Up late. Listening to music. IM'ing the devil. You didn't know you could get access to the dark lord through instant messenger? Please! The prince of the power of the air prefers IMing over cell phones. Has the ability to send files about my "progress" into the art of soul crimes and the occasional contractual update. How else do you think I could be so handsome? SATAN! That's right. I cut a deal when I was twelve to get with the ladies. And it has clearly worked wonders.

Secretly (now publicly) I've always been a bit curious about the topic of trading your soul for an extended life. Maybe that sounds strange, but who wouldn't want to live a thousand years? As long as you had certain provisions in place (i.e., lots of money, staying out of prison, not aging/remaining in excellent health and, of course, the ability to fly) a thousand years could be fun. Think of all the radical change you would witness: fleeting governments, the evolution of man (next phase: tiny fingers to type on Blackberry's!), the destruction of "evils" like cancer and AIDS, the Pope becoming a zygote, and all those people you never liked anyway disappearing into the cosmic fiber while you kick back with a Stoli and tonic. Amen!

The dichotomy? I made the agreement when I was twelve, so I'm stuck for the next 968 years in puberty.

GEEK DISCRIMINATION

I've always had to deal with discrimination because I was biologically engineered to look dorky. Didn't ask for it, just happened. What's a guy gonna do?

McDONALD'S
Like this time I was at McDonald's. 19 years old. I asked for a job application. The manager gave me the once-over... "I'm sorry, young man. But you're over-qualified."

I went again the next day---with my glasses off. The same guy said, "Do you know how to sweep?"

-a

41 WAYS TO USE BACON
Inspired by the Letter, "M"

Have you heard of the elementary school game, "Steal the Bacon"? Well, neither had I. Until M pointed it out.

In the game, kids run to the center of a room and try and steal a fake piece of bacon.

I asked M, "Where does the school get the bacon?"

M, an elementary school teacher, said "It comes with the delivery."

"Hmmm...let's see. We've got the pencils, the erasers, the orange puke dust. Oh, here's the fake bacon!"

This inspired me to write a book called "41 Fun Games to Play with Bacon." Here's a sampling of the games.

- Tug of Bacon
- Cook the Bacon with a Bunsen Burner
- Make a Bacon Headband
- Stick the Bacon Down Peter's Butt Crack
- Jump the Bacon
- Build a Bacon Bridge
- Don't Lick the Bacon
- Scratch that Uncooked Ham With a Toothpick
- Rap While Wrapping Mrs. Kohani's No. 2 Pencil with a Slice of Heaven
- Give the Smart Kid Food Poisoning
- Find the Tapeworm

I'll put a warning inside the book: "Habitual playing may lead kids to play other pork games like 'hide the sausage.'"

Hey, I just realized these aren't jokes, they're bacon bits.

Genius!

Why would anyone want to be a dentist?

Let me tell you.

It all started as a child with a passion for torturing the innocent beasties around your house. Exploding toads with M-60 firecrackers; carefully jerking off the wings of locusts and feeding their tobacco-like spit to the Mishka, your german shepherd; seeing how many baby frogs you and your friend Mike could kill with rocks...turning into a feeding frenzy of bloodlust and sadistic impurity. Oh, the sweet smell of death! The sight of punishment wielded by the willing, superior mind. And you've got such a mind, no doubt, to spend your life "improving the image" of others while secretly wearing a strap-on dildo in your pants.

Rip out teeth? No problem! It pleasures you. There's nothing like the fleshy, pulpy excrement of a torn nerve hanging from your anodized steel pliars. Drill away at ultrasonic speed. Pretend the sound is soothing to my ears. Tell me to raise my right hand if I experience pain. And shove another shot of novicaine into my gums when I fret. Amen! I'm saved.

Go ahead, dental assistant. Force the x-ray lens cover into my face. Break my will. Irradiate my cerebellum. Give me that protective cape yet force me to hold the plastic film with my left index finger so my digit turns to nuclear plague. It's hard to point out which donut I want to buy when I've no apparatus to beckon with!

Offer to strengthen my cavity resistance with a delicious flouride treatment shake. "They come in cherry, chocolate or grape." Bull$#!t! It all tastes like cement. And I don't like cement. And neither does anyone else. Tell me the truth. "auGi, this is going to taste a like grounded rocks." Voila!

You probably think the Marquis de Sade was a comic!

Good god! Be a restaurateur...or a salesmen, or turtle breeder. Yes. Yes! Breed turtles, sell them, transform the world of pet ownership. It would be a good thing and your karma would return ten-fold in the form of a giant Gamera poster. Or perhaps a pleasant trip to a Michigan creek with a ham sandwich and some crunchy Cheetos. Mmm, mmm...isn't that more pleasant?

No more of this dental nonsense. Find a way to genetically perfect my teeth. Give me a pill I can swallow and wake up the next morning with the grin of Brad Pitt. We would all be happier and we would eradicate you, Mr. Dentist, once and for all.

Like those toads you whacked on the head. We'll whack you on YOUR head, b@stard! And make you suckle on that Kirby vacuum hose until your small intestine comes up through your esophagus.

I'm not angry. I just went to the dentist. And I feel better!

-a