself to be as accurate about such things as he always is when we returned and I found a citation carrying a $63 fine on my windshield. I researched the matter and discovered that in California, it wasn't legal to ticket cars parked at broken meters; except in Los Angeles, where the city council "opted out" of taking part in the law. That's an interesting racket; it seems to me that everyone who gets a ticket did so because they "opted out" of taking part in a law. The LA city council has decided that they can issue tickets because of it. It's all tremendously frustrating and it makes me feel like I've been scammed by the LA city council and I'm powerless to do anything about it. There really ought to be a law against this kind of thing.
My associate Eddie Frierson, who hijacked a Facebook post made by the evil genius Lars Fargo complaining about stores that were already selling Christmas decorations while we are suffering a major heat wave in Southern California, with temperatures rising to as high as 112°. When I agreed with Mr. Largo's sentiments, pointing out that a bicycle ride I made in the swelter nearly gave me a stroke, Mr. Frierson chose to take my use of the word "stroke"and redirect the conversation to being about my masturbation regimen. That was fine with me - I'm always delighted to talk about self abuse - but when I took the ball and ran with it (egged on as always from the cyber-sidelines by the desperate yenta Misty LaRue), Mr. Frierson suddenly switched gears, admonishing me to "take this fun to another page. We are stealing Mr. Fargo's thunder" thereby making me feel like a dick for following a conversational tangent that he started. I know when I'm being played for a sap and Mr. Frierson will pay for setting me up to play the fool, so I'm going to wait until he's not looking and bean him in the face with a snowball made from Christmas Tree flocking. And thanks to Mr. Fargo, I know exactly where I can buy some right now.
My emerging nemesis Jessicah Neufeld, who I saw perform O, For A Horse with Wings!, which turned out to be a wonderfully imaginative show reminiscent of 19th century Hippodrama in which horses were featured performers in massive arenas known as Hippodromes. The human actors all acquitted themselves admirably in O, For A Horse with Wings!, depicting scenes from Shakespeare ranging from the tom-foolery of Taming of the Shrew and A Midsummer Night's Dream to the tragedy of Othello; with a standout being Ms. Neufeld as Joan of Arc from Henry VI. But one of the horses proved to be a wise ass by taking a gargantuan dump in the middle of the outdoor stage just before a huge battle scene from Macbeth which ended the show. There was no time for the hard-working grounds crew to clean up the offal before the Scottish army entered with their broadswords and there were times when it was obvious that the soldiers were more concerned about stepping in the mound of solid waste than they were about being decapitated by their opponents. It all ended well with the evil Macbeth being vanquished as usual, but it proved to be a metaphor for participating in any group activity: do what you must to achieve the common goal but above all else, avoid stepping in any shit.O, For A Horse with Wings! runs until September 27th. Tickets are available by clicking here.
Enemies List favorite Mara Marini yet again. I went on another of my excessive binges making faux pulp fiction novel covers. When I created one entitled The Party Killer which included Ms. Marini slithering seductively across the floor, she responded "If I'm totally honest, I thought that the title was 'Panty Killer' upon first read. Had to do a double take" (although she also said that she thought that the image of her crawling on the floor was reminiscent of Gollum in Lord of the Rings, which is like saying that Botticelli's The Birth of Venus is evocative of a sand crab crawling out of a dirty sea shell). Always the gentleman, I concocted a new cover from Ms. Marini's title; which prompted my nemesis Misty LaRue to yenta from the sidelines "Mara is beautiful and talented, but more than anything as your unrequited muse - SHE'S A REALLY GOOD SPORT....You should be incredibly thankful, Jon Mullich." Anyone who doesn't think that I'm grateful for Ms. Marini's presence in my life hasn't been keeping up with my daily blog of sexual fantasies, but that's not the point. Much like Venus herself, Ms. Marini is a goddess who has a responsibility to put up with pathetic, attention-grabbing tributes from mortal smegma like myself. It is part of the natural order for a toad like me to make a fool out of myself in a vain attempt to get her fluttering eyes focused in my direction for even a blissful second. Regrettably, it is also the natural order for a yenta like Ms. LaRue to be annoyed at the ritual and to loudly call me out on it in as humiliating a fashion as possible, thereby making me even more wretched to my divine idol. In the end, I come off in Ms. Marini's eyes as reminiscent of Gollum in Lord of the Rings or perhaps a sand crab crawling out of a dirty sea shell. But at least that makes her aware of my existence, which is all I really wanted in the first place. Now if I could only get off of Ms. LaRue's radar, my life would be perfect.To see the full collection of Jonny faux pulp fiction novel covers, 
U.S.S. Pinafore star Tim Polzin. I made the first major change to the Jonny Look in many a' moon this year, growing out my signature goatee into a full beard, primarily because I was sick of being mistaken for Breaking Bad creator 
The City of Los Angeles. I dined with 
My associate Eddie Frierson, who hijacked a Facebook post made by the evil genius Lars Fargo complaining about stores that were already selling Christmas decorations while we are suffering a major heat wave in Southern California, with temperatures rising to as high as 112°. When I agreed with Mr. Largo's sentiments, pointing out that a bicycle ride I made in the swelter nearly gave me a stroke, Mr. Frierson chose to take my use of the word "stroke"and redirect the conversation to being about my masturbation regimen. That was fine with me - I'm always delighted to talk about self abuse - but when I took the ball and ran with it (egged on as always from the cyber-sidelines by the desperate yenta Misty LaRue), Mr. Frierson suddenly switched gears, admonishing me to "take this fun to another page. We are stealing Mr. Fargo's thunder" thereby making me feel like a dick for following a conversational tangent that he started. I know when I'm being played for a sap and Mr. Frierson will pay for setting me up to play the fool, so I'm going to wait until he's not looking and bean him in the face with a snowball made from Christmas Tree flocking. And thanks to Mr. Fargo, I know exactly where I can buy some right now.
My emerging nemesis Jessicah Neufeld, who I saw perform O, For A Horse with Wings!, which turned out to be a wonderfully imaginative show reminiscent of 19th century Hippodrama in which horses were featured performers in massive arenas known as Hippodromes. The human actors all acquitted themselves admirably in O, For A Horse with Wings!, depicting scenes from Shakespeare ranging from the tom-foolery of Taming of the Shrew and A Midsummer Night's Dream to the tragedy of Othello; with a standout being Ms. Neufeld as Joan of Arc from Henry VI. But one of the horses proved to be a wise ass by taking a gargantuan dump in the middle of the outdoor stage just before a huge battle scene from Macbeth which ended the show. There was no time for the hard-working grounds crew to clean up the offal before the Scottish army entered with their broadswords and there were times when it was obvious that the soldiers were more concerned about stepping in the mound of solid waste than they were about being decapitated by their opponents. It all ended well with the evil Macbeth being vanquished as usual, but it proved to be a metaphor for participating in any group activity: do what you must to achieve the common goal but above all else, avoid stepping in any shit.O, For A Horse with Wings! runs until September 27th. Tickets are available by