From the desk of Mr. Jones:

It has come to my attention that my expertise, as well as that of my colleague Leon Firestone, has been missed.

I realize our absence was problematic for some. Even though we live in a digital age that supplies a practically infinite source of information to answer most questions, there are some things that only Leon and I are equipped to explain. Admittedly, this realization should have come sooner, but I am proud to announce that we are back.

As part of our triumphant return, we would like to answer some of the most common concerns that have amassed in our inbox during our absence:

· It is reasonable to assume dogs hate being sprayed with mace as much as people.

· There was never a pirate named “Shit Beard.”

· Although we personally don’t agree, we do understand how unicorns could be erotic from certain angles.

As an order of business: we are not interested in reading your screenplay. You know who you are.

We would also like to thank Kenneth Scott for helping us realize the error of our ways. I would also like to let Kenneth know that I’m still angry with him for convincing Leon not to drink that thermometer. That shit would have been hilarious.

Rest assured, the time spent away from The Guide has granted us a wealth of knowledge that we are very eager to share.

I’ll give you a hint: it involves manatees.

You’re welcome,

Mr. Jones

Writing Workshop: Turning a piece of fiction into a film with explosive results

Screenwriters get paid the big bucks to read books and adapt them to film so that we, the paying costumer, do not have to read anything beyond some credits. The exception to this is movies in foreign languages that have subtitles that make viewers read line after painful line of text. Reading, as many are aware, can lead to eye strain. A man that told me I had a pretty mouth also told me reading could lead to “being a queer.” I doubt he had any empirical evidence of that claim, but he said it with a lot of conviction.

Regardless, you want to make those big bucks screenwriters make but you don’t want to have to actually write anything. Fortunately, libraries are filled with books that are waiting to be turned into movies and I’m going to show you how to write an adaptation with style. To help you walk through this, I’m going show you the kind of decisions you will be making by using Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery as my example. I have chosen The Lottery for two reasons: one, it’s a fairly well-known short story and two, it’s used to scare inner-city teens away from gambling lifestyles.

Differentiate it from the book.
Faithful adaptations might seem like a good idea, but it’s the film industry’s job to make choices the author of the source material didn’t have the balls to make. In The Lottery, Tessie Hutchinson wins the lottery in her small town and is stoned to death. In my adaptation, Tessie Hutchinson’s lottery winning doesn’t get her stoned to death. Instead, she is entered in a drag race across a desert filled with land mines. Her car is rigged to explode regardless if she wins or loses, so in a lot of ways it’s not a whole lot different than the original text. It’s all about subtle changes.

Change an important character.
In my film version, Tessie Hutchinson is not a woman, but a man. He is a man named Tessie Hutchinson and his pansy-ass birth name fuel him with distaste for himself. He wants nothing more than to prove himself to the rest of people that inhabit the floating island where he lives. I may have forgotten to mention that he lives on a floating island. Also, I know I said the drag race took place in a desert. For clarification’s sake, part of the floating island is a desert. See? Perfect.

You want whimsical. Go for whimsical.
So floating islands are pretty whimsical, but islands aren’t the only things that can float. Zepplins are pretty whimsical. You know what’d be cool? A flying zeppelin city that travels the world looking for new places to mine sky gold.

So yeah, I think that covers adaptations of fiction.

Amazon Customer Reviews for Leon Firestone

Back in October, Leon and I went on a bit of a Tesla coil kick. We dedicated an entire area of the guide office to Tesla coils. Although it probably started out with some sort of research intention, those suckers just look cool. Little did we realize that a machine that shoots lightning would consume copious amounts of electricity. As a result, our electric bill reached a new staggering high. Lacking funds because we had just spent all of our money on like 40 Tesla coils, we took the next responsible step towards making money to pay our high utility bill: we hijacked mail trucks and took stole amazon.com boxes. Then, the plan consisted of two parts. 1.) I would then open an Amazon store and sell the contents of the box while 2.) Leon would cram himself into the now empty box and he would be shipped to the original location. The former part of the plan eventually got us the necessary money. The latter part was just for funsies.

Here are some of the amazon.com reviews from those lucky people who got a man crammed into a box instead of whatever the hell the paid for:

[No stars] Was not a television,
By Fredrick Quinn (Peoria, IL)
-------------------------------------
When you buy a 42-inch plasma television off a respected online vendor, you have some expectations. One of which is that the TV box will not contain a man that will scream real loud when you open the box. My wife is scarred and won’t go near any televisions now without crying. To make matters worse, the man stole our old TV on the way out.

[1 stars] Would not recommend,
By FULLTIMEMOM (Austin, TX)
-------------------------------------
We just moved into a new house with a big backyard so I wanted to surprise my kids with a play set one day before they came back from school. The dimensions of the box were inaccurate; I had expected a bigger play set for my kids. Instead only one of my three children could climb on the play set at a time. And after about a week, the damn thing fell on our dog and then blew away in the wind.

[5 stars] Changed my life,
By Dennis Kubly
-------------------------------------
Never before had I expected a cookware set to help me come to terms with my homosexuality. I had worried I was going to live my entire life in the closet but again, the Rachel Ray brand has come through for me.

[No stars] JUST A DUDE,
By Anime4EVER
-------------------------------------
NOW MY MOM WON’T LET ME ORDER OFF THE INTERNET NE MORE

Field Research: Dropping Acid and Going To An NHL Game

The following is a transcript from a tape recorder. In a realization that if someone asked him if he knew if going to a professional hockey game on acid is really scary he would not be able to supply a sufficient answer, Mr. Jones attended a Black Hawk’s game in the proper state to answer the such a question.

The tape recorder that this transcript is derived from was found in a tube stock about half a block away from the office of The Guide. It is as follows:

How much is too much? Worse yet, how much is too little. What’s the point of doing this if I don’t take enough. What if I take too much acid and it lodges in my brain and I forget stuff? Shit. Shit. Shit. I can’t forget how to swim, my friends would be so disappointed. Swimming is what birds do in the sky, but for fish. [Tape recorder drops] Gravity shouldn’t still work if the ice is bleeding. Stop bleeding ice. GODDAMIT SOMEONE HELP THE ICE. People are staring but they are not helping the ice. HOW THE FUCK CAN YOU STAND IDLEY BY WHEN THE ICE IS BLEEDING?! [Children’s voice being hushed by parent] Yes! At least you guys understand. You go get help and I’ll make sure the bleeding doesn’t get worse. Worse. Worse. Worse. Worse. Worse. Horse. I can get home and avoid traffic if I ride bareback to back to the office. I don’t know how to ride bareback. I need a bareback, though. Names are names for a reason. Shirt off. [People laughing] Oh God. They’re laughing because they don’t think I know how to ride bareback. I have to commit. Act like a professional. Pants off. [People screaming] Sound is a playground and screams are the bullies! Can’t let bullies catch me! [Pounding footsteps] [Panting] Screams are fast. They’re following me. Ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuck. Parkinglotisbleedingtoo. [Panting] Gotta stop the bleeding. Apply pressure. [Police sirens] Nononono. Man in blue wants me to stand up. Can’t stand up because I can’t release pressure. Man in blue is not a man of math. He doesn’t understand the transitive property. If it bleeds, I bleed. Then if I bleed, he bleeds too. [Cop yelling] LET GO! I’M SAVING ALL OF US!

How do I woo college cuties for healthy, fruitful relationships?

College is a time when certain urges come to a head. These urges revolve heavily around the opposite sex. Granted, these urges are no foreign matter to any male, but science has proven that at the age of 18, these urges come to a peak in most males. Coincidentally, the age of 18 typically marks the first or second year of college, where men may find themselves far away from home battling these inner demons. What are these urges, you ask? The specifics of what each man yearns for differs on a case to case basis, but for the most part a man yearns for an attractive female partner who…

• Will discuss the science-fiction works of Philip K. Dick
• Will play Contra with him.
• Laughs at people wearing Yellowcard t-shirts.
• Can crotchet elaborate pot holders that depict graphic scenes from WWI.

Wooing such a woman in college is difficult, but science, as it often does, has an answer. While men reach the aforementioned peak at the age of 18, women do not reach their Philip K. Dick/Contra/Yellowcard sucks/make fuckin’ sweet pot holders peak until the age of 30.

But rest assured, gentlemen. It is not impossible. Much like Mountain Dew, college cuties come in many flavors. And also like Mountain Dew, some of these flavors are disgusting and are only sold in Taco Bell.

Here are some of the more worthwhile types of women you will encounter on your college campus and sure-fire methods to woo them:

Attractive But Uncomfortably Quiet Girl
President Roosevelt addressed the nation with his famous quotation of “The problem with bitches is bitches always be talkin’,” he failed to realize how terrible the alternative is. Y’know, when bitches ain’t always be talkin’. The best way to win over an unconditionally quiet girl is to force her to do scenes from The Miracle Worker, where she plays Helen Keller and you play her teacher, Anne Sullivan, who must carry the burden of teaching her language. Which scene is up to you, but if I may, the water pump scene is very effective.

Art Chicks
You can identify a girl with an art major by the way she dresses. They typically look like they came straight from the 80s. The reason for this is the fact they did come straight from the 80s. If you can help one locate a time-machine to get back to her own time, she’ll be yours forever. Except you have to go back to the 80s with her. On second thought, ignore this type of girl.

Girl That Works at a Coffee Establishment
Simply order two of everything hot on the menu and horribly burn one of her coworkers with what you just bought. Like, if I was a woman, that would make me fall in love pretty damn fast.

Cutie With a Drastically Different Set of Beliefs Than Your Own
Beliefs can encompass anything from morals to religion. There really is no way for me to suggest a course of action that can be applied to everything single set of beliefs a girl could have. With that being said, I have had great success just handing these girls African Fertility Idols.

I realize this guide only applies to the heterosexual male seeking a female. For the gay readers looking for that college cutie, just sure you find someone that’s about your size. That way, you double your wardrobe. Fulfilling and economic.

Writing Workshop: Using Mythical Creatures

There are countless books sitting on shelves here at the Survival Guide that don’t implore the use of mythical creatures. These books, typically, don’t get read. We all know how it is. You’ll be reading a book and you’re into it (but not really into it) and then suddenly the author drops a mythical creature on your unsuspecting reader ass. Then, before you know it, you’re talking like a Chatty Kathy at your book club and telling everybody that you had trouble identifying with the characters until the hydra sex scene. Everyone will nod in silent agreement because they were also captivated by those five erotic chapters in a way that words cannot even begin to describe.

So the question remains: as a writer, should you use mythical creatures in your work? Simply put, the answer consists of two words: “fuck” and “yes.”

Oh, and before you get any ideas, don’t even think about writing in a hydra sex scene. Or any mythical creature sex scene, for that matter. That shit is a Mr. Jones trademark and I ain’t got no love for imitators.

Unicorn

For when you need fantastical, but not a village of pixies fantastical.

The word unicorn is made up of the smaller words uni (which means one) and corn (which is horn spelled wrong). Usually pure white and surrounded by sparkles, I’m not sure if they actually eat anything. If they do, they probably shit hope. Or optimism.

When to use: A unicorn is best suited for the final pages of your novel. When everything’s wrapping up and the happy ending is becoming clearer and clearer, a paragraph or two about the main character watching a unicorn run into the ruins of a bombed hospital where his mother was killed is a good way to give the reader closure.

Chimera

Lion? Scary. Dragon? Terrifying. Goat? Not so much.

Depending on the writer, each head might have a special ability. Usually when I write a chimera into my story, I like to have it so every time the goat head opens its mouth music plays. I then usually pick a song that coincides with the piece’s theme.

When to use: Not to be a dick, but if you have a character in your story that is scared of lions, dragons, and goats, a chimera should be a no-brainer.

Jersey Devil

This picture really doesn’t need a caption.

A creature that has been supposedly spotted in forested areas of New Jersey. It was widely regarded as real for a time until people realized some people in Jersey just look like that.

When to use: The Jersey Devil is great comic relief. Maybe after a really serious scene you could have a Jersey Devil come in and knock over some garbage cans. That seems funny.

How do I write an emotionally charged suicide note?

First off, before everyone gets on my case about giving tips on writing a quality suicide note instead of tips on stopping said suicide, let me be clear: you don’t actually have to commit suicide if you want to write a suicide note.

Let’s be honest here, the difference between an honest-to-God heart-wrenching final note to your loved ones and some poorly chosen last words (possibly even written on graph paper, for shame!) is the difference between the best prank ever and another lame April Fools’.

Last year, I planted a fake suicide note on my Leon Firestone’s desk as a gag. You should have seen the look on his face! He was in such awe of such a practical joke that Leon even tried to get me back with the same damn gag! I could not have been happier. After all, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Edit by Leon Firestone: That note wasn’t fake. I was going to do it. I was going to fucking do it, you unfeeling prick.

Good times, good times.

Anyway, here was the note:

To Whom It May Concern (But definitely not Leon Firestone):

Ever since New Year’s I have been troubled. I was at a party and we were about a half hour into the New Year. At this point, I was pretty drunk but the fact of the matter is a drunken tongue speaks a sober mind. Anyway, I went up to Leon (who we established in the header of this letter that he does not care) and I said “I love working with you man,” and then I gave him a hug. But the thing is, he only like, half hugged me back. He just kind of put his shoulder into my chest. Granted, he did put his arms around me but there was no squeeze. You know where I’m coming from, right? It feels weird when you’re the only guy squeezing in a hug.

From that point on, I became incredibly depressed and I wrote this song:

Everybody's working for the weekend
Everybody wants a little romance
Everybody's goin' off the deep end
Everybody needs a second chance, oh
You want a piece of my heart
You better start from start
You wanna be in the show
Come on baby lets go

Hey there Delilah
What's it like in New York City?
I'm a thousand miles away
But girl, tonight you look so pretty
Yes you do
Times Square can't shine as bright as you
I swear it's true

You want a piece of my heart
You better start from start
You wanna be in the show
Come on baby lets go

Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
What you do to me

Goodbye forever!

Someone could have stopped this (but not Leon, because he has a tiny heart and has no love to share),
Mr. Jones

It should be noted that the letter was written in blood (Ram’s blood; I’m not a freak) and placed in an envelop with “Suicide Note!” written on the front.

I think that about answers the question.

How do I better connect with my father?

As many are well aware, I was raised by strippers and, as such, I had no prominent father figure in my life. So I can’t help but find myself at an impasse when asked to provide quality advice for connecting with fathers.

However, I do have a computer and an Internet connection. There are countless online services that allow me to trace my family’s history as far back as I deem necessary. Although my father remained as elusive as ever, one service in particular helped me track down a journal written by my grandfather.

At first glance, a journal of my grandfather’s (whom I have never met) seems to offer little in the way establishing some universal method of connecting with one’s dad, but, lo and behold, the journal contains information about my father! Unfortunately, the journal is in bad shape and much of it unreadable. Even still though, this surely will allow me to finally put an end to this mystery.

Let's read on:

February 4th, 1954
My son has taken his first steps today! What a glorious occasion! Although his steps were shaky and without confidence (after all, children are many things but especially stupid), I see it only as a manner of time before his ability to walk solidifies and I will be able to affix a harness to my beautiful son and have him drag a cart around the house. What will I place in the cart? I do not know! The possibilities of fatherhood are endless!

March 29th, 1954
My wife feels the cart idea is ill conceived. Although I respect her opinion and realize that it is my husbandly duties to appreciate her input, she, regrettably, does not see the goldmine we are sitting on. But no matter! I just pray she does not find the secret lever by the bookcase.

June 18th, 1960
My son told me he wants to be a professional baseball player. Whether or not he means in the near future or when he grows up was not said. His current stature, like most kids his age, is not one of a professional athlete.

September 15th 1962
A new family has moved in the across the street, a newly wed couple with their first child due any time now. The husband has shown much interest in my baby-cart-harness. I may be able to trust this one.

January 19th 1965
It is buried in the yard.

May 20th, 1971
My son has graduated today. A wave of accomplishment washed over me as he walked across that stage. With that being said, I noticed his gradation gown was not terribly unlike a dress. This worries me.

*****

Jesus. I can safely say I know no more about my father than I did ten years ago. In fact, this journal may have caused me to unlearn things. And I’m not talking about on the subject of my father, either. I don’t think I know how to ride a bike anymore.

I don't think you understand how terrible this feels. It's like getting blue-balled for your entire life. But instead of sex, it's knowing who the fuck your dad is.

Christ, I don’t fucking know. Try:

Golfing with your dad
I saw that TV once. Probably works.

Going on a walk with him
Kinda lame, but whatever.

Just don’t wear matching sweaters.
That shit is retarded.

Goddamn. I don't want to even care anymore.

How do I effectively manage my office?

I will be blunt: management is tough. The best managers are equal parts inviting and feared. Like a golden retriever puppy with a bayonet.

I myself have had my fair amount of managerial experience, some good, some bad. During college (where I earned minors in both Jewish studies and Gay and studies) I was a RA for a dry dorm. I found myself at a moral crossroads. On one hand, I had to enforce the rules (as was in my job description) and on the other, I didn’t want to come across as a total tool shed. As would be expected, I inevitably had to inspect a noise complaint and found two roommates boisterously enjoying beverages of the spirituous nature.

Normally, I’m supposed to make them dump out their alcohol and write them up. Instead, I used my out-of-the-box thinking and let the gentlemen keep their alcohol and continue drinking on the condition one roommate assaulted the other with piano wire while I recorded a video for prosperity’s sake. Needless to say, the gentlemen kept their liquor and I found myself on the road to effectively employing the use of my authority. I think we all grew up a little that day.

I have since applied what I learned to an office setting, and the following two tactics should prove useful when seeking the line between friend and feared that all managers so desire:

Don’t bother with names.
Remembering names is hard, especially when you subconsciously refer to your subordinates as things like “sweaty stack of a pancakes” or “woman that clearly has nothing going for her.” As a manager, it would be career suicide to let any of these labels slip out during speech. Luckily, there are ways to combat this. After all, it hardly seems fair that your job is constantly on the line because a man with glandular problem is forcing you to be unable to use your favorite word to describe people: gelatinous.

Instead assign numbers. Numbers don’t offend anyone, because numeric values are, by nature, objective and without bias.

And don’t think this means you can’t have fun with your subordinate’s new number-names! For example, you can assign numbers based on people’s ages or, even better, their weight.

That’ll show that fat fuck.

Present the idea that the office is a family and family always comes first.
A sense of comradery is a must for any organization and there is no better sensation of comradery than a family.

Naturally, this means the family of each and every one of your employees just made your shit list. You cannot have them going home and sharing social bonds that are greater than the ones they feel at the office; to allow that to happen is synonymous with failure as a manager.

The easiest way to fix this problem en mass is to throw a company picnic which has a potato sack race. Offer to help your employees’ loved ones into their potato sacks in a secluded spot (a nearby heavily forested area, for example). Take this opportunity to do what has to be done. Although I will not explicitly state what that consists of, I will provide the helpful hint that it should end with them waking up in a river in a potato sack. As a manager, you should use your decision-making skills as to which river is best to dump someone that is trapped in a potato sack. Let’s face it, you didn’t get your job not knowing how to hide a body.

Advice Jackers: BIG SISTER IN OKLAHOMA

Every week, countless people write in to various advice columns in various publications. We can only make the educated guess (a hypotenuse, as it is often referred to by people with glasses) that the only reason these advice columns still exist is because enough people aren’t aware of the fact that The Guide is more than qualified to answer any and all questions.

Instead, people write to columnists like “Dear Abby,” whom I feel is professionally under-qualified because she doesn’t have the courtesy to use her full name. Since the beginning I have always used both my last and first name (Jones and Mr., respectively), and I’m incredibly intelligent; I know things that only few know. Stuff like the longest side of a triangle is called the hypothesis.

Not to mention I’m pretty sure Leon is descended from Russian royalty.

You hear that everyone? All the obstacles in your life could be remedied by a Czar.

But we have adapted. If people aren’t going to come to us for advice, we’re going to just have to take their inquires. Leon has bred a hyper-aggressive flock of carrier pigeons trained to intercept mail in the hopes we manage to land a letter to an advice column. So far the success ratio isn’t that impressive, but on the plus side the pigeons have came back with all kinds of goodies, including a copy of Maxim, a flyer for the March of Dimes, and a postman’s eyeball.

This morning, however, one of our pigeons brought back a letter seeking advice just as we eventually hoped they would when Leon started creating these filthy, red-eyed abominations. You should see these fucking birds. They’re an absolute affront to God.

Turns out, it was a letter addressed to “Abby.” It reads:

DEAR ABBY: I am 19 years old and have known a girl I'll call Emma for a couple of years. She's 14 and like a member of my family -- a little sister. My parents joke that Emma is their second daughter.

Emma is an only child and lives with her mother. Her dad is an alcoholic who is currently serving time in prison. Lately Emma has been hanging out with a group of 18- and 19-year-old boys who let her drink and smoke pot with them. People say she's just "doing what all teens do," but I have never smoked or had a drink in my life.

Should I tell Emma's mother what's going on and risk losing our relationship, or should I wait to see if it's just a phase? I feel responsible, but don't know what to do. -- BIG SISTER IN OKLAHOMA

------------------------

Dear BIG SISTER IN OKLAHOMA: I am calling bullshit on your story. No one named Emma is that cool. Just like naming your kid Jeeves pretty much ensures he’ll become a butler, naming your daughter Emma ensures she’ll spend her adult wife knitting sweaters for no one until arthritis sets in and she is forced to give up her one joy in life and just begs for the sweet, forgiving embrace of death.

Unless Emma isn’t her real name, and you’re just using a pseudonym to protect her identity but I find this even more troublesome. Out of all the names in the world you picked Emma? Where the fuck do you get off? And, more importantly, were you really worried she was going to read Dear Abby and think “Oh shit, is that me?” No! She’s too busy being a victim of statutory rape and smoking pot to read!

It appears to me that “Emma” here has grown up. BIG SISTER IN OKLAHOMA, I suggest you do the same.

Best of luck,
Mr. Jones

How do I create the next smash-hit stoner comedy?

Like it or not, stoner comedies are becoming a well-defined sub genre in the film industry. The reason for this is simple:" weed + anything = better than just that anything by itself."No matter what happens in our lifetimes, going to the movies completely blazed will remain one life’s simplest joys, just as God intended. With that being said, some movies simply do not offer themselves very well to the weed experience. In fact, studies have shown that test groups under the influence of marijuana enjoyed the movie Casablanca more when they rubbed the film reel against their genitals then actually sitting and watching the movie. But what makes the stoner comedy so special is that the targeted demographic is people that are blazed. These are the movies that speak their language, and as an aspiring filmmaker, it is in your best interest to become proficient in this language.

I have taken it upon myself to do the necessary research.

A good friend of mine informed me that Strange Wilderness was pretty good as far as stoner comedies go, so I told him to round up a group of people that were going to be completely baked and I would sit in with my notebook and conduct research. I remained sober for this experiment so I could maintain full use of my analytical mind and also because I am tri-weekly donator to my local sperm bank. I regretfully admit that sperm, much like many a fishnet-clad woman walking the street after 2 A.M., is my livelihood.

My findings are as followed:

Bongs are hilarious.
Within the first twenty minutes Justin Long’s character takes a hit off a skull shaped bong and everyone in the room clapped. I too clapped, but only because Ernest Borgnine was in this movie, and I’m a big fan. At first I thought maybe the round of applause was not because a bong was on screen but because the bong looked like a skull. I asked everyone in the room if skulls were funny and I was met with a resounding “No, dude.” I then immediately followed the question up with another, where I asked if bongs were awesome. More clapping commenced.

Hot chicks having sex is awesome.
Later in the film, a busty woman shows her breasts and has intercourse on a surveillance camera. More clapping commenced. Once again, I felt I was on the verge of an amazing discovery. I paused the movie and asked everyone to direct their attention to my computer, where I subjected the group to three pictures. Two of the pictures were of hardcore pornography and another one was a picture of Emily Dickenson not having sex. The pornography was met with applause and the picture of Dickenson received no applause save for one gentleman who didn’t understand the question.

Looking at a dude’s genitals is not gay but hilarious, as long as his package is horribly mutilated.
Even later in the film, there is a guy who has had his junk horribly destroyed. I don’t remember how. Probably a boating accident. Boating accidents are generally accepted as bad places for your penis to be exposed during. Anyway, he shows it off and it is terrifying. But instead of what I expected (guys yelling “THAT’S GAY!”) it received more laugher and applause. I then exposed my penis to the group. Turns out, that was gay.

In summary: in order to create a good stoner comedy, one must have bongs, hot chicks having sex, and fucked up dicks.

Also, do not expose yourself to your friends without warning. This really isn’t advice on the stoner comedy as it is just general life advice.

Etiquette Excellence: Shopping in the Apple store

For those unfamiliar with the Apple store, let me inform you: the Apple store is different. Whatever preconceived notions you have about what a store is, or how one should operate, cast them aside immediately; otherwise you might leave the Apple store with less than you came in with. If that last sentence seemed cryptic and vague, just imagine that scene from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom where that dude gets his heart ripped right out of his chest. Are we on the same page now? Good.

Know your enemy.
As a general rule of thumb, when you’re in enemy territory, you don’t want to draw unwanted attention to yourself. Now, you may be thinking, “Enemy territory? I am a Mac person, I’m one of them!”

No. You are not. Despite how knowledgeable you may think you are in the world of Apple products, there are people in the Apple store that will not take your trespassing lightly. These people have more Ipods than you, they buy Macs in specific colors so they can hold a room together, and they will not hesitate to kill your Dad because he doesn’t use a FireWire cable to upload photos from his digital camera.

Dress Mac appropriate.
Although a typical Apple store customer will not hesitate to castrate an outsider with an external hard drive, they are extremely accommodating to their own kind. In order to disguise yourself as one of them, consider the following list of what to wear and what not to wear.

Try to wear:
A beret
A shirt that says “I love Apple TV.”
An ammo bandolier
A monocle
A necklace made of human tongues
A magical monkey paw that grants wishes

Do NOT wear:
Plaid
WWJD bracelets
“Frankie says relax” t-shirts
Things bought in the suburbs

Do NOT act like Justin Long.
Yeah, he’s “the Mac guy” on the commercials, but just like how Australians refuse affiliation with Crocodile Dundee in Los Angeles, Mac users do not like being lumped in the same group as Justin Long. This is mainly because Mac people don’t like it when people say the word “PC.” It is also has to do with the fact he’s dating Drew Barrymore and that girl got a bitch face.

Other related guides:
How do I rip hearts out?
D.I.Y Time: How do I make a necklace made of tongues?
What if Drew Barrymore is trying to kill me because I said she has a bitch face? Isn't she just pissed Charlie's Angels sucked?

How do I impress a potential employer at a job interview?

The trick to a job interview used to be about selling yourself. Unfortunately, the fourteenth amendment put an end to that and now the best way to land that job is to impress the man or woman (it’ll be a man, don’t worry) conducting the interview.

Dress to impress.
How you dress conveys a lot of information. Coming in underdressed shows that you don’t respect your potential employer, while making yourself too attractive might actually intimidate him or her (but probably him). Split the difference by wearing a tuxedo t-shirt that has had the sleeves ripped off, revealing your colorful tattoo of a hooded cobra biting a vagina. The tuxedo shirt shows you have class, the torn sleeves shows you like to party, and the hooded cobra biting a vagina tattoo shows you know that awesome things are awesome.

Establish common ground.
Your potential employer (who is probably male) is a person with wants and interests just like you! Interviews are brief and to the point, so you don’t have much time to figure out whether or not your new boss really likes Phish. Tattoos often reflect such interests. As soon as the interview begins, pounce on the person and rip off as much clothing as you can while paying careful attention to tattoos. If the person interviewing you was, let’s say, a woman with the sexy librarian shtick, this could be really hot. But again, you know it’s going to be a dude. So don’t get your hopes up.

Bring a friend and have the two of you squeeze into one set of clothing so that you look like a two headed man with four arms.
Throughout the interview repeatedly talk about how quaint you think two-armed people are. This shows that you are a gentle giant and, although better equipped than almost everyone else, you understand. Talk extensively about your past employment where people were so impressed with your four arms. As you explain how you were respected and feared on a commercial fishing ship, grab four objects off your probably male interviewers desk and juggle them nonchalantly.

Mr. Jones, can you tell us about the time you made love to a black woman?

Well, I don’t really see how this is going to help anyone with anything. Then again, you could argue that such a story could enrich the lives of countless people and last time I checked enriching the lives of countless people was my responsibility.

Like many stories of passion it starts and ends with a castle. Unlike most stories of passion however, the castle was located on a mini-golf course between a hole with a giant Paul Bunyan statue and a hole with a windmill that had a nasty reputation of making guys look like kind of a douche in front of their dates.

We never did make it to the windmill.

Wait, hold on. It didn’t start with the castle. It couldn’t start at the castle because I had to pay before I got on the course and the place where you pay and the castle were two totally different places. My mistake. It still ended with one, though.

Anyway, I went mini-golfing by myself as I often do when I find myself troubled. What was troubling me, you ask? Honestly, the details are personal and I’m really not at liberty to tell.

On a completely unrelated note, Becky is still a huge bitch.

I saw her when I went to pay for my admission. Sometimes I still see her when I close my eyes. Or when I drive by the mini-golf place and she’s working. I knew it cost $7.50 for a round, but I did not know it was also going to cost me a piece of my heart and that she was going to keep the change. When I say she kept the change I’m referring to my heart and not actual money. If she short-changed me I probably would have said something and lovemaking would not have occurred because she would probably have thought me a bit of an asshole for calling her out on her mistake.

She was something else, though; practically perfect in every way. She was shorter than me, which is a huge deal for me. I mean I’m only like five foot seven so you can see how this is important. She also weighed less than me. Another huge bonus. Other than that, she was pretty normal. As far as black chicks go.

It should be noted that I usually mini-golf with two balls when I’m alone and sorting things out. Sometimes this causes issues depending on whose behind the counter. If this bothered her, she showed no sign that it did. I paid her and she handed my club. I thanked her, but my voice was shaky. Embarrassed at the sound of my voice, I began to sweat uncontrollably. She found this endearing and she smiled at me. At this point, a white girl would probably have spit in my face.

“What color balls do you normally golf with?” she asked.
“Blue,” I said.
She placed her hands over mine.
“Not today, you don’t.”

She grabbed my hand and led me to the castle on hole 8. She opened a tiny maitenence hatch and led me inside. I asked her what we were doing and she just giggled. I pretty much assumed she wanted to bang me from the get go, but I figured I’d ask anyway.

What happened inside that little castle on that unassuming par two was nothing short of magical. Our love was primal and raw, while at the same time maintaining a touch of civility. I was forceful and she loved it. I bet she felt like the Titanic as it crashed into that iceberg on that fateful night.

Actually, no. She probably didn’t. That’s a bad simile. A boat crashing into ice does not feel good. She probably felt like someone who was having really good sex. Which she was.

When we left that castle, a family of five looked on in awe. The mother started to clap but her husband stopped her. We also managed to accidentally switch pants in the darkness of that castle, so maybe they were just horrified.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story that will continue to enrich your life.

Edit by Leon Firestone: Yeah, I'm pretty sure this never happened. And I don’t know who Becky is either.

Edit by Mr. Jones: You know what? Maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe I like writing a special genre of erotica where unassuming white guys partake in no-strings-attached interracial sex.

Edit by Leon Firestone: That’s not a genre.

Edit by Mr. Jones: Yet.

Is cheerleading a sport?

Essentially, what we have here is an issue of semantics. In order to figure out whether cheerleading is a sport or not we’re going to have to define sport.

Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary defines sport as:

1 a: a source of diversion b: sexual play c (1): physical activity engaged in for pleasure (2): a particular activity (as an athletic game) so engaged in

Well, that tells us jack shit.

By this logic, masturbating can be sport because it’s a source of diversion, sexual play, a physical activity engaged in for pleasure, and a particular activity that is certainly athletic in some sense of the word.

Alright, so we need to find some common ground here. I think we can all agree basketball is a sport, right? Then let’s look at some characteristics of basketball:

• Has a point scoring system
• Involves a ball
• Black people are good at it
• People sweat when they play it

Hmm. Not all sports have a point scoring system. The discus throw doesn’t involve points. You are judged based on how far you can chuck the disc but you don’t earn points. And the discus throw is definitely a sport because it’s part of the Olympics. It also doesn’t use a ball so that theory is out.

Hockey is also a sport that doesn’t use a ball. And black people definitely are not good at it. I dunno why. I think it scares them. I can’t really blame them, though.

So for something to be a sport its participants have to sweat.

But that doesn’t make sense either, because I have been known to clear the sweat off my brow after a jerk-session and we’ve already established masturbating, although it can be done in a competitive setting, is not a sport. My dad also sweats uncontrollably when he eats and eating isn’t a sport unless it involves Asian people and lots of hot dogs.

We’re missing something here. Oh! A sport must be able to declare a winner.

But that still doesn’t work because online gaming can have winners and I know there is a guy somewhere that sweats while playing Unreal Tournament. That guy is also probably really good at it and wins frequently. Even still, Unreal Tournament is definitely not a sport.

Fuck it. You know what, Becky? I’m sick of your shit. You win. Cheerleading is a sport. You’re right.

But I think we can all agree you’re still a huge bitch.

Why do all Asian people look the same?

Certainly a question on everyone’s mind. I have a theory:

All Asian people are descendants of the same man.

I believe if you trace all Asian family trees back far enough, you would find a single man responsible. I don’t know who this man is or where he lives, but I imagine near a mountain summit. His mountain peak would have numerous rope bridges; the kind that is frayed and has lots of wooden planks missing. He also probably has a defining deformity, no doubt the result of a terrible accident. Perhaps he has knives for hands, or his face is made of bamboo, or he has a giant beard that snakes live in, but the point is his disfiguration would have to be so terrible it would force him to live on a rope-bridge laden summit.

He is also probably immortal. Or at least time doesn’t affect him the same way it does you or I. I’m pretty sure exposure to cosmic radiation can do that. And I mean if he’s already living on the top of a mountain, he’s pretty much asking to get doused with cosmic rays. It’s also possible he is a practitioner of some religion that grants him immortality. Better yet, one of his ancient rituals was interrupted by a shower of cosmic radiation causing him to fuse with the power of the constellations, effectively giving him unending life.

His sperm would also have to be really potent and have extremely dominant genes. I’m not really a sperm buff, but it would have to be potent enough for him to impregnate a woman without ever actually leaving his lofty, rope bridge sanctuary and his genes would have to be so dominant that countless generations would still possess the same physical characteristics.

This theory might aggravate some people because it implies Asia’s history is filled with half-brothers and half-sisters going at it, which I admit is weird. This certainly changes the way I feel about the Korean kids that are really good at DDR at my local arcade.

But also think of it this way: one, glorious man is responsible for so many great people over the years. Confucius, Sun Tzu, Shigeru Miyamoto, Kobe Tai, Mika Tan, Miko Lee, Nautica Thorn, Teanna Kai, Asia Carrerra, and Tera Patrick; all these amazing people came from the same man. At least I think Tera Patrick was Asian. I could have sworn she was in a lot of Asian-themed lesbo scenes.

Mating Rituals for Eskimos

In a previous installment, I managed to only scratch the surface of the expansive Eskimo culture. Today, I would like to discard the general scope and look specifically at the mating rituals employed by Eskimos. You may be wondering why this is important. The answer is simple: by fully understanding the mating rituals of the Inuit, science may finally be able to place Eskimos as the missing link in the evolutionary chain between modern man and polar bear.

Eskimo scholar K.A. Applegate speculates that the evolutionary process of man looks something like this.

Courtship
Like with all courtship, it starts with finding a prospective mate. Because typical Eskimo garb (heavy parkas, corpses of slain walruses, etc) does not lend itself to show off the finer curves of a female Eskimo, accidental homosexuality runs rampant in Eskimo culture.

However, when a suitable mate is found, the male shows interest by constructing a giant phallus in the snow. The female, in response, will either draw a heart in the snow (signifying mutual interest) or make an off color remark about how she’s had bigger (signifying she’s had bigger).

Commitment Ceremony
You may argue that an Eskimo commitment ceremony should merely be called a “marriage.” This is wrong for two reasons: one, by referring to a step in the Eskimo mating cycle as marriage, we weaken the sanctity of Western Civilization’s preconceived notion of marriage and two, Eskimos are an extremely progressive people and although accidental homosexuality does occur, the Inuit believe that it’s okay for some people to make the same mistakes over and over again.

Much like wolves, black vultures and anglerfish, Eskimos mate for life. When the time comes for the commitment ceremony, the tribe’s shaman leads the proceedings. In addition to a shaman, every tribe also possesses an Orwellian Nightmare Machine that simulates Nineteen Eighty-Four with startling realism. Hand in hand, the Eskimo couple enters the machine only to emerge a day later with a deeper appreciation for not only each other, but also for the various works of George Orwell.

Reproduction Cycle
The gestation period for Eskimos is roughly 7 months. When it comes time for copulation, the female lays her eggs in the male’s stomach. When the eggs hatch, the baby Eskimos push through their father’s skin into the light of day. Normally, this would cause great pain to a living creature, but Eskimo skin is extremely porous and elastic to the point where the hatching process causes no discomfort for the father.

Although hundreds of baby Eskimos hatch, many fall prey to penguins, killer whales and polar bears, so only a small percentage actually reach adulthood.

The Oscars give me a feeling of inadequacy because I secretly fear I will leave this Earth without achieving greatness. What should I do?

It’s the day after the Oscars, which means millions of Americans are loitering around water coolers expressing their satisfaction and dissatisfaction about the academy award winners. If you listen closely you can hear the banter on the wind. “No Country really deserved it,” says a middle-aged accountant. Elsewhere, one nurse tells a doctor the sheer dreaminess factor that George Clooney possesses. In Cleveland, Jack Nicholson starts a rumor that he ate the orchestra.

But why settle for merely discussing the academy awards? I mean, you’ve seen these movies and you have to agree an Oscar would look pretty bitchin’ on your spice rack. After all, the people on the red carpet aren’t smarter then you, they’re just genetically superior. A smart person might suggest that in order to make life seem more fulfilling, you should start defining success on your own terms, not based on other people’s accomplishments. Well that supposed smart person is a pussy, and let me tell you, he ain’t got no Oscar.

With nothing more than a handycam, you can snag that Oscar and, once and for all, finally prove it to your prom date that blowing the third string quarterback was the biggest mistake of her life. While making your movie, just asking constantly ask yourself the following nine questions:

1. Is your movie based off a Cormac McCarthy novel?
2. Does your movie have a killer with a pneumatic hammer?
3. Does your movie have Woody Harrelson in it?
4. Do you realize that quality sound mixing, sound editing, and costume design aren’t important because those captions don’t mean shit?
5. Is your movie the winner of the 2008 Best Picture Award?
6. Is anyone else getting sick of Steve Carrell?
7. If given the chance, would you bone the shit out of Ellen Page?
8. Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson was at the Oscars, isn’t that awesome?
9. What the fuck was that French guy saying?
   

If you answered “yes” to the first 8 questions and “I know, riiiiight?” to the ninth, expect an Oscar in the near future.

Infogram: Catching up on ABC's Lost

Lost has been critically acclaimed as one of the most engaging shows on television. However, those trying to get into Lost this late in the game may find themselves overwhelmed by over 70 hour long episodes. I have taken the liberty of compiling necessary information on the characters of the show so that you may enjoy the new season without having to make the time commitment to catch up.

Jack

Jack possesses innate leadership abilities. The rest of the survivors look to him to solve their problems and he often feels obligated to please everyone. Jack’s high level of devotion to a cause and his ability to take charge comes from serving as the Grand Wizard as the KKK for six consecutive years.

Kate

Kate is the female lead and as such, is desperately in love with everything. During season 1, she was expected to find water but instead spent the day making out with a backpack. Her full name is Kate Austen, and although it has never been hinted at, there is a distinct possibility Kate is actually Jane Austen from the future disguised in a pretty lady suit. That notwithstanding, she's still a pretty big ho.

Hurley

Hurley is the fat one. That’s pretty much it. His fatness not only troubles him, but those around him. In season two, he takes his shirt off and everyone vomits uncontrollably. An unnamed survivor then dies from dehydration because she couldn’t stop puking.

Locke

Locke is a middle-aged man with the ability spontaneously generate oranges in his mouth. This ability would prove useful in ensuring everyone on the island has enough Vitamin C, but when a nasty case of scurvy afflicts the survivors he refuses to share any of his oranges because he’s a jaded prick.

Charlie

Charlie isn’t actually a person, but a bong that can play the guitar.

Claire

Claire started the season pretty fat. Not Hurley fat, but she was still pretty big. Then during on episode during season 3, she miraculously loses a ton of weight and finds a baby. Jack, inspired by the found infant, is led to believe there are babies living somewhere on the island and forms an expedition to find the baby colony.

Sawyer

Sawyer is a conman that has every intention of swindling everyone on the island out of their money. Unfortunately, he is not only a crappy conman but money has no value on the island. The other survivors usually humor him by purposely falling for his cons, after which he runs back to his hut giggling.

What if I recently found out the meaning behind Soulja Boy's lyrics and wish to explore alternative interaction with my hos aside from supermanning?

Spider-Manning Hos
Wherein you kill a ho’s Uncle Ben and teach her with great power comes great responsibility.

Iron Manning Hos
Wherein you make the ho a powerful arms dealer, international playboy, and a raging alcholic.

Captain America’ing Hos
Wherein you make the ho fight on the Western front during WW2 and then allow her to become frozen in artic waters as a result of a larger than life act of heroism, only to be thawed out some sixty odd years later to act as the front man for the Avengers.

Doctor Strange’ing Hos
Wherein you force a ho into seclusion in the Himalayan mountains until she masters the arcane arts. She also begins to dress like Freddie Mercury if he was trapped in a fortune telling machine.Angelina Jolie'ing Hos
Wherein you punch a ho in the face causing her lips to swell to a cartoonish size, making her an otherwise extremely attractive woman save for her fucked up circus lips.