Lacie Harmon and me
, who posted the Facebook status “Eyes burning. Exhaustion. Possibly the start of a runny nose. Gotta be a terminal blood disease.” Wise-ass that I am, I suggested that it probably was
a terminal blood disease and that she had two weeks to live, tops. Our interaction then strangely devolved into a conversation about how she would “suck on God” when she met Her in the afterlife. I’m not sure which one of us introduced a bizarre sexual component into a discussion about meeting one’s maker in the afterlife (although everybody reading this knows it was me). Fortunately, more rational voices entered the conversation and it went into a less blasphemous direction. But it did leave me wondering what sex with the deity is like. I prefer to think of God as a nurturing mother rather than an overbearing father, so I don’t think of it as hot dude-on-dude action when it does ultimately happen between us. But God is
all-powerful, so while the sex with Her would probably be mind-blowing, I think I might be too intimidated and self-conscious to have anything get inflated below the belt buckle leaving me feeling inadequate and self-loathing as a result. When I think of it that way, I finally have a response for women who delay having sex with me for as long as possible because “it would change our relationship,” because my current relationship with God leaves me feeling inadequate and self-loathing now
. A furtive night with me that left Her frustrated and sexually unsatisfied wouldn’t make a bit of difference.
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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.
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Jessicah Neufeld as Joan of Arc (R) opposite her costar
My emerging nemesis Jessicah Neufeld
, who opens tonight in a stage production entitled O, For A Horse with Wings!
Ms. Neufeld recently supported me in the Eclect-a-Fest
series of short plays in which she appeared in something called Tartine
(I can’t tell you much about it because I was in my dressing room drinking Ouzo and getting a rubdown from my masseuse Günter as it was going on) while I starred in the headline piece Three Really Offensive Scenes About the Founding Fathers
. Ms. Neufeld was so intimidated by working with me that for her next stage role, she has eschewed human actors and is instead doing a show in which she is performing Shakespearean scenes opposite horses (you read that correctly: her fellow performers are horses). My operatives (some of whom pay attention to this crap) tell me that her Big Scene is as Joan of Arc from the rarely-performed Henry VI
. I have no idea what roles the equines are playing but I assume they’re being fed peanut butter first so that they can move their mouths while someone recites the lines offstage like in the old TV show about a talking horse, Mr. Ed
. I’m especially looking forward to the scene where Joan is burned at the stake because this is the first presentation of it where she actually has a chance to survive. I’m hoping that the Grand Inquisitor will eat the hay before anyone has a chance to set fire to it.
Tickets are available by clicking here.
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My favorite movie
. There’s an exercise going around the social network in which participants are commanded to “List 15 movies you’ve seen that will always stick with you.” An intriguing proposition since the reasons that a movie “sticks with you” are intensely personal. This means that there is nothing to debate and films that I don’t hold in particularly high regard like Philadelphia
(which I have publicly derided in print many times), Nobody’s Fool
, and It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World
were safely posted without fear of being cruelly mocked by yours truly. My own list was topped this week, as it always will be, by the Charlie Chaplin masterpiece City Lights
. I first saw it when I was about 12 and my mother took me to a strange theatre in Hollywood that had two separate entrances; a left-turn at the old-style standalone ticket booth (where the young lady within wore a revealing leotard) brought you to a screen showing hardcore porn. A right-turn brought you to a rather shabby little theatre showing classic movies by Buster Keaton, the Marx Bros., Laurel & Hardy, and Chaplin. I spent many a happy hour in that theatre, never more so than when the work of the Little Tramp was on display. I loved all his films that I saw there: Modern Times, The Great Dictator, The Gold Rush, The Kid
; but no film before or since has had the profound emotional effect on me that my first viewing of City Light
did. It’s undeniably a masterpiece (it has for my money the best ending in the history of motion pictures) but as I get older it seems more dated and contrived (the Tramp falls in love with a blind flower girl and sacrifices everything so that she can regain her sight via an operation provided by a European doctor which cures blindness, as though there was only one cause for blindness and one operation could cure it). At the same time, every time I watch it (and I’ve watched it many, many times), it takes me back to that now-demolished theatre in Hollywood and I view it through the eyes of that hopeful 12 year-old boy. I guess that there are better movies than City Lights
in the pantheon of filmmaking: Citizen Kane, The Godfather, The Searchers, The Passion of Joan of Arc, Casablanca,
and The Seven Samurai
come immediately to mind. But none of them are so magical that they can transform me into an enraptured child discovering movies for the first time. So I don’t care how many movies I see between now and the time that I become so blind that I’ll need an operation from a European doctor to get my sight back. Whenever I make a list of my favorite movies, City Lights
will always be at the top.
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You people. I made one of my delightful Facebook cover images of my beloved pug Winston and me edited into a famous movie scene, this time the inevitable picture of us in the scene from Men in Black where Tommy Lee Jones and Will Smith are interrogating a pug at a magazine stand. To give the illustration some flavor in its detail, I included magazine covers of the flotsam and jetsam of humanity I associate with pictured on the cover of such wholesome periodicals as Glamour and People. It was only afterwards that I realized that there should be a magazine created to showcase these nimrods, so I’m proud to announce that Jonny Press® is introducing Pain in the Ass Magazine. This is a place where you can find out all the news about the irritants who ruin my life on a regular basis. I can’t imagine why anyone would be interested in this kind of crap but I’m hoping that it will be distracting to the jackals who swarm around me on the social network so that I can finally get some peace and quiet. They say that print is dead and this rag will be an excellent indication of why.
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Paul Messinger (R)
flying me to Camarillo
, 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.
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The actresses of Eclect-a-Fest
An artist's conception of me writing today's Enemies List as the actresses of Eclect-a-Fest look on
, the one-act play festival in which I star. The ladies of the respective casts have all inevitably fallen in love with me and I found myself holding court in the green room of the theatre (which in this case is the parking lot behind the stage door where some folding chairs have been set up) with each of them vying for my attention. The conversation ultimately came around to the ongoing staggering popularity of this blog and my ability to sustain its high quality week after week. I finally admitted (after much flirtatious prodding) that my secret is writing each entry stark naked, or as I explicitly phrased it, with my “massive, turgid man meat scraping against my desk.” This admission caused the women to squeal with delight like scandalized schoolgirls, and one of the more assertive of them immediately began to strategize a plan to insert the phrase “massive turgid man meat” into every presentation at some point during the evening. Sanity finally prevailed (a rare thing indeed among this collection of cackling yentas) and all of the plays were performed as written, with the only reference to my quivering genitalia showing up in the subtext of each actresses’ depiction of their various roles. At least that’s how I remember the evening taking place; when I woke up this morning with my usual hangover I found stuffed in my pocket a petition signed by all the actresses demanding my removal from the show along with a strongly-worded letter from the producers promising stern action against me if I continued to harass the ladies of the casts. That was clearly a practical joke played against me that I’m sure we’ll all have a good laugh about when I’m holding court in the green room at the next performance. As a treat to them, I’ll be hanging out stark naked with my man meat in full view. It may not be as massive as I originally promised but if the air pump I ordered online does what it claims to do, at least it will be turgid.
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, who committed suicide yesterday. I just saw Life Itself
, the moving documentary about film critic Roger Ebert who not only clung tenaciously to life after suffering from debilitating health problems that caused him to endure immeasurable pain and loss, but actually managed to find a poetry in his travails. It is difficult for me to reconcile Mr. Ebert’s inspiring heroism in the face of such adversity with Mr. Williams’ defeat and betrayal of his family, friends and admirers at surrendering to it. I have known many people – far too many – who have taken their own lives, and my experience is that whenever someone takes that drastic step, it rips such a massive hole in the fabric of humanity that the damage it leaves behind is far more devastating than the pain that drove them to it. My own aunt killed herself and my mother would wake up screaming her name decades later; I have found this lingering agony to be common amongst those who are forced to pick up the pieces after suffering the suicide of someone who has touched their lives. It has caused me to realize that we are not the owners of our own lives, but merely their caretakers charged with guiding our existences through the most rewarding path our judgment finds fit to take them through. But our lives belong
to every soul who interacts with them throughout the course of our brief stay on earth. You may condemn me for not having compassion for the agonies that drove Mr. Williams to that heinous act, but I would respond that my compassion would have no limits so long as he had the courage that Roger Ebert did to fight them; if not for his own sake, then for the sake of the people who loved him. Once he chose to end his suffering by hitting the self-destruct button, my compassion was transferred to those who must suffer the consequences for that momentary act of self-obsession, for their pain will endure throughout the course of their lifetimes.
The father of a close friend of mind was driven into near-despair when a combination of anti-depressants and alcohol convinced him that the only way to end his suffering was to put a gun to his head and blow his brains out. A kind angel was looking over him that night because just as he pulled the trigger, his hand trembled and the bullet was propelled harmlessly into a wall. When his wife came running down the stairs to find out what had happened, he looked at her sheepishly and said “that was the dumbest thing I ever did in my life.” I’d like to think that if Robin Williams could take a do-over on that one tragic moment when his life seemed like a pit of agony and his only salvation was his own annihilation, he might be touched by that same kind angel who rescued my friend’s father and realize that for all its pain and struggle, every moment of life is a divine gift that should never be taken for granted. The way he chose to confront his pain was a mistake, and it was a mistake that will tear asunder the lives of those who cared for him until the end of time.
As we enjoy the gift of our lives today, I hope that we will take our responsibilities as their caretakers seriously and live them with the honor and fearlessness that the people around us – the true owners of those lives – have come to deserve. And when it is time for our lives to end – hopefully long in the future – I hope that our survivors will remember us as people who faced adversity with courage, tenacity, and compassion. When we faced it, we faced it together. And we arrogantly thumbed our noses at it until our dying breaths.
Life is hope. Have a nice day.
The sexiest people on Facebook
Enemies List favorite Mara Marini
. I recently posted a scene from a romantic painting featuring Ms. Marini and myself on Facebook, along with which I announced the tally for a vote deciding on the sexiest people on the social networking site in which we won in a landslide. True, the vote took place in my living room at 2:00 a.m. after a night of binge drinking and crying and my pug Winston and I were the only two participants. But it was still a vote. My reasons for selecting Ms. Marini and myself were based on purely mathematical calculations: she figures in easily 75% of my masturbatorial fantasies while I am included in an astonishing 100%
of them. No male comes remotely close to my figures when I lay them out on a spreadsheet, and Ms. Marini’s nearest competition came from circa 1975 Linda Ronstadt and the cute redhead checker who smiles at me sometimes at Ralph’s, who each appear in paltry 6% of my erotic fantasies. Numbers don’t lie and when confronted with statistics like that, it is impossible to deny that we are the most desirable people on the social network. In fact, the only other dude who even got any consideration was the college kid who used to live down the hall from me and occasionally shows up unexpectedly in my fantasies as a pizza delivery boy. I have no idea what that’s about and I’m always pretty shaken up by it during the afterglow but I’m not going to worry about it. When you’re the sexiest man on Facebook, you have more important things to think about. Like what my next sexual fantasy about Mara Marini will be. Maybe we’ll just stay in and order a pizza.
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Kerr Lordygan and myself
bring history to life
. I opened last night in Three Really Offensive Scenes About the Founding Fathers
, a comedy that Mr. Ashworth directed as part of the Eclect-a-Fest series of one-act plays which contains a memorable scene of Thomas Jefferson (played by your humble correspondent) sexually relieving himself in the anal cavity of John Adams (essayed by Kerr Lordygan). It is ironic that I was the one asked to act out that graphic bit of business since Mr. Ashworth has been figuratively violating my rectum throughout the entire rehearsal process; mainly by asking me to perform so many perversions that if they had actually taken place during the writing of the Declaration of Independence, this country would have a hell of a lot more fathers than George Washington. Much to my relief, the audience devoured Ms. Ashworth’s disturbing handiwork like James Madison choking down one of his wife Dolly’s delicious pies and I found myself in the unaccustomed position of being cheered for performing debaucheries that usually result in my spending the night in county lockup. After it was all over, Mr. Ashworth blamed the sickness that had been unfolding onstage on me by posting on his Facebook wall “Jon’s insanity has taken over the entire evening like a cancer…a very funny cancer but still…” But believe me; after fucking the second president of the United States in the ass, cancer wasn’t the disease that I was worried about.
Three Really Offensive Scenes About the Founding Father plays Thursdays and Saturdays at 8:00 and runs until September 6th. Tickets can be ordered here. [click to continue…]