Jack Kukoda

Goddamnit, my back hurts. But that’s what I get for trying to raise boxing kangaroos in my apartment. I get a big kangaroo punch in my back! Yowch! Let me start from the beginning.

The other day I was sitting on my couch, trying to figure out how to make enough money so that I could retire for good and live on a sweet ass houseboat, when all of a sudden it hit me: train kangaroos to box and then promote their bouts. Kablammo-that’s a billion dollar idea. If cartoons and sepia-tinted silent filmstrips have taught me anything, it’s that kangaroos make excellent boxers. Now all I had to do was get my hands on some ‘roos and I would be in the money.

I called up the Australian consulate and asked for some kangaroos, but they must have thought it was a prank because they called me a “wanker” and told me to go blow myself. I didn’t have many other options, so I ended up breaking into the zoo and stealing one. Oh boy, did that kangaroo put up a fight. If there’s one lesson I’ve learned about kangaroos in real life, it’s that they DO NOT enjoy having a burlap sack tossed over their heads in the middle of the night and being dragged out of the zoo.

Anyway, I hurt my back because yesterday Destructo(that’s what I’ve named my kangaroo) punched me in the back when I bent over to pick up his boxing gloves for our daily training session. So now I’m back on the couch and well, Destructo pretty much has the run of the house. He’s been running back and forth all day, breaking stuff, and eating all the food out of my refrigerator. As soon as I get back on my feet, I’m going to put him on some sort of leash, teach him some discipline, and mold him into the greatest fighting kangaroo the world has ever seen. That’s a promise.

I’ll be the first to admit it: my beard is completely out of control. I thought it would be funny to have a beard down to my knees, but now it’s just getting ridiculous. My beard is like some kind of magnet for food and crap. Here’s a partial list of things I found in my beard in the past week:

1. A piece of celery
2. Half a baloney sandwich
3. Corn. Lots and lots of corn
4. A whole baloney sandwich
5. The TV remote
6. A copy of the DVD Without Limits(What?!)
7. A human child
8. Another beard

C’mon! How did all that stuff get in my beard?! And you know, it would be nice if my friends would occasionally say something like, “Hey Jack, you’ve got a whole baloney sandwich in your beard,” instead of letting me walk around looking like a jerk. By the way, I have no idea how that child got into my beard and now I don’t know what to do with him. I gave him some potato chips and a diet Coke yesterday, but I think he needs vitamins or some shit because he’s in a real crabby mood.

Anyhow, I think I’m going to shave my beard and donate all the hair to “Hair that Cares.” That’s a charity that supplies fake beards to men who can’t grow them because of chemotherapy. Am I a saint? Let’s just let the Pope decide that one.

Hey there, everyone. You might have noticed that there was nothing new on Kukoda.com last Friday. Before you start raising hell about my recent laziness, let me assure you there is an excellent reason. I won a radio contest last week and first prize was a chance to play poker with Bananas, a poker-playing chimpanzee. I was pretty psyched because 1. I love poker and 2. the only thing I love more than poker is humiliating chimpanzees in games of chance. Bammo, this was a double whammy if I ever saw one.

The radio station sponsoring the event was, Kiss 103 FM, who contrary to their claims, do not play the greatest mix of hits from the 70’s, 80’s, and today. The other day they played what they called a “giant rock block of Golden Earring,” which, in reality was just “Radar Love” on repeat for two full hours. Hey, I love “Radar Love” as much as the next guy. Shit, I love “Radar Love” more than the next guy. It’s bedazzled on my couch cushions for pete’s sake. But even I don’t want to hear two straight hours of it.

I digress. KISS sent a limo to pick me up at my apartment. I stood outside on my balcony waiting for it just like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. And I refused to come down until the driver stuck his head out the sun roof and asked me to marry him. Listen, I don’t come down to where you sleep and make fun of your dreams so don’t go mocking mine. The limo took me to the KISS studios where Bananas was waiting. Oh, did he ever have a smug look on his stupid chimpanzee face! Man, I hate chimps.

Anyway, after a quick interview, we got down to playing poker. We were playing no limit Texas hold ‘em, just like the celebrities do! I figured I would make quick work of Bananas because, even though I haven’t played much poker, I won the Buffalo Pinochle Championship: 16 and under division two years in a row. Let’s see a monkey do that! I quickly learned Bananas would be tougher than I thought, as I was down to my last five dollars within half an hour. In my defense, someone really should have told me that different colored chips represent varying amounts of money.

On my final hand, I was dealt two Kings and I went all in. Bananas called me and eventually won with a flush to my three of a kind. “Curse you, Bananas!” I shouted. Then I threw a carton of orange juice against the wall. Big mistake. The carton exploded, raining orange juice down on all of KISS’s audio equipment, not to mention the priceless Eddie Money posters that covered the walls. The manager of the radio station yelled at me to get out of the studio. I told them I wasn’t leaving until I got my “KISS the Summer Hello” promotional T-shirt and held onto my chair so they would know I meant business. They eventually called a couple summer interns that played college football to forcibly remove me from the studio. Oh boy, those fellows were rough.

Anyway, that’s what happened Friday. I’ve been on the phone all weekend with lawyers trying to find someone that will help me sue KISS FM. If you are a lawyer and hate chimps like I do, or just want to help me file a frivolous lawsuit, contact me today!

Hey everyone. I’m outside the hottest spot in New York City right now! The Holland Tunnel! Oh, man, all the big names are here; police officers, traffic officers, cars, motorcycles, smog. It’s off the hook. I’ll be live blogging the Holland Tunnel all day long, so make sure you check back throughout the day or you might miss out on all the awesome action.

The newest updates will be at the bottom. Hope you can keep up!

9:56am Just got here! Man, the Holland Tunnel is smoking today. Litererally. With all the cars, buses, and bikes passing through, there’s quite a bit of smoke.

10:06am Oooh. A really cool bus just went into the tunnel.

10:30am Lots of cars going in and out.

10:45am I think I went to high school with the guy in that car.

11am I’m going to get a sandwich. This tunnel action is making me hungry.

11:11am I just made a wish!

11:23am Uh-oh! A traffic cop is yelling at someone. I wouldn’t like to be that guy. Or the traffic cop for that matter, as it seems like a pretty thankless job.

11:44am More cars coming through. Man, they never stop.

12pm Someone just threw an empty Starbucks cup at me from their moving vehicle. Not cool.

12:14pm I’m going to start abbreviating Holland Tunnel to HoTu. Let’s see if that catches on.

12:22pm I asked the traffic cop how long he’s been working at the HoTu and he told me to go fuck myself.

12:34pm I made another wish!

12:48pm I’m getting a little dizzy from these fumes.

1pm Lunch Break!

1:22pm Hey, a bird!

1:45pm Some guy with this squirt gun that blows bubbles keeps trying to sell me stuff. “I don’t want your bubble gun!” I yelled at him. Then he threw a hot dog at me. What a country!

2:44pm I just woke up from a nap. I think I passed out from the exhaust fumes. And my hat with a fan on the brim is missing. Why would someone steal that? How am I supposed to keep my head cool now?

3pm Okay, I’ve taken the commenter’s bait. I am now in the tunnel. Ooh boy, it is dark. And loud. Well, I’ll just sit here on the edge of the tunnel along that little walkway. Hmm, this isn’t so bad.

3:03pm Okay, I’m really bored and I have to pee. I’m leaving.

3:04 Well, I made it 3 whole minutes. I’m pretty proud of myself. My pants got all sooty, though. I hate soot.

3:30 Will someone bring me something to drink? Maybe like a Vitamin Water or Gatorade or something. No biggie if you can’t.

4pm While this has nothing to do with the HoTu, I just found out that these animals actually exist. My head is spinning.

Okay, first day on the new job. Got to make a good impression. Work hard, stay busy, look alert. That’s right, just play it cool. Gonna have a long career here at Henderson’s Nail & Glue Factory. Oh, yeah, gonna be the best night watchman they ever had.

All right, let’s get started on those rounds. Check on the production line first. “Hello, anybody in here?” Nope, the coast is clear. Okay, moving right along-”Ow! Ahh, shit!” Dammit, just stepped on a nail. Well, that was bound to happen sooner or later. It is a nail factory, after all. Just didn’t think it would happen so soon. Okay, just pull it out and we’ll keep going. That’s it, pull it out-think happy thoughts! Okay, it’s out. Remember to get tetanus shot first thing in the morning.

Hmm, think I’ll check out the packaging room. Well, looks like everything is okay in here. Why don’t I turn on the light to make sure. Now where’s that switch? Oh right, it’s over-Fuck! What is this goo? Oh, it’s a tub of glue. What the hell is it doing in the packaging room? Glue belongs in the glue room for shit’s sake. Ah! I’ve got glue all over me! Okay, calm down. Just get to the bathroom, clean yourself off, and keep going. Now where’s that bathroom? Right, it’s across the hall, at the end of the prototype testing facility.

All righty, just have to get across this nail testing room and then I’ll be at the bathroom. No sudden movements. Just creep quietly across this cavernous hall, filled to the brim with pneumatic guns that shoot hi-tech nails into various targets. Certainly don’t want to make any noise since the guns are sound activated. That’s it, almost to the bathroom, being very quiet-Oh no! Is that glue? Did I just step in glue again?! “Shit ass! Who left all this glue here? This is just goddamn ridiculous!” Oops! Why did I yell that? The nail guns are activated. Time to run. Okay, running. Running pretty fast. Ouch. Something just hit me. Was it a nail? Possibly. Ouch. Another one. That was definitely a nail. I can see it halfway into my leg. Keep running. Ouch. Is that-yep, that’s a nail. Right in my ass. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Oh, God. Too many nails to warrant their own individual “ouch.” I’d reckon there are about six or seven dozen technoligically advanced nails stuck in me. Hope I don’t pass out from pain or blood loss before I get to the bathroom.

Whoo! Made it. Hmm. Should I even bother to clean this glue off now? I mean, yeah, that was my original reason for coming to the bathroom, but it just seems less important now compared to the 72 carbon-titanium hybrid nails sticking into my body. Hmm. Okay, first I’ll get the nails out, then clean the glue off, then tend to my wounds, then eat a ham sandwich, then finish my shift, and finally, go to the doctor.

All right, turning on the faucet. You have got to be goddamned joking! There’s glue on the faucet! Sweet mother of God, this is not cool. What kind of dog and pony factory is Henderson running here? That’s it, I’m not working here. Now way, man. I’m leaving. I’m getting in my car and going home. Where’s the parking lot again. Oh right, it’s just past the glue room, where they keep giant vats of glue at a constant bubble for seemingly no reason at all. Hmm. That sounds like it could be a bad idea. I’ll just take a shortcut through the nails-infected-with-hepatitis room. Save myself at least two minutes. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. Damn, I’m smart.

Well, it happened again. Another one of my MySpace friends raped me last night. Sure, this isn’t the first time it’s happened, but you never really get used to it no matter how many times it happens. What’s weird about last night’s raping is that I actually knew this MySpace friend before I met him online. It was my buddy Pete. I don’t know what it is about MySpace that turns normal people into voracious rapists, but I’m fed up with it. I guess the online world isn’t safe for ridiculously handsome comedians/temps like myself who just want to use a networking site to post photos of their awesome abs. But I’m going to change all that. Follow these online safety tips and you should be saying, “I didn’t get raped today” in no time.

1. If someone asks you for your personal information, ask them why they want it. If they say, “So I can come over and rape you,” DO NOT give out the information. If they say, “So I can make you a delicious crumb cake and deliver it to your house,” then it’s okay to give out that info. Seriously, who wants to risk losing crumb cake?

2. Don’t post a lot of sexy photos of yourself on the Internet. For me, this is damn near impossible since every picture I take is pretty gosh darn sexy. I recently found an old photo of me sitting in a high chair with a bowl of spaghetti on my head. And wouldn’t you know, I looked dead sexy in it.

3. Lock yourself in your home and never venture outside again.

4. Tape a sign to your computer monitor declaring it a “Rape Free Zone.”

5. If someone asks you to meet them at a seedy motel, make sure you’re dressed in your best outfit. Chances are, it’s someone from Dateline conducting a sting operation. And you don’t want to be on TV wearing a pair of ratty old jeans.

6. Avoid using the following screen names, as they are bait to online predators: Like2Flirt, 2Sexy4U, HottStuff, Looking2GetRaped, EasilyDuped, NoSelfEsteem69, or RonBurgundy44. The Ron Burgundy one has nothing to do with online safety, I just think people should give Anchorman references a rest for a little while.

Okay, now you’re armed for the online world. Go out and have fun!

I barely have time to write this because I want to beat the traffic to get out to my beach house. You all have beach houses, right? I certainly hope so. I would hate to think there are people reading my site who are so poor they can only afford one house. That would depress me to no end. Actually, my beach house isn’t so much a house as it is a compound, made up of 50 individual houses. See, I’m a real patriot, so I purchased 50 houses, moved them all onto the same piece of land by the beach, and then I named them after the 50 states. Then I hired 50 prostitutes to live in the houses, and I named the prostitutes after the state capitals. That way I can just say to my butler, “Fetch the golf cart, Buster. I feel like banging Des Moines, Iowa today.” And then it is so. See how patriotic I am? I make Toby Keith look like Osama bin Laden.

Anyhow, sometimes my neighbors get real jealous of me because I’m so rich. They say things like, “Get out of our neighborhood, you filthy pimp!” Or “One of your prostitutes is passed out on my lawn. Please come and get her.” I don’t let that mess bother me. Some people are just going to be jealous of my sweet, sweet lifestyle. That’s how it is.

I worked hard to get where I am today and I’m not going to apologize for my affluent, hooker-driven lifestyle. Understand? No apologies. How did I get so wealthy? Well, it may interest you to know that I invented American flag balloon pants. You heard me! Before I came along, nobody had thought to put an American flag on balloon pants. Back then, balloon pants were just one solid color. I said, “Screw that mess! These pants can be just as patriotic as a hat or a windbreaker. Let’s put a flag on them.” The rest, as they say, is history.

Okay, I’ve got to get going if I want to beat the traffic. Larry the Cable Guy is coming over today for a barbecue. We’re going to drink real American beer and make fart noises with our mouths for the rest of the day. Shit, maybe we’ll record it and put it out on DVD. You’d watch that, right?

But before I go, here’s a little something to tide you over. This is Sacramento, California wearing a pair of my inventions.

Doesn’t she look hot? I took this picture on a beach in Maui. It might look like my poorly-lit basement, but I assure you it’s Hawaii. The Hawaiian sun looks a lot like a single 60 watt bulb when photographed.

Hey. Ha ha. Here’s a totally-and I mean totally-hypothetical question. Let’s just say there is this guy, we’ll call him, I don’t know, Zack Stakoda. Yeah, that’s a good and completely fake name that has no resemblance to any real person. Let’s say Zack Stakoda, due to some misunderstandings and a completely unfair justice system, is required by law to tell all of his neighbors that he is a registered sex offender. Okay, we’re talking hypothetical still. All right? Totally not true.

How should Zack go about doing this? Should he just knock on his neighbors’ doors and tell them straight up? Or maybe start with a little small talk first, then get into the whole “registered sex offender status?” Just curious, is all. Should Zack maybe bring his neighbors some homemade cookies to soften the blow? Or maybe explain that his “sex offender” status refers to the fact that he accidentally fell asleep in a park while reading an admittedly hardcore pornographic magazine, and when he woke up, was surrounded by a pre-school class on a field trip? And Zack wasn’t trying to give the kids pornography, he just likes to read his porn in the park is all. And so what if he fell asleep while doing it? Did you ever think that maybe he was up all night huffing paint thinner behind a Home Depot and just wanted to relax in the park with some porno? Who are you to judge?! I thought this was America, but, apparently, I was wrong! I guess I was wrong to think this was a free country where a man could get a cheap high from household cleaning solutions, then cap off a long night by reading the latest copy of Juggs in a city park! Welcome to Communist China, I guess!

I mean, hypothetically, how should Zack go about telling his neighbors about the whole thing? Oh, and his parents. Good God, how in the world is Zack going to tell them? Feel free to leave any answers to this entirely HYPOTHETICAL question I’ve posed.

A lot of people don’t know this about me, but, in addition to be an awesomely famous comedian and all-around playboy, I also moonlight as a limo driver. That’s right, whenever I need some extra scratch I do some driving for Touch of Class Limousine Service. And since this is prom season, I’m making money like a limo driver on prom night. Wink, wink.

Unlike a lot of my fellow part-time limo drivers, I take my job serious as shit. Before I go out to pick promgoers up, I limit myself to a maximum of five beers and two cocktails. That may seem overly ascetic, but that’s how I do things. It’s okay to have a pretty good buzz going while you’re driving high school kids around, but full-blown drunkenness is a violation of the limo driver-limo passenger pact. And that pact is sacred.

Once I drop those kids off at the prom, the real fun begins. For me! As soon as they’re out of my ‘mo (that’s limo driver slang for limo) I open up a bottle of Old Granddad and head over to the mall. If there’s anything that impresses a lady more than a guy doing donuts in a limo out in the parking lot, all the while chugging a bottle of eight dollar bourbon, I’ve yet to find it.

Once I’ve had my way with a lady of the mall, I head back and pick those kids up. By this point, I’m pretty blitzed, so I usually just drop them off at the nearest Denny’s. Sometimes they argue with me and say stuff like, “Why are we going to Denny’s? You’re supposed to take us to our friend’s beach house.” Or things like, “Oh my god, the limo driver is drunk! And I think he just shit on himself. I’ve got to call my dad!”

One time some kids I was driving called the cops on me while they were still in the back. I wasn’t about to go back to jail, so I just slowed the limo down and jumped out. Don’t worry, the kids weren’t hurt. The car that hit them was only going about 20 miles an hour at most so there weren’t any serious injuries. Although, I did hear that two of them had to wear those giant neck braces to graduation. Those things are funny.

Ah, kids these days.

Guess who’s coaching a Little League team this summer! Give up? It’s me! I just got hired as the head coach of the Brooklyn Bearcats, a lovable bunch of sluggers in the 10 year old division. And I’m going to coach the shit out of them!

A lot of parents and child psychologists will tell you that, for kids at this age, sports should be about fun and sportsmanship, rather than competition. Those people are queers. I don’t care if it’s the World-freaking-Series, or a t-ball game for toddlers, your objective is to win. It’s like my dad always said, “If you don’t win today, don’t bother coming home, ’cause you’ll be in the doghouse, buster.” And my dad meant it, too. Literally. When I was a kid, if my team lost, I had to sleep outside in the makeshift lean-to my father had built for the dog. It was quite uncomfortable, but it taught me an important lesson: Don’t cross my dad. He’s freaking nuts.

Anyway, this isn’t about me. It’s about the Bearcats. Last week, when I was having the kids push my car up a hill during practice to teach them a lesson about bunting, one of their parents ran over and asked me what the hell I was doing. “Making your son into a man,” I said. “How are you doing that?” the parent inquired. “Listen,” I said, “I’m the coach here, okay? I don’t come down to where you work and light your office on fire, do I?” “No,” the parent replied, confused. “Then get off my back,” I said. “Or I swear to God I’ll come over to your office and light it on fire.” That shut him up.

So if you want to support the team, we’ve got our first game next week against the Staten Island Yankees. Come on out and support us. In fact, we could probably put you on the field, since all but two parents have yanked their kids off the team and filed grievances against me with the league. Go Bearcats!

So, apparently, some actress has dropped out of a play here in New York because she was concerned for her physical safety around co-star Alec Baldwin. In an email to a friend, the actress, Jan Maxwell, wrote that Baldwin put his fist through a wall and has physically and mentally intimidated the rest of the cast and crew.

Actresses. What is their deal? I know it’s in their very nature to be all dramatic and sensitive, but do they have to go and quit a production every time someone puts their fist through a wall? Let me say something to all the so-called actresses out there: Punching holes in walls is acting. At least, it is where I learned the craft. And where was that? A little place called the Yale School of Drama and Drywall Smashing. Not to brag or anything, but the YSDDS is just about the greatest acting/wall punching school in all of America.

I’ll never forget my first day of class when my instructor strode confidently into the room, delivered the stirring monologue from Act I, Scene II, of Hamlet, all the while punching holes through the scenery! After he finished and we had given him a standing ovation, he said to us, “Children, anyone can walk around on a stage spouting memorized lines. But when you learn to speak your lines while smashing holes in the wall, then, truly, you have become an actor.”

Truer words were never spoken. So give Baldwin a break, lady. You just might learn something. And just to toot my horn a little, when I played Joe in Damn Yankees, I punched everything in sight: the walls, the curtains, the stage, my fellow actors, the first four rows of the audience, etc. NYTheatre.com called it “the punchingest show we’ve seen in years! Bravo!”

Oh, Uncoolkids.com has posted some photos and video of Tuesday night’s show. Thanks, Shannon!

Alleged Baldwin behavior prompts actress’ exit [CNN.com]

I wrote this a couple of days ago. I thought some websites might want to publish it. I was wrong. For your enjoyment I present:

A Recently-Divorced Movie Critic Reviews The Latest Films

Basic Instinct 2

Say what you want about how terrible this movie is, but at least Sharon Stone still makes an effort to look sexy. The woman must be nearing 50, but clearly finds time during her busy schedule to get to the gym. I know women twenty years younger that can’t be bothered to even wear their hair in anything but the most unflattering ponytail. Women who wear the same raggedy, shapeless, terry cloth robe to bed every night, then have the audacity to complain about a lack of romance in the relationship. Well, I’ve got news for those women: It’s a two-way street, sister! Try wearing a pair of high heels and a dress that doesn’t look like a cross between a potato sack and an art smock for once in your life. Then maybe you’ll get your precious romance. Basic Instinct 2 is rated R for nudity, violence, and language.

Inside Man

Spike Lee turns in his most commercial film to date with this taut, well-executed thriller about an unconventional bank heist. Denzel Washington, Jodie Foster, and Clive Owen all turn in solid, if not great, performances. But let me say this, if I were one of the thieves in this movie, I wouldn’t even bother trying to rob a bank. Instead, I’d marry the features editor of my college newspaper and convince him against his will to move to the suburbs, where I would try my hand at a few unsuccessful careers, including, but not limited to, opening a beaded jewelry store (for Christ’s sake.) I’d nag him until his hair fell out, then divorce him ten years later just as he’s trying to get his book published, and run off with his agent. Yeah, that’s what I would do. Newcomer Chiwetel Ejiofor does an excellent job as Washington’s partner.

Ice Age: The Meltdown

Ice Age 2 is the rare sequel that outdoes the original, mostly thanks to the surprising chemistry between Ray Romano and Queen Latifah, who voice Manny and Ellie, two wooly mammoths in love, respectively. Luckily for Manny and Ellie, they are the last two wooly mammoths on earth, which means that they don’t have to deal with a lazy brother-in-law who borrows money to start a motorcycle dealership, then proceeds to drive the business directly into the ground because he doesn’t know the first thing about tax codes or building permits. And prehistoric mammoths certainly didn’t have to subject themselves to all manners of invasive, humiliating, not to mention expensive, testing of their sperm, only to have the female mammoth suddenly decide that she doesn’t want children anymore because she needs to focus on another one of her ridiculous careers. Or maybe they did. I wouldn’t know since I’m told I’m “not a good listener.” Ice Age: The Meltdown delivers equal parts humor and heart. Don’t miss it.

ATL

“ATL” is the local shorthand for “Atlanta,” the Southern city in which this coming-of-age story takes place. ATL the movie, not the city, is long on style, but short on substance. It revolves loosely around a group of teenage boys that spend the majority of their time down at their local roller rink trying to meet girls. Good Lord, I loved this movie. I couldn’t help but approach the screen and place my hand on it, wishing in vain to somehow enter this world of carefree youthfulness. At the very least, I wanted to whisper to the characters, “Don’t let go of this place. Hold on to it with all that you’ve got. For youth is but a fleeting stop-over on the road of life, to which we can never return.” I don’t know how the movie ended since security asked me to leave because I was weeping so loudly, but I still feel pretty confident recommending it.

New to DVD this week, Brokeback Mountain
Really, who can blame them?

Okay, I get it, jerks. I’ve put on a little weight recently. Yes, I’m fat. Does that mean that I deserve a barrage of insults whenever I decide to ride my Jazzy to the store for a little shopping? I don’t think so. Jesus, I feel bad enough about my weight without having all the stock boys make fun of the fact that I can’t use the arm rests on my scooter because my bulbous hips jut out too far. So just give it a rest, for Christ’s sake.

Why can’t you let me go to Sam’s Club to buy a 2 gallon jar of mayonnaise in peace? What business is it of yours why I need that much mayonnaise? I’ll tell you: none of your business. And to whatever jerk blocked my path with that blue shopping cart I say, “Go to hell.” I had to honk my scooter horn for a good five minutes before somebody came over and moved it for me.

You know, it’s incidents like these that cause me to eat too much. I medicate my pain with fritos, okay. It is a vicious, vicious cycle that I am powerless to escape. So please, if you see me riding my scooter down the street while eating a turkey leg, please don’t point and laugh. You’re doing more harm than good. Thank you and God bless.

I’m going to go around to prisons and collect shanks that have been confiscated from the inmates. Then I’ll take those shanks and turn them back into useful, everyday objects. For instance, I’ll take a shank and file it down to make a toothbrush or a comb. My products will be called “Jack’s Second-Chance Shanks.” I will sell them at craft fairs and through a mail order catalog. It will be great.

The only problem with this idea is that I already have a business called “Jack’s Second-Chance Skanks.” That’s where I round up skanks from bus stations and dive bars, give them makeovers, teach them basic computer skills, and then help them find jobs as secretaries. I don’t make much money off of my second-chance skanks, but that’ s not why I got into this business. I do it mostly for the look a skank gets in her eyes when she has mastered Microsoft Excel. Aw, shucks, now it just sounds like I’m bragging. Anyway, keep an eye out for both of my business ventures.

And I certainly hope these guys are being ironic in their name choice. I’m pretty sure they are.

Hey, men. Listen up. Valentine’s day is one week away, but don’t worry. If you haven’t made any plans or gotten your lady any presents, just take a deep breath and calm down. Because I’m here to tell you the one and only foolproof way to a lady’s heart. And it’s not chocolates, or roses, or scented candles. I’ll tell you what it is. Are you ready?

Shoulder pads.

Not the football kind, my man. I’m talking lady’s shoulder pads. Nothing makes a lady look or feel sexier than a couple of foam pads stitched into a pantsuit. Hell, it’s Valentine’s Day. Get her a scalloped-neck dress with a little extra something up there. And when I say “up there,” you know I’m talking ’bout the shoulders. Check it out.

If this Google Image could talk, it would say, “Damn. I look hot.”

See what I’m saying? So, so sexy. On Valentine’s Day, don’t give your lady a slinky little number that you bought at Frederick’s of Hollywood. Every girl knows that’s not really a gift for her, but a gift for you. Give her the gift that will make her feel like a real woman, while letting the men at the office know that she can play in their world, too. Am I right, career gals?

Her eyes say ‘bedroom,’ but her shoulders say ‘boardroom.’

So there you go. That’s all you need to know about women. I hope I’ve done my part to help you all have a safe and sexy Valentine’s Day.

P.S. Marian, this was for you. It counts as your birthday present.