PREVIOUSLY:

1. The Department of Regulated Industries vs. Everything good and decent in the world. Plus: how Jill overcame a phobia (hint: it was by passing out.)
2. In which Jill gets in trouble with a temporary staffing service. PLUS: Chico gets hired. ALSO: Paintings of the walking dead.
3. A Season of Baby Ashley
4. Terminal Fatigue
5. Sexxxy
6. Andee is a Genius
7. The Midwest Food Expo, Part 1
8. The Midwest Food Expo, Part 2
9. The Long Happy Life of Mr. Fantasma, Part 1
10. The Long Happy Life of Mr. Fantasma, Part 2

Chico and I jumped out of the Truth Truck’s rear gate. I immediately tried to blend in with the abortion protesters. In a high-pitched girl voice, I shouted, “KEEP YOUR ROSARIES OFF MY OVARIES!” But a woman in a Ralph Nader t-shirt pummeled me with a sign that said “SIX BILLION MIRACLES IS ENOUGH.” Violence usually hurts, but these were a bunch of lefties with Garrison Keillor t-shirts and bony upper arms. If Andee hadn’t been there, I would have come away totally uninjured. But suddenly, there she was, working my head and chest with quick jabs and uppercuts. Chico grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me away from her.

“Let’s run!” he said. “Andee, are you going to my art opening tonight?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” said Andee, chucking a rock at my head. Stars exploded. When my vision cleared, I was looking up at a policeman.

“…and that’s why I devoted my life to the study of microbiology,” I was saying for some reason.

“Sir, telling me a really long story about your educational background doesn’t answer my question — which was about your liability insurance provider.”

“What? I’m sorry,” I said. “I was unconscious there for a few minutes.”

The cop refused to believe me — apparently, I’d spun an articulate fiction about my non-existent graduate school experience while I was knocked out. I thought I probably had a concussion, but the paramedics were busy talking to Andee, who had strained her shoulder by throwing a rock at my head.

“Sir,” said the cop, “if you don’t want to file a complaint, I need you to move your disgusting van. It’s obstructing traffic. And if I ever hear that you drove it anywhere that my daughter might see it, you’re going to earn a display of unnecessary force involving pepper spray and pistol whipping.”

My cell phone rang — it was Jill. “I won’t answer that,” I said to myself, shoved the phone in my pocket, and then blacked out for a minute. When I regained consciousness, I was talking to Jill on the phone. “That’s why I’m willing to take such a massive paycut,” I was saying. “GODDAMMIT!” I yelled. “What in the hell was I just saying?” I asked.

“Well, before offering to work more hours for less money, there was a bunch of fruity nonsense about how much you love Colin Firth. Are you coming to my art opening tonight?”

“Yes — I’m bringing Amy. It’s a date!”

“Uh-huh. Is that going to interfere with driving me to the gallery?” she asked.

“What? Why can’t you drive yourself?”

Jill had lost her driver’s license. Although the Paseo Bridge had been closed for twelve weeks for repairs, she just kept using it. I guess she flew past those concrete barriers, construction equipment, and terrified MoDot contractors one too many times. Friday, there were police cars waiting for her in what I would describe as “improbable numbers” if this was any place but North Kansas City. But what with all that sweet, sweet casino tax revenue, every third car on the road in North KC is a cop. I rarely drive >20 mph up there. Plus, all their new squad cars are Police-ified Lexus IS Sport Cross models. If you’re ever arrested north of the river, you’re in for one sweet ride.

The police caught up with Jill out by the Isle of Capri casino. Reflexively, she tried talking her way out of a ticket, until she it dawned on her that they were actually arresting her, at which point she began screaming, “ATTICA! ATTICA!” The funniest part of the story is that Jill has a pop-culture blind spot, and she didn’t even understand her own Dog Day Afternoon reference.

“Your new job is going to be driving me around. You just bought a car, right?” Before I could articulate my blooming trepidation about my new customized van, Chico walked up. “Dude, are you about done here? I need to get ready for the art opening.”

And I needed to get ready for my date. “Chico,” I said. “I think that rock Andee threw at me dislodged something in my head. I keep blacking out, and every time it happens, my subconscious undermines me. Also, my jaw clicks when I talk.”

Chico punched me in the head. “Then quit being such a passive motherfucker,” he said. “Stand up to your subconscious and act like a man. I know that’s unfamiliar behavior, but maybe you could try it just this once, since you’re, y’know, going on a date tonight. OW!” I punched Chico in the chest. It was the first time in my entire life that I’d ever hit anybody. It hurt a lot.

“OOO-OOOW! I bent my wrist back!” I yelled. I was hoping that Chico would be impressed with my sudden outburst of violent manliness and say something like “Yeah! That’s exactly what I was talking about,” and I’d get to feel really awesome and masculine while simultaneously getting away with hitting Chico. Instead, he punched me in the head again. I shut my eyes and flailed my arms wildly in the air in front of me for a few seconds until I heard the van door slam shut. I opened my eyes. Chico was sitting in the passenger seat, embarrassed for both of us, I guess.

Whenever anyone asks how I am able to satisfy so many women simultaneously, I have to say it’s because I’m a VEGETARIAN!

Lately, I have been putting lavender-scented hand cream on the dry skin on the back of my hands.

Oh, look who it is:

It’s brilliant theoretical physicist Gordon Freeman, silent protagonist of the last ten years of my imaginary pretend-life, where I have to shoot aliens and transhuman soldiers in order to survive and save humanity. Dr. Freeman appears here in VALENTINE FORM, hand-crafted from pieces of construction paper, wishing me a happy Valentine’s Day.

Technically, it was addressed to me and my girlfriend. But I can tell it’s mostly for me, since it has GORDON FUCKING FREEMAN on it, instead of duckies or Anne Geddes babies dressed like duckies, or whatever the hell it is my girlfriend is into these days. Christopher Thompson? Amy Thompson? You are both awesome, and yes, we are totally Bone Thug Valentines 4 Life.

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Professional blogging responsibilities leave less time for personal blogging activities. But I am very excited about this.

When I’m not busy thinking about the microscopic parasites that consume dead epidermal cells and lay their eggs in human skin, I make it a point to remind you about them. Demodex mites live their simple lives in the follicles of human eyelashes, causing no harm to their hosts. Normally. If you experience abnormal eyelid itching, consult a parasitologist, because what with my new campaign to reclaim KCUR from the stranglehold of its geriatric constituency, I have exactly zero time to listen to sob stories about your epidermal biodiversity.

Because Jesus Christ, KCUR, A Prairie Home Companion TWICE A WEEK? Is that just in case I missed some subtlety of Garrison Keillor singing a gospel song three notes off-key during the first broadcast? I barely talk to my girlfriend that often. Yes, I know a lot of people insist that Garrison Keillor is funny. In fact, here they are enjoying a joke about Minnesota Lutherans:

As a preemptive military strike against your argument that KCUR appeals to listeners <55 years old with broadcasts of Ira Glass’ This American Life, I can only say that I don’t really listen to the show right now, but why don’t you give me a yell when it’s ten years ago?

I guess we can all count our blessings that KCUR doesn’t broadcast smelly old Harry Shearer’s NPR show. But I hope their programming director is aware that the DNA polymerase complex inside the cells of KCUR listeners is rapidly running out of the telomeres that act as a disposable buffer at the ends of their DNA strands, and soon the station will have no audience left. It’s very sad, like disappearing polar bears.

My point: Instead of two weekly broadcasts of the funereal Garrison Keillor, KCUR could be filling some of that time with Jesse Thorn’s The Sound of Young America, but it’s the kind of situation where the station probably has to hit rock-bottom before it gets up off its donut-shaped prostate cushion and goes looking for help. However, if you are the kind of person who listens to podcasts, The Sound of Young America is available in that convenient portable format. Mostly, the show consists of interviews with people who work in comedy and host Jesse Thorn has pretty unimpeachable taste in popular culture.

Finally, these listeners of Michael Feldman’s Whad’ya Know? remind you to take your Centrum Silver:

My inability to sincerely recommend awesome things without acting like a bitch is underwritten by the Ford Foundation, The John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation, ADM: Supermarket to the World, and listeners like you.

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I’m back. I’ve been busy at the Toastmasters honing my debate rhetoric — it’s time-consuming, but I’m getting really good at raising every argument to an apocalyptic conclusion in which society breaks down and the Statue of Liberty is destroyed. Plus, I’ve had my hands full since late November working on a network development deal. What with the writers strike, the networks are extremely receptive to pitches from scab writers, although they can’t publicly admit it. Since they can’t use union writers for next fall’s shows, the networks are buying up scripts from BBC series and shooting them with American casts.

I pitched an original show, but to get it past the unions, we had to pretend it was actually purchased from the BBC. The first step in Anglicization was renaming the main character Nigel. Then we changed the title to emulate the hallowed British art of the pun. It’s called Daye by Day — it’s a behind-the-scenes workplace comedy about a late-night chat show host named Nigel Daye. The whole cast would wear deerstalker caps and powdered wigs.

Unfortunately, the union got wind of it, and shut us down in what can only be described as the overture to a complete labor-based societal holocaust in which world markets collapse, as embodied by the headless statue of liberty:

Also, her head is over here:

If I have one retrospective disappointment about 2007, it’s that the impending fascist police state Alternet keeps predicting never blossomed from the nascent level of ambient DHS subharmonics into a full-blown Castle Wolfenstein scenario like the one they used to have in Germany — that was back before our grandparents Pearl Harbored Hitler’s army of robotic clones with Minuteman missiles. Although, according to Alternet, it’s already happened, and we’re sliding down a slippery slope to some pretty grim news for the Statue of Liberty:

But the last time I checked, David Cross was still walking around free as a bird, acting in inexplicably shitty movies. Much like the way Australian parents usher their children ahead of them into jellyfish-infested coastal waters to make sure everything’s clear, David Cross serves an important “canary in the garbage disposal” function for the rest of us angry liberals — when they finally lock up David Cross, you’ll know the Fascist Apocalypse has begun, and something really bad will happen to the Statue of Liberty. As a vivid illustration of the coming era of Fascist despotism, here’s the Statue of Liberty buried in snow:

So on top of all that, my coworkers at Check ‘n’ Go warned me throughout December how quickly business would drop off after the holidays. But did I listen? Also, did I listen to the Lunch ‘n’ Learn speakers they brought in to discuss federal regulations governing predatory lending? No and no. My budget shortfall this month has forced me to drum up new business. I’ve been using MySpace to target teenagers with payday loan solicitations. Schools don’t teach kids about money or the magic of compound interest, which makes my job easier. Plus the kids still have healthy pink credit ratings. My basic pitch is that sub-prime borrowing will make you “look cool and adult,” along with some admittedly manipulative Statue of Liberty-based fear tactics.

The National Association of Payday Lenders reminds you to use payday advances responsibly.

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