* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are always receptive to those who wish to reinvent themselves. Especially when they have the power to torture us for all eternity.

Satan, Rebranded

By:
brozik@gmail.com
@spidermensch

Thank you.

Thank —

If I may have your attention…

SILENCE!

That’s better. Now, you’re probably wondering why I summoned you all to this brimstone pit. I’ll be as brief as possible — I know we’d all like to get back to torturing and being tortured, as the case may be, for all eternity.

I have news, likely the most significant news to come out of Hell in centuries. Please hold your applause until the end.

As you are no doubt aware, I am referred to by several names and epithets, some more accurate than others. Lucifer, for example. Mephistopheles. Iblis. The Prince of Lies — now, that’s just hurtful. The Dark One. Lord of the Flies…even I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean.

Most people call me Satan, though.

What you might not know is that Satan was my job. That is, when I was first created, I was given a position on the Divine Counsel as a prosecutor-of-a-sort. An adversary. The adversary, in fact… in Hebrew: ha-Satan. It was my responsibility to tempt humans to renounce God. Remember Job?

Job, are you here…? Ah, that’s right. Never mind.

But I wasn’t the only adversary, as it happened. There were others…and each one was a ha-Satan. So, really, I was ha-ha-Satan — Yeah, yeah. It was funny…five thousand years ago.

Anyway, there was some…unpleasantness, and I left the employ of Heaven. I landed on my cloven hooves, though, and promptly set up my own shop. Since most people knew me as just Satan, I let the moniker stick — and I leveraged my goodwill in the name to build my practice.

That was then, however. This is now. And the time has come…for rebranding.

The public relations consultants I engaged, at the recommendation of one of the law firms I do business with, have convinced me that even “Satan” is too…well, let me not sugarcoat it: too ethnic.

Evil is universal. No, it’s more than that: it’s global! So the Master of Evil needs to be accessible to all, and to do that, I must shed my old, third-world-weary name in favor of something new…and youthful.

But you’re thinking, “The Devil you know…” and all that. And I don’t disagree with you. I mean, I certainly had grown quite accustomed to my name, of course…but those consultants twisted my arm until I agreed to a compromise.

(Drumroll, please? Keith Moon, would you do the honors?)

The demon before you…

…will henceforth be known…

…as…

Stan!

I know, right? It was so…obvious! Stan!

It’s the same as before…only different. Better. Sleeker. Faster!

Stan!

Come on, join me, everyone:

Stan..! Stan..! Stan…!

Now just the murderers:

Stan..! Stan..! Stan…!

Now just the rapists:

Stan..! Stan..! Stan…!

Now the humorists:

Stan..! Stan..! Stan…!

I will now take questions.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where the squared circle of wrestling meets a round peg named David Henne who doesn't quite fit in. But we think you'll love to see him get body slammed anyway, even if only metaphorically.

Address To Graduating Class At Bennington College Of Wrestling

By:
henned@gmail.com

I hope you will all be very happy as members of the professional wrestling class in America. I myself have been rejected again and again. Mostly from consciousness. By unforgiving steel chairs.

As I said at the Royal Rumble in Pittsburgh not long ago, it isn’t often that a WWE referee is invited to speak in the springtime. I predicted that outside interference would plague the main event of WrestleMania, and outside interference has plagued the main event of WrestleMania.

One trouble, it seems to me, is that the majority of wrestlers who compromise the title, who wield brass knuckles and kendo sticks, are giants or degenerates. The giants want to chokeslam every authority out of existence. The degenerates want us to act as though hair tugging and closed-fist strikes are just a part of life. These are not always the best solutions — particularly in the fields of pompadour maintenance and general cognizance.

And I urge all of you to please notice when you are awake, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, “If this isn’t nice, then I don’t know whose sledgehammer this is.”

Recently I was a graduation speaker at a little preparatory school for wrestlers who were reliant on foreign objects. I told the students that they were much too young to brandish steel steps, boa constrictors and deviancy.

I often hear managers say to their green talent, “All right, you see so much that is wrong with the jobbers in the back — go out and swing a 2×4 at them. We’re all for you! Go out and crack them over the head with this megaphone!”

You are four years older than those prep school wrestlers but still very young. You, too, have been swindled, if a manager has persuaded you that titles can change hands as the result of disqualification.

It isn’t up to you. You weren’t raised under the tables-ladders-and-chairs desperation of the Attitude Era. You don’t have the appearance of grave maturity — even though many of you wearing masks today may be gravely mature.

Do not take the entire division on your shoulders. Do a certain amount of skylarking, as befits wrestlers of your age. “Skylarking,” incidentally, was the original term for the moonsault, which was a minor offense under the early laws of the luchador.

What a charming crime. I would love to have a dishonorable discharge from the lucha libre sanctioning body — for skylarking not just once onto a dazed opponent, but again and again and again.

Many of you will undertake physically grueling work this summer, helping the heels and the ignorant and the awfully old get over. Good. But skylark off the top rope for a decent pop of your own, too.

Before I leave, I should like to give a motto to your class, a motto to your entire generation. It comes from my favorite event, which is the 1993 King of the Ring. In the first match of the Pay-Per-View, you will remember, Papa Shango — Kama Mustafa, who would later become The Godfather — enters with Adam Bomb, who would later become Wrath. They arrive at the entrance ramp and immediately receive news that the third member of their three-man tag team has been blinded by the atomizer of The Model Rick Martel. Papa Shango says this, among other things, and this is the motto I give you: “To weep is to make less the depth of grief.”

Again: “To weep is to make less the depth of grief.”

We already have plenty of sound suggestions as to how we are to act if things are to become better in the squared circle. For instance: clasp a downed combatant’s wrist, raise it skyward thrice, and you’ll be amazed at the transformation you inspire.

All that is required is that we become less selfish than we are. Because after all the fanfare and pyrotechnics fade, there’s only one rule that I know of, babyfaces — Goddamn it, you’ve got to be kind.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are always ready to consider after-the-fact plans to kill Hitler, especially plans involving time travel. Just take it outside, boys, and don't get any blood on the carpet.

I’m Going To Kill Hitler

By:
jon.wolper@gmail.com

If I had a chance to go back in time, I would kill Hitler. Good thing, too, because these scientists are putting a jelly on my body — it’ll stop me from vomiting when I get to the past. They’re also attaching electrical pads to my head and body. Guess why. Go ahead.

That’s right. I’m going to kill the Führer. You heard me: worthless old Tom Lucynski is making good!

Sorry, killing the nastiest sonofabitch in history gets me all excited. How’s prep work going, guys? Good. Pretty pumped over here.

To be honest, I’ve been thinking about this for a while, ever since I was hanging with Jimmy behind the Wendy’s on State Street and he asked me what I’d do if I could hit up the past. I thought about going back five years and avoiding Crazy Callie, or inventing fire, but I figured Hitler was the better choice.

And here I am. Most likely to be a burnout? How about most likely to kill Hitler! High five, Science Man.

I got made fun of a lot in school for being a deadbeat, or whatever. But now I get to be the biggest badass in history. Okay, Jim Thompson from economics class, you have a six-figure salary. But did you kill Hitler? Screw you. And to that couple that lives across the street with their private-school kids, always giving me the stink eye when I’m pounding beers on my front lawn: your kids might have killed their competition in lacrosse, but you know who they didn’t kill? I’ll give you a hint: Hitler. The answer is Hitler.

What? 30. I’m 30 years old.

What’s this? A special time travel jumpsuit? Rock on. So I’ve been meaning to ask you guys about the gun I’m going to use to kill the bastard. I know it’ll be something awesome, like a submachine gun or a plasma rifle, but do I take it with me to the past, or do I have to get one when I land in Austria-Hungary? Oh, and speaking of which, why am I going to Austria-Hungary? Isn’t Hitler, like, Mr. Germany?

Doesn’t matter. I’ll just bust in there, like during an evil meeting or something, and give him a good rat-a-tat-tat. Maybe I’ll catch him goose-stepping in front of the mirror and just unload on the guy. There’ll be more bullets in him than girls I nailed in high school. Nice. Still waiting on that high five, Science Dude. Now you owe me two.

Wait, no one told me I’d have to use poison. Really, guys? I wanted to go Rambo on his ass. I was going to shoot Hitler, return to the present and piledrive my neighbors’ kids right into the pavement. And they wouldn’t be able to stop me because I killed Hitler. I can hear you whispering over there. Stop keeping secrets. What’s this about a little kid? Don’t be jealous.

That reminds me — do you guys have a party planning committee, or something like that? I mean, I’d expect at least a Fudgie the Whale cake when I get back safely. Obviously, a full-blown parade would probably be more fitting. I’m thinking floats, an army of clowns making balloon animals of my likeness, and I’ll make a grand entrance at the end wearing a pope hat and driving a Maserati. And make sure there’s a Jim Thompson dunking booth — I bet I’m not the only one who wants to see that guy underwater.

Now that it’s on my mind, how exactly am I getting back to the present? Like, I know this time machine is pretty new-tech, so who’s going to build one to get me back?

Wait.

Wait.

So, let me get this straight. I’m going to go back in time. I’m going to land in Austria-Hungary in 1900. I’m going to find some deadly poison — just, y’know, find some deadly poison — find an 11-year-old boy named Adolf Hitler, become a friend of his family, and use my access to kill him before he does all the bad Hitler-y things.

And then I’m going to stay in that time period, because there’s no way for me to get back. And then, because Hitler didn’t go full Hitler, no one will know how much of a hero I am. Jim Thompson won’t get dunked.

Look at me, Science Guy. Look me in the eyes, and tell me that Jim Thompson won’t get dunked.

Oh man, this is going to suck.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we take our life advice wherever we can find it. Sometimes with a complimentary bag of white powder.

Life Advice I Have Received From The Local Drug Dealer

By:
tyk329@gmail.com

Always ask for cash up front. Or in a few days. You know, when they can get it to you.

Always carry a weapon. Under no circumstances should you leave the house without a weapon. Look at me: I’ve got this nice little rolling pin I keep in my coat sleeve that I can use to club somebody the fuck out, at any damn moment. I can make cookies with it too whenever I need some sweets and there’s an oven or a hotplate nearby. Be safe. Don’t get caught off guard with your pants down.

Make sure you’ve got an alibi. My go-to and personal favorite: “I was hanging with my buddies when all that stuff went down, officer, I swear! We were playing pool, then, next thing I knew, my friend Tommy, my cousin twice-removed, has his leg blown off by some divine will. We had to take him to the ER, which makes you wait for hours just to have some nurse lady ask for insurance, which, by the way, nobody has, and then tell you to wait for an even more ungodly amount of time. Long story short: he lost the leg. So I couldn’t have been at Sal’s Pizza Place when it was held up by that handsome man with the pink stockings and the dashing 42-inch chest duster on and the limited-edition passion fruit aftershave coated on his neck that makes all the ladies purr!” Make up your own. I guarantee it won’t be as good as mine, but it will probably get you off the hook.

Keep your money somewhere safe, like behind that loose brick under your mom’s window where you used to keep the Polaroids you snapped when you were in seventh grade of your neighbor Mrs. Lefkowitz when the gout made it so that she could only wear loose-fitting clothing around the house. Boy, those were the days. You could see everything — let me tell you, everything. It was beautiful.

If you ever get hitched, ask for a receipt and make sure she doesn’t bite in her sleep. And check to be sure she’s not hiding anything. With the world the way it is, you can never be totally sure if somebody’s tucked away a penis.

If you’re ever strapped for cash, pay a friend to have their dog attack you, then sue the local government for having a shitty dog catcher. It worked for my cousin Gary. Now he’s in Cabo, selling insurance. It works — trust me.

Don’t sell meth. Tony does that already and he’s got a mad fierce hatred for competition.

Don’t sell crack, either. If you do that, you’ll get yourself killed. Just know you will. Maybe you won’t. I don’t know — I’m high. Just don’t do it.

Invest in Nikes.

The government hates everybody, especially old people. Don’t vote. Don’t pay your taxes — they’ll never know. I’ve never paid taxes and I’m okay.

Kung Fu can be listed as a special skill on a job application. So can cross joint rolling and speaking patois.

You don’t really have to speak patois. All I ever do is pretend and say “bumbaclot” a few times. It seems to work, although I’ve only done it during two high-stakes deals and both ended with my taillights being knocked out with baseball bats.

Never, under any circumstances, allow somebody to sell you a leprechaun. You will always be very disappointed. They’re not real, they’re just fictional. Trust me — I found out the hard way.

Arsonists make great lookouts. They’re also really good in a pinch. Just don’t give them matches or have them sign a lease on a storefront. They’re also horrible cooks.

If there’s one place you should aspire to visit one day, it should be the La Brea Tar Pits. Did you know they found a yeti there? They really did! Plus, there’s a load of tar and an old airplane I saw crash there in a documentary about World War II. It’s a great place. That’s where I want to retire!

I know I’m going to heaven! I’ve been sending God $1000 a month through the USPS for VIP poolside seats in the afterlife. You could do it too!

Never trust the Nigerian Prince e-mails. Besides, there are some I get sometimes from the son of a major former dignitary from Gambia that promise far better returns and a palace that overlooks a sustainable super-grotto. I don’t have any money I can give right now, just ’cause I don’t have a bank account, but if I did, I’d give it to the Gambian.

You should try your hand at inventing a snorkel that lets you eat underwater. You’d have to fix that whole stomach cramp problem, but I think it can be done. You’d make a fortune. You should give me 10% because of all the advice I’ve given and because it’s technically my idea. This advice is worth a pretty mint alone. I should write a book. I could be the next Joel Osteen or Sham-Wow guy. What did you want again? An eighth? Okay. I’ll see you Tuesday. Take care. Remember: next time I see you, tell me how this week’s Wipeout is! I still don’t have TV!

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