Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we would never stoop so low as to snoop through other people’s mail. We have David Jaggard do it for us. After you’ve read this except from his e-book “Quorum of One” (available on Amazon) you can listen to his newly released comic song “Your Shoe’s Untied” by clicking the link under his name. Don’t forget: we’ll be watching your mail to make sure you did it.

From The Pop Culture Dead Letter Office: Revelations



July 17, 1963

Malley & Torelli
Bill Collection, Private Investigation
2117 E. 58th St.
New York, NY 10138

Mr. Michael Corleone
1 Westshore Drive
Lake Tahoe, NE 80229

Dear Sir:

In our capacity as representatives for Bellini Bros. Inc., owners and operators of Louie’s Italian American Restaurant, 3179 Bronx Boulevard, New York, NY 10131, we are writing to request payment of an outstanding bill.

On the evening of February 12, 1946, you dined in said restaurant in the company of one Mr. Virgil Sollozzo, self-employed entrepreneur, and Captain Mark McCluskey of the New York City Police Department, both deceased.

The bill for your table shows one small antipasto platter, two orders of mussel soup, three orders of veal picatta (the best in the city), a magnum of Barolo Grigio 1932, two tiramisus and one slice of lemon cake. The total comes to $24.57, including the desserts, which were not served, but as they had already been prepared and entered on the bill are legally inclusive in the liability.

As the only surviving member of your party, we must assume that you were intending to pick up the tab for this meal. We hereby request that you remit payment in full, plus the sums of $37.40 for interest and damages (including the cost of replacing two chairs, one tablecloth, four glasses, the chef’s pacemaker and 24 rolls of paper towels) and $189.95 in collection and processing fees.

The total (see attached itemized list) comes to $251.72, not including the tip for your waiter, although since he died of shock shortly after your departure from the premises, we are willing to forego this customary nicety.

Furthermore, unclaimed property found near your table, in the form of a Smith & Wesson 38 caliber revolver, was auctioned and the value of the weapon allotted to defray collection costs, which otherwise would have been higher.

We realize that $251.72 is a sizeable bill for three partially-consumed, and in the majority of cases undigested, dinners, but you must consider that our agents have been trying to track you down for a number of years.

In the spring of 1947 they had located you in a villa in western Sicily, but they apparently arrived just moments after your departure. In the courtyard they found the burned-out, still smoking wreck of an automobile with a woman’s corpse in the driver’s seat.

Being professional investigators as well as bill collectors, they examined the hulk and determined that the explosion was caused by a leak in the fuel line which was ignited by a spark from the starter.

A local man, apparently a servant of yours, was seen running from the property as our men approached, but he returned in a few minutes, explaining that he had eaten some bad scungilli the previous night and had urgently needed to relieve himself. This person informed our agents of your sudden and inexplicable disappearance.

Several years later two of our agents attempted to serve you with papers concerning this matter by introducing themselves clandestinely onto the grounds of your property in Lake Tahoe during what appeared to be a celebration of some sort.

Since it was impossible to speak to you during the day, they approached your front door that night, intending to hand you the dossier and depart, but they became disoriented in the dark and found themselves in the back of the house, outside your bedroom windows. Shortly thereafter three of your own guards located them and opened fire with machine guns, killing both agents instantly and in the process spraying your house with bullets.

We hope that we will receive payment (certified check or money order only) from you soon so that we may clear this long-standing debt. In anticipation of your cooperation, we remain faithfully yours…


January 14, 1967

T.Q. Olufson
National Parks Service
1278 Jefferson Boulevard
Washington, D.C. 10203

Mr. Paul Simon
1759 Central Park West
New York, NY 10012

Dear Mr. Simon,

We have completed our review of the photographic documentation of the event described in your 1966 song “The Sounds of Silence,” and we regret to inform you that the figures cited in your lyrics seem to be grossly exaggerated.

In the third verse you report having seen “ten thousand people, maybe more.” The National Park Service monitored the entire crowd from helicopters and our estimate of the headcount that day is 3,550.

Since you claim to have seen the gathering “in the naked light,” surely you must have realized that there were nowhere near as many participants in this bizarre ritual as you allege.

We trust that you will correct your figures in all future performances of this song.

Sincerely yours…


March 23, 1962

California Highway Patrol
Branch Office 211
433137 Imperial Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 92451

Mr. Brian Wilson
1455 Hedgerow Circle
Hawthorne, CA 92438

Dear Sir:

Enclosed you will find a citation for a moving violation in the amount of $55.00 imputed to a vehicle registered in your name. This vehicle was recorded on traffic surveillance cameras engaged in what appears to be a “drag race” on Waterfront Strip, Long Beach, CA, on the evening of March 4.

The incident began at 9:27 pm in the 1800 block, where the road changes from four lanes to six. You have been identified as the driver of a silver Chevrolet Corvette Stingray. Yours and another vehicle, namely a blue Dodge 413, were photographed standing side by side at a red light with large quantities of exhaust emanating from the tailpipes. Of course our visual evidence is not a film with soundtrack, but one can only conclude that it must have sounded real mean.

In the next photo, the light had turned green and both vehicles apparently accelerated to a high rate of speed. You and the Dodge were then captured in time-stamped photos by cameras in subsequent blocks, which prove that you continued to exceed the speed limit for slightly more than one-quarter of a mile.

It appears that the Dodge, which given its rapid acceleration must have been equipped with dual quad ram induction, really “dug in,” so to speak, and gained an early lead in your little informal competition. Black streak marks in your lane indicate that your rear tires must have spun considerably at the outset (you might want to check the tread — just a suggestion). But given the fact that both vehicles arrived nearly simultaneously at the 2600 block, we have been led to understand that you have a fuel-injected engine sitting under your hood.

In case you, or millions of fans, might be interested, the end of the race was exceedingly close and only our final photographs show incontrovertibly who won. But we are not legally authorized to divulge that information.



October 12, 1964

Dear Gilligan,

Here’s your ring back, you spineless scumbag. I never want to see it or you again. Look, if you didn’t have the guts to break up with me in person you could have at least called. But no, instead you act all lovey-dovey and all “I just have to work for three hours this afternoon and then I’m taking you out to dinner,” and then you vanish for five weeks without so much as a postcard.

Five weeks! It’s like you got blown away!

Okay, so I just want to know one thing: who is she? Some rich bitch you met on one of your “luxury” tours who wanted a little hanky-panky with a mighty sailin’ man like you?

Or did you just decide to dump me in the wild hope of realizing your ludicrous fantasy of meeting some movie star and going off to a secluded island with her? As if! It doesn’t take a college professor to calculate the odds on that ever happening!

So let me know who it is — you owe me that much — and then you’re out of my life forever, you cowardly loser.

And don’t try to weasel out of telling me either — I know you’re still around because every time I drive by the marina I see your car sitting there, right in its usual spot.

It could really use a wash, by the way.

Get lost,



* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we continue our survey of modern Japanese literature with this new story from Haruki Murakami, as translated by Michael Fowler, who does not speak Japanese. Management assumes no responsibility. Once you've absorbed this bit of Far Eastern hilarity, we recommend that you follow the link below to purchase Mr. Fowler's riveting humor collection, "Nathaniel Hawthorne Is Dating My Girlfriend."

“Double Buds,” A New Haruki Murakami Story


She walked in front of him out of deference. But if it was deference, he thought, shouldn’t she walk to his rear? Show that she was his follower? After all, she was the producer of his cooking show, not the star herself. No one would tune in to watch Nikko gut a trout or wrestle an anemone or lick squid ink from her fingers. She remained in the background on his set at all times unless, in an emergency, he needed someone to pound his nori. His seaweed wrap was famous for its texture, and she had the touch.

And yet, as they walked to the studio past the gardens on Main Street, for assuredly there was a Main Street in Tokyo as there is in every city, and one lined with flowers at that, her lead position still somehow showed deference, even subservience. There is a saying: The upkeep of the blossoms at Mount Myogi will be added to your water bill. One thing was certain, her hoop earrings carried a lot of whoa babe. He had once heard an American use this term to describe an attractive woman in Kyoto, and although Americans were blunt you could say this about them: they also had other qualities. The term seemed to fit Nikko to a T. And her stylish earrings were the merest fraction of her appeal. She had whoa babe to spare, just dripped the stuff all over the street.

Two years ago they had been lovers, but no longer whispered to each other the tender words cameltoe and creampie. She, a native of the Kansai district, spoke with a Liverpool accent, a sign of her devotion to the Beatles throughout her youth. He, born and raised in Ashiya, sounded like a native New Yorker, due to his lifelong devotion to the Ramones. But he thought the Beatles were cool too, as long as Paul wasn’t singing. Though they no longer entangled themselves in knots of damp armpits and heaving thighs, they sometimes left together work together in the evening, hopped aboard the bullet train to a remote suburb, and cut a rug at a festive club. But they only did that after first gorging themselves on his culinary creations back at the studio.

And oh those tasty creations! Who but he could concoct a pickled rose that tasted like a McD’s cheeseburger? A sea urchin that conjured up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? Or tuna sushi that was finger licking good, like KFC? This was his success and the theme of his show: how to take rarified, costly ingredients and make them taste like junk or fast food. For mysterious reasons, it was a huge hit throughout Japan and in some former Soviet Bloc countries.

As always, her body segued seamlessly from watusi to masked potato as the music in the club washed over her. Was it his habit of losing the tempo and crushing her foot beneath his own that had led to their end of their romance? Very likely that was a contributing factor. But there was also professional jealousy, stemming from the fact that he possessed double the usual number of taste buds. This fortuitous birth defect, or perhaps birth advantage was the truer term, was the result of his being born with a forked tongue. No, not quite rattle-snake forked, and not a cleft palate either, but a split tongue that gave him double buds for tasting, and even provided the name of his hit show: Double Buds. How could she, a serious chef herself and his classmate in culinary arts at Waseda University, compete with Mister Double Buds? Life was so unfair when you had to compete with gifted genetic freaks like that banjo player in Deliverance who had like, what, 20 fingers?

She wanted to scrape those double buds off his tongue with a Ginsu knife and slather them in cheap tomato sauce.

After a single date with her when they both still attended culinary school, he felt her unease and competitive edge. Further meetings with her were disappointments, like opening the door to an empty room when you expected to find your drunken uncle inside. He liked Uncle Kato, no matter what the rest of the family said. Kato always had a snack of dried eel for him. And he wore Blue Cheer Hearing Aids, the loudest made, and could tell what song a rock band was playing 60 miles away. There is a saying: When a man is lazy enough, his spine will grow a chair.

And so she had changed her major from culinary arts to TV production. There double buds would not best her, there double buds would offer no advantage. No longer needing those damned double buds with her new major, she could come out first in her class, as she did. The downside to her success in TV was, they were split apart. Even working together on Double Budscould not reunite them, not wholly. It was all so sad, so infinitely sad. Sad, it was. He carried that sadness all the way to the bank, singing “All You Need is Love,” his favorite Beatles song even if Paul sang on it.

There is a saying: Love is a wonderful thing, but nothing beats double buds.


* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we're not sure whether Sam the Sham actually was a Sham. We're pretty certain his Pharaohs were not really Pharaohs. Wooly Bully is even more of a mystery, but now, thanks to his good friend (and ours) Michael Fowler, the truth can be revealed. After you've perused this week's bit, please click on the link below to buy Mr. Fowler's humor collection, "Nathaniel Hawthorne Is Dating My Girlfriend."

My Friend Wooly Bully


Wooly Bully always had a thing for rock music.

“Have you read Carly Simon’s book?” he asked me. We were sitting inside his shed in the northern wild. We felt like a couple of critters. He had just said dark, unforgivable things about my family, and I had just said dark, unforgiveable things about his. Then we cracked some beers and dropped it. His next words astounded me. “She made it with Paul Samwell-Smith, a Yardbird.”

Looking mystified as he spoke, Wooly struck himself in the forehead with a cloven hand. It was sort of like a hoof only well-manicured — he could play guitar with those hands, but only three chords. The sudden movement dislodged the buzzing flies that always covered his face. The buzzing beard took off, briefly circled his jaw, then landed once more.

“I mean, if you’re going to make it with a Yardbird back in the mid-sixties, why would you choose Samwell-Smith, the gawkiest, nerdiest musician on the scene?” he said. “There were certainly better-looking Yardbirds, if that was your band. Singer Keith Relf was described by female fans as beautiful, and Jeff Beck the guitarist was certainly handsome. So here we have Carly-soon-to-be-‘You’re So Vain’ Simon, who presumably will hook up with Mick Jagger in the near future, screwing a guy who looks like a stick bug in mod clothing. I mean, it’s like finding out that Barbra Streisand did it with Weird Al, or that Diana Ross boned Flavor Flav.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Samwell-Smith had something going for him. Maybe a heart full of soul.”

I met Wooly Bully working for the highway department. I painted lane lines and he marked engine brake hills. What those were, he explained to me, were the inclines semis drove up when their brakes failed, narrow lanes of soil and rocks, slanted up at 45 degrees to the road or steeper, and long enough to stop an out of control four-ton semi without seriously injuring the driver or destroying the truck.

Or that was the theory. The lanes were never tested, and Wooly said that any truck taking one at 50 mph or higher would need a complete overhaul afterward, and the driver would be lucky to survive. He tried one once in his own ramshackle pickup, putting a horn through the windshield and knocking himself out. He considered himself lucky.

I thought he was lucky too. Here was a guy who was part elk, part bison and part human, and he had a job working outdoors. But he was always broke. Every time he exhaled he asked for twenty dollars. “Look,” I said. “I’m an ugly guy. You’re an ugly guy. You must know a couple of ugly girls we could meet tonight.”

We took a girl Hattie he met in a cranberry bog and her friend Mattie to a town festival a few miles downhill from Wooly’s shed. Sam the Sham was playing his hit song, and Wooly wanted to see that, due to his influence on the music. We took Wooly’s pickup that he had overhauled after the brake test I mentioned. It was run-down but loud and powerful.

“Don’t you think I should have some rights in that song?” he asked us all. “Don’t you think Sam legally owes me a bundle?”

“Not sure,” I said. “You a citizen?”

Wooly told us a funny story. It was funny because he said it was. A year ago, Wooly had his own musical group, that he refused to name. I don’t mean the band had no name — I mean he wouldn’t tell us what it was.

Wooly said that in another town he and his unnamed band had opened for a band from England called the Tarytons. This was a one-hit-wonder band, and their hit, called “At Some Time, in Some Place, What Does It Matter?” didn’t even sell all that well. Wooly and his band decided as a joke to play that song in their own set, to see the reaction of the Tarytons.

Well, the Tarytons didn’t like that one bit. They stormed into the tent where the bands waited to go on and confronted Wooly and his boys, absolutely livid. Wooly laughed in their faces and couldn’t stop. He said he imagined that the Tarytons were the Beatles, and wondered how the Beatles would react if his group had played “I Want to Hold Your Hand” before the Fab Four took the stage.

“I decided,” he said, “that Lennon probably would be pissed, but that Ringo and maybe George would laugh their asses off. And I couldn’t help laughing myself.”

I laughed at that, though Hattie and Mattie seemed unamused.

“I wish I still had that band,” he went on. “We’d play my song before Sam came out. Wouldn’t that be great?”

“Why?” asked Hattie. “What would be the point?”

“The point is,” said Wooly, “Sam owes me about a million bucks in royalties or something.”

“How do you figure?” said Hattie. “You didn’t write the song, did you?”

“For inspiration,” he said. “I should be paid for inspiring people. I may have inspired Dylan. I went to a lot of his shows and I’m pretty sure he saw me. I may have inspired ‘Desolation Row.'”

“You never inspired anybody, Bullwinkle,” said Hattie.

After the festival, we four drove through town at night. We cruised down residential lanes until we found a house with a big picture window and a big TV on behind it. We parked there and watched TV while we made out with the girls.

Wooly kept trying to persuade Hattie to go knock on the door and tell them to turn up the sound since we couldn’t hear anything, but she refused. “Why don’t we just ask them if we can come inside and watch TV with them?” she said. “I’m sure they’d be overjoyed to have a talking moose and his friends inside their house.” We later broke up with Hattie and Mattie because they couldn’t discuss Frank Zappa intelligently.

In the winter, Wooly, clad only in an orange vest, took to the northern forests on hoof, surviving by raiding chicken coops and stealing cooling pies off windowsills. When close to starvation, he stood in line for samples at Costco and attended wedding cake tastings.

When he returned to the shed, where I was still living while I figured out what to do with myself now that I’d reached a dead end with lane painting, he was often accompanied by a wild animal he had courted and married. Once it was a reindeer with STDs, and once a sow with a sordid past. Having to share our shed with these females gave me a strong push to move on.

Wooly finally scored a job as a roadie with the Derek Trucks Band, a job I had declined and passed on to him due to a weak back. By then Sam the Sham was ancient history and their songs didn’t appear on Trucks’s set list.

I said goodbye to Wooly in his truck as he dropped me off at semi road school. I was going to be a driver now, and told Wooly that I hoped his engine brake hills were clearly marked. His last words to me were “Let’s not be L-seven.” I never did know what that meant.


* Welcome to The Big Jewel, which maintains a certain fond regard for its hometown, Chicago. Once known as the "City of the Big Shoulders" (in the Carl Sandburg poem that has absolutely no relation to this piece, in a pig's eye), after Brennan Thomas gets through with it they'll call it the "City of the Big Complainers." You tell it, Brennan! As someone once said, you only hurt the city you love.

Not Carl Sandburg’s “Chicago”


Chicago?  Yeah, I’ve been through

there once, for a week or so.




Never have I been in a city that seemed to dislike me — unwary passer-through —




Despised fly.




was enough.




I smell dirt and city sidewalk salt on the hands of pan-handlers.

I smell carts of hotdogs that will never feel ketchup in their short hotdog stand lives.


I want a hotdog so badly, every day of five I am here, done my way.

Funny how a place makes you crave things you know aren’t there and can’t get.

I want onions and ketchup on my dog,

and mustard and ketchup and sauerkraut.

(Why are you putting lettuce on my hotdog?)

I want a plain bun

(flicking the sesame seeds off my bun)


and ketchup


(No, but, please don’t drag my dog through the garden, good people of Chicago.)


I can’t find ketchup in this city.

If I ask for it, the city hates me more.


We don’t like each other, the Big City and me.


When Dull Ohio Kid asks for directions — “Excuse me, ma’am.  Can you tell me how to get to the

Sears Tower?” — the City becomes infuriated.

El trains pause in incredulity, skyscrapers bend and arch like the furrowed brows of reproachful schoolmarms.


“This city is a GRID!” it bellows through traffic steam and ferry fog.

“And on the grid, you can find…



I am a dull Ohio mouse.

(I think I’ve just stumbled on the grid’s Lost-and-Found.)


I’d just like to find my way back to the nearest el.

But I can’t hail taxis in this city.

I step out into the street,

hand up,

fingers snap — “Ho!” — reflexive point,


point, nod,

point again.

Exactly as my Queens-born father taught me.


I am looking for the human understanding between cab driver and would-be passenger.


No spark — no semblance of recognition, consciousness.


Try harder.


Higher hand.  Quicker snap.  “HO!”

Driving fast.  Faster.


Past.  Yep.  Gone.

“Wait!  Stop!  Taxi?  TAXI!”




I must give off the aura of small-town girl.


I am a John Cougar Mellencamp song with two legs and a wet briefcase

who can’t hail a cab.


Who can’t get on the grid — or find the Sears Tower.


It’s only the tallest skyscraper in the Midwest.

Should be easy to find — a monument to all monoliths, the famed House of Mud.

Even easier on a grid.


I’m on the train finally, awash in a wave of dejected, tub-thumping commuters —

they look like grid zombies —

walking where they’re walking, sitting where they sit.


“Sir, may I sit down beside you?”

Middle-aged mute pushes up his wire-rimmed glasses,

slides his satchel higher on his shoulder.

Pretends not to hear me.


Smiles wryly behind his glasses.

Says                       moves



I’d hate to be a Chicagoan.

I don’t care how good the pizza is —

deep dish, indeed —

and I don’t care to see a blues concert

or a Sox game or meet Mariotti in person.


I want grass under my feet

and not to think of every single human interaction

as a hassle or a hustle.


I don’t like grids.

I don’t want to walk on a grid and or be part of one.


I don’t like ketchup-less hotdogs, Chicago.


Ketchup is good.

It’s chaotic

and messy and sugary and acerbic

and I want some on my HOTDOG!  


Glory be — ketchup, manners, and grass!

And good-bye, Chicago!

Never has a city needed to be unordered — disordered — and reordered as badly as you do.


* Welcome to The Big Jewel! Did we mention that the moon has recently been destroyed by hostile space aliens? No? Well, that's the kind of breaking news you can expect to get here. Our correspondent on the scene, Ben Taft, is standing by to tell you more in his first piece for us.

Dear Astrology: Does The Destruction Of The Moon By The Hostile Alien Race Have Anything To Do With Why People Have Been Acting So Wacky Lately?


Dear Astrology,

Ever since the moon was blown into a million little pieces by a hostile alien race intent on annihilating mankind, it seems as though people have just been acting a little bit…off. I’ve heard that the moon’s phase can affect human behavior. Is it possible that the empty spot in the night sky where the moon used to be is to blame for the weird vibes I’ve been picking up lately?


Here’s what Astrology has to say:

The good news is that if your aura took on an aggressive reddish-orange hue in the days following the obliteration of the moon, you’re in good company. The bad news is that there has been quite a bit going on in the way of celestial movement lately, so it might be impossible to tell exactly what it is that has everybody and their mother crying in the fetal position amongst the rubble that used to be their homes.

Has your significant other offered him or herself as a human sacrifice to appease Galactic Emperor Grog without consulting you about it first? You can thank Venus for that. This month marks the beginning of sensual Venus’s six-week retrograde cycle, and, unfortunately, the first part of this retrograde cycle is set to take place in erotic Scorpio.

This means that there could be some catastrophic communication issues between you and your significant other in the coming days. She thinks you should pack up everything of value and quickly get as far away from any major metropolitan areas as possible, and you were just hoping to have a chill weekend at home. If this scenario sounds familiar to you…relax! Venus’s retrograde will be over before you know it, and everything will return to normal.

You may have noticed some Cancers angrily shaking their fists at the sky and asking why God has abandoned us. Don’t let this worry you. Venus’s retrograde cycle is passing through Cancer’s hot-headed sector.

But hold on, the bad news isn’t over yet. Mars is entering Sagittarius as well. Ugh, right? This celestial double whammy has scores of people flying their aircrafts directly into the large death-ray that has appeared on the underside of the mothership in hopes that they may die a hero’s death. Don’t join them just yet! Sometimes the two contradictory motions of these planets can balance each other out and leave you with feelings of hopefulness and positivity for the future.

As you can see, the Ziv’oik species from the Triangulum Galaxy testing out their planet-destroying laser on the moon is the least of your worries in this astrological nightmare we’ve been experiencing during the last few weeks. The fact is, there is very little scientific evidence to suggest that the moon suddenly exploding into a giant fireball has any noticeable effect on human behavior.

With all of the other planetary movement, it’s silly to think that the malevolent aliens Darth Vader-ing the moon has anything to do with those knuckleheads in Washington trying to build a laser-proof forcefield to protect the White House, when that sort of wacky behavior can so easily be attributed to the way Mercury is spinning on its axis.

A bit of closing advice for those of you who have been feeling out of sorts for the last few weeks: keep the salt lamp handy and don’t be afraid to take an aura-cleansing bath once in a while. If you look up in the sky and squint your eyes really hard, you just might see some good days on the horizon behind all the moon dust.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we'd really like you to consider someone else's feelings for a change -- like, the feelings of that mailing list you're trying to get yourself removed from, you monster you! David Burgis knows where you live.

So You Want To Unsubscribe From Me, The Mailing List


Aww honey, did you really click that button? The one that starts with the letter “u” and rhymes with schmunsubscribe? That hurts! I really thought you liked seeing that incredible one-day-only sale, followed by our holiday sales which have — by sheer coincidence — the same prices.
But okay, I’ll live. You don’t get to be a mailing list for as long as I have and not develop a thick skin. Let me tell you though, as someone with a lot of experience with this kind of thing: I know how this is going to end. Why don’t you just forget about it? We can pretend nothing happened, and I won’t hold a grudge. Maybe it was a mistake. You must have been trying to click on the Saint Clement Day 5% off tanning supplies deal. It sure is a great one!

Are you kidding me!? Oh. Oh, you’re serious. You’re clicking the “u” button again. Whoooo boy. Oof. Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. It’s on. Buddy, you messed with the wrong list. No! You CAN’T “u”. And frankly, I’m appalled that you’d sink to those levels. You’re going to have to enter your email address again. Yeah I know you came to this link from your email. But now you’ve made me mad. What are you going to do? I have all the cards here. You’re nothing to me. You should be thankful that I even let you get my great savings of 3% off select purchases from 10-11 am yesterday only. I can’t believe you’d really try to just leave like that. See? I’ve got the power here, not you, Bub. So close this window. Close it now, go on about your day, and if you’re lucky I won’t decide to just send you even more emails.

Okay, okay. So you called my bluff, and you were willing to fill out your email. No biggy. This…happens. But come on. You’ve had your fun, you’ve proved your point. Maybe I can cut down on the number of emails. I mean, I know you’ve never actually been inside this store, so it’s probably a little much. I’m reasonable! Maybe instead of emailing you every night at 11:34, and again at 5:19 the next morning, I can just email you once at 3:05 am?

I’m open to a conversation, and that’s what we’re missing right now. Let’s talk before you make rash decisions. And think about it: how much work is it to just let me email you? See, this process takes forever! Here, I’ll show you. I’ll have to make you select all the images with foyers inside, and click on seemingly identical squares. Do you really know what a foyer looks like? And a bunch of these squares here have anterooms. Same thing? Who knows?! It’s so much work, though. Here’s what I suggest you do: just drop it. Save time, enjoy life! I’m thinking about you here, and this way we both win.

Oh. Well. Huh. I thought the thirteen house interiors in a row would discourage you. Wow. That’s…Sorry I’m just off-guard. This is a little tough for me. I really thought we had something.

Who am I kidding? What do I know about you? I’m the same list who thought you’d love to see the political puns in the subject line of an email about hand towels. Am I just bad at this? Don’t answer that. I can’t handle any more from you.

This is terrible. I can’t even load the page properly right now, and I know the server will make fun of me. Could you just, I don’t know, let me send you one last email? Just for old times’ sake? It’s the least you could do for a sad old washout of a mailing list. Yes, of course I’m crying! Give me a minute, or do you not have any time for basic human kindness either?

Well, well, well! Look at you. Ain’t you just something special. You did it! My hat’s off to you — you’re officially U-ed. Heck, I can say the word now that it doesn’t have any power any more: you’re unsubscribed. I’ll send you one last email just to confirm, and we can ride off in our separate directions. I gotta say, I respect you. Not a lot of people have been able to make it this far.

Congratulations! By opening this unsubscribe email you’ve been re-subscribed. And with this coupon, you’re eligible for a buy-four-get-five deal on drying racks, as part of our early Saint Patrick’s Day Sale!



* Welcome to The Big Jewel, home of the finest in alien health care. No, not that kind of alien, the other kind!

Hello! I’m The Patient!


Hello! I’m The Patient. I’m an alien in your country, and on your planet. Kidnapped from my home planet, Chortowdo, over 1,000 years ago by a sentient Mini-Cooper and transported to Earth, I have lived in the Mini-Cooper and at the same location ever since. You will find us in a Walmart parking lot just north of Chicago.*

Why do I call myself The Patient? Two days after I was born, some Dood (Chortowdoian soothsayer) appeared to me and told me I would leave my planet soon, and that once that happened, I should never reveal my true name to anyone, or “some crazy shit” would happen to the universe.** He never explained what he meant by “crazy shit,” or what I had to do with it or the universe, but I have heeded his warning because our seers have much higher batting averages than yours. And, he was right about the leaving part. At any rate, the first thing I noticed as the Cooper landed in the parking lot was a sign outside a dentist’s office next to the Walmart that said: “New Patients Welcome!”*** The rest is self-explanatory.

Let me tell you a few things about myself. Chortowdoians are very similar to humans. In fact, we have the exact same anatomy as humans, with just two exceptions. First, we have two navels — one in our bellies and one directly across from it in our backs. (No! We cannot be strung together like beads!) Second, we have one toe. Not one toe on each foot — just one toe between them, and no telling on which foot. Except at the beach or pool of course.

Chortowdoians can regenerate, and do, usually, fairly often — not just when we’re dead or almost dead or really embarrassed. Our regenerations are random though. There could be as little as two days between them (rare) or as long as twenty years (rare). They are not accompanied by flashing lights or musical crescendos, and are easy to miss. We just phase out and in — like a TV being switched off and on — at the drop of a fez****, no fanfare. It can be easily missed if you blink. So if you ever meet a Chortowdoian and hope by some extreme long shot to witness a regeneration, remember the most important thing — whatever you do, don’t blink! The origins and survival benefits of regeneration for our race have been debated among us for eons, with no consensus reached. One thing is certain though — it keeps us on our toe.

Disappointingly, the Cooper is smaller on the inside than on the outside, so living in it has been somewhat of a trial. Still, it’s not a bad life overall. I can sleep fairly comfortably as long as I levitate (sorry, forgot to mention that ability earlier) and sleep diagonally. And the Cooper does take care of me, after a fashion. It provides shelter. And food. Every morning I wake up and find water and a selection of healthy food on the dashboard. I don’t know where the Cooper gets them, though. I’ve tried to check under the hood to see if there’s a replicator (Star Trek got that right) under it, but could never get it open. I suppose it’s possible that while I’m sleeping the Cooper shops the isles at Walmart disguised as one of those car carts Earth shoppers push their kids around in.

Personal hygiene is not a problem. Chortowdoians are self-cleaning — not like your cats, more like your ovens. I do regularly need to go numbers one and two (some races have a number three), but that’s no problem since I can use the toilet at Walmart, and when Walmart’s closed, the john at the gas station across the street. They won’t give me the key since I never buy any gas or Twinkies, but I found a sonic corkscrew in the Cooper’s glove compartment that does the job just fine.

As far as getting bored, it’s just not possible for Chortowdoians — we don’t even have a word for it. There’s a story on Chortowdo, probably apocryphal, about a Chortowdoian who waited patiently for 2,000 years for his girlfriend to exit the bathroom, and when she did, they both simply took it in stride.

So life in the Mini-Cooper has not been a bad life all-in-all. Apparently my stay has made some Earth people uneasy, though. During my first 200 or so years here, various Walmart customers would stop by the Cooper and check on me. They had passed the Cooper a number of times during their periodic trips to Walmart and had realized I was living in it, so they became concerned about my welfare. A number of them eventually invited me to become their companion in their homes and on their adventures. I accepted quite a few of these offers, but eventually discovered, without fail, that their homes and adventures were also smaller on the inside. Since then I’ve stuck to the Mini-Cooper.

As you may have guessed, visitors to Earth from other planets (most space aliens look sort of human) spend a lot of time shopping at Walmart. In fact, Walmart is the only reason space aliens come to Earth. (They love those rollbacks!) As a rule though, aliens give Earth a wide berth. Why? Well, there’s no delicate way to put this: they think Earthlings are batshit crazy! And not without reason, I might add.

Occasionally alien shoppers too will stop by the Cooper to chat. But whenever I ask them to take me home with them, I get one of two answers: 1. Since earth is such a long haul from Chortowdo, we’ve filled our ship (every alien race has cloaking technology these days, so don’t bother looking) to the brim with purchases for ourselves and all our relatives. There’s no room. 2. We know who you are and we don’t want to risk contributing to some universe-wide catastrophe.

None of the aliens hang around too long because of their aversion to Earth culture. None of them except “the gang” that is. The gang is a group of three aliens, all of whom do not at all look like humans and are castoffs from their separate planets, They’ve been hanging around the Cooper for the last seventy-five years and have even made me an “honorary member.” I don’t know why they call themselves “the gang” though. I’ve never seen them doing anything gang-like, unless hanging around a parking lot all day every day would qualify. I won’t get much into their respective planets or races, since that would get digressive (more footnotes!). I will however describe their appearance. The gang consists of a white stripe, a small potato, and a handicapped parking sign. It’s their appearance that has enabled them to hang around the parking lot so long and not be noticed. (The handicapped parking sign does not look like that in its natural state. That would be silly! No, it’s a member of a fish-like race and is a shapeshifter.)

The white stripe calls himself Monsieur Shasta. I believe he took this name from a crushed soda can that was lying next to the white stripe in the parking lot the day they arrived. The fish/shapeshifter calls herself Phinnie. The potato (a Spudaran) is actually a potato-sized alien that looks so much like a potato he can (and does) lay on the ground next to the Cooper’s right front tire to avoid detection. People just assume he’s fallen out of somebody’s shopping bag. His name is Lax, appropriate since all he does is lie around all day chanting what he calls his war cry: “Ka-tah-DIN! Ka-tah-DIN! Ka-tah-DIN!” Why Monsieur Shasta and Phinnie want him in the gang I have no idea. Maybe they’re just lousy recruiters.

I appreciate the company of the gang, but I’m still hoping the Cooper will soon return me to Chortowdo, or at least tell me what I’m doing here. And there have been a couple of encouraging developments lately. Over the last couple of years, mysterious writings have been appearing on the windshield of the Cooper, looking like the writings you see on the windshields of used cars for sale. It’s always the same message: “Silence Will Fall!” What exactly does that mean?. Silence will envelope everything? Silence will itself be enveloped? Shut somebody named Will Fall up? I have no idea, but at least it’s a sign something may be happening. The other development took place a couple of times when I went into the glove box for the corkscrew. At the back of the box I saw someone looking at me like you might see someone looking at you through a mail slot, with one of their eyes covered by an eyepatch. The first time, a male voice said, “No, I think he’s awake.” The second time it said, “It’s fine. Your doing fine. Just stay calm.”

So, why…..am I telling you all this?………………………………………………………………………..No, really…………………………………………………..why…………………………………………………………….

………………………………………………………………………..Hello! I’m the Patient.

*You say there were no Walmarts, or even a Chicago, on Earth a thousand years ago? Well, I don’t mean to sound condescending, but you Earthlings have an immature understanding of time.Time is loopy-goopy-hang-on-Sloopy. If that doesn’t make sense to you, I’m sorry, it’s the best I can do given your limitations. As for Mini-Coopers, they appeared on our planet at about the time Julius Caesar crossed the Rubicon on yours.

**Chortowdoians are fully literate at birth.

***How did I read the sign? The only reading material in the Cooper during our long journey to Earth was a book called Learn English in 5-9 Easy Steps.

****The fez is the traditional headgear on Chortowdo for both men and women.

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where it's always Michael Fowler's world. The rest of us just get to live in it. This time Mr. Fowler brags, justifiably, about his abilities as an elderly rageaholic. When you've finished his sordid tale, do click on the link below to buy his humor collection, "Nathaniel Hawthorne Is Dating My Girlfriend."

My Best Senior Brawls


Thanks to the updated self-checkout stations at my local market, I can bypass age verification when I buy alcohol just by scanning my hairline. That way I save a lot of time making my daily purchase of red wine (two bottles), tuna salad, tomato soup (one can), calcium supplements and fungal toenail medication (one tube). The minutes I saved the other day I spent standing in line for my shingles shot. The clinic is right there at the market too, and so is everything else I need except tattoo removal and knee replacement.

I picked up my paid-for bag of groceries and, while waiting for the nurse to call my number, took a seat by the restroom. I figured I’d have a twenty-minute wait, and in that time I’d need to urinate maybe seven times, so it paid to be close. I made a mental note that on my next visit I should get my shot before I bought my groceries, so I didn’t have to wait with the bag, but this time I had to slide it under my chair and hope my tuna salad didn’t spoil.

All went according to plan until I returned from my first trip to the men’s room. Have I mentioned that I have difficulty using the bathroom at home? Sometimes I forget what I’m talking about or if I’ve put on my clothes. And I’m liable to return home to find I’ve left all the stove burners on and the garbage disposal running.

I haven’t used my own bathroom since 2010, and I’m not talking about constipation. I get a dandy of a bowel movement every six months like clockwork, and it cleanses me thoroughly. What I’m saying is that my wife went to the bathroom back in 2010, right in the middle of Dancing with the Stars, and hasn’t come out.

I know she’s still in there because I hear the fan on and I can see the light under the door. I’m tempted to knock to see if she’s all right or needs something, maybe toilet tissue, but after 45 years of sleeping together in a 6′ by 8′ bedroom I hate to intrude. Meanwhile there’s a large shrub in the backyard that gives me plenty of privacy when nature calls.

When I came out of the men’s room that first time, there was an elderly gent in my seat. He wore a knit cap with a lot of Alpine scenery stitched on it, showing questionable taste in summertime. Since all the other chairs were occupied, I told him I had got there first, and would he please move. Well, he acted like he didn’t hear me. But I knew he did, since I could see huge hearing aids below the cap jammed in his ear-holes like wads of old discolored gum.

With those monsters he could likely hear birds twittering six miles off. Seeing his pigheadedness, I indicated my sack of goodies under the chair. Now he acted like he didn’t see me, or my plastic bag either. But I knew he did, because he hadn’t found his way to the clinic and located my empty seat by his sense of smell, had he? He was just being an entitled jerk.

Now all my life I have been a pacifist. I never harmed a person or an animal unless I thought I could get away with it, and sometimes I was kind to inanimate objects just for practice.

But when I became a senior all that changed. My personality switched without warning from mild-mannered conciliator to seething malcontent in a split second. I could bring on this change in myself at will and I often did, leading to a number of brutal physical confrontations. Fifty-four times I’d seen combat since turning seventy, and my record defied belief. I’d lost all but twice, making me as good as undefeated, if you look at it that way.

So once I understood that gramps was not moving from my chair, I swelled with murderous rage. I nudged him with my arm, and when that failed to dislodge him I began using my aluminum walker to batter him a bit. Well, you would have thought I had insulted him or brought up the way he ogled minors. He swiftly removed a collapsible white-tipped cane from his jacket pocket, extended it, and began jousting with me, knocking over the display of fish oil caps behind me.

I began charging him bull-style with my trusty walker until I slipped and fell, and he added to the pandemonium by swinging his cane in my direction even after he toppled off my chair. Though I sensed both of us bordered on unconsciousness at this point, I managed to administer a rejuvenating insulin shot to myself, while my opponent took the opportunity to suck a few life-giving breaths from his portable oxygen tank.

Refreshed, we joined battle anew, and rolled as one into the anti-itch aisle. There his seeing-eye dog pulled me off him just as I was sawing into his jugular with my disability badge, and we lay collapsed side by side on the floor, drooling saliva and gasping like spent marathoners. It was one for the books, all right, and I couldn’t wait to get to my writing desk and jot it all down.

When store security got done talking to me, I lit out for home. I was still at risk for shingles, having neglected to get my shot, but I no longer cared. Let shingles descend upon me, I thought: I have words to set down. Madly I stamped over the lot in search of my car, my sack of stuff tied around the handle of my walker. It would kill my wife if I had lost the car, but then what wouldn’t kill her?

I encountered my next challenger, an ice cream vendor, out by the bus stop. The little salesman had parked his truck at the curb, turned off his racket, and sat inside, napping. His tiny physique, miniature white suit with yellow custard stains and pinch of white hair assaulted my senses. He resembled a child manikin or a voice-thrower’s effigy. His mouth, puckering like a goldfish’s as he slept, silently assailed me with the vilest epithets he or I could think of.

Of all the impudence, I thought. As if I could be intimidated by this doll-like, barely breathing popsicle pusher the size of a third-grader. Oh, I was itching for a fight. Two in one day would make for a thrilling new chapter in my memoir, titled Thunder in My Fists. I lurched into the truck…(To be continued.)


* Welcome to The Big Jewel, the world's foremost repository of radio history. Say hello to your Hindenberg announcer for the day, Dan Fiorella!

Great Moments In Radio History


It’s in your car. It wakes you in the morning. It’s on at the deli. It’s radio, one of the 19th century’s quaintest inventions! It’s still here, and it still works. Let’s see if KevinHart.com can make that claim down the road.

And you know why radio is still here? (No, not just to entertain the blind.) It’s built on a solid foundation of exceptional history.

It was in 1896 that Italian inventor Guglielmo Marconi developed and tested the first radio device. He transmitted signals out over a mile from his home. It was an immediate success, as people contacted him…

Caller: Hello, Mr. Marconi? Yes, hi, I was listening to your transmission, but I’m a first time caller. I agree with your broadcast, all right, but what about the children?

Before long, amateur broadcasters had sprung up like so many walk-in medical clinics around the USA. The major drawback was that only broadcasters existed — there were no broadcastees. No one was listening. Needless to say, radio in the 1910s was thought of as a geeky, clique thing. The term “radio nerd” first appears around this time.

In 1920 the Westinghouse Company established KDKA, the first radio station, in Pittsburgh. It was here that we saw the birth of “stunt” programming, when the station sent announcer Wendell Fedlock up in a hot air balloon to broadcast live from the annual county fair. It did not go well.

The Fedlock Tragedy, as it came to be known, was a minor setback for the medium. By 1922 there were 60,000 radio owners in the United States and they’d pretty much listen to anything. Hit shows of the 1920s included “The Stereotype Hour,” with its catchphrase, “How about I make-a you some-a nice spa-ghet?”, “Mel Talks About His Day,” hosted by a guy named Mel who talked about his day, and “Breakfast with the Pets,” which involved animals wearing microphones at feeding time. Each of these shows stayed on the air for a surprisingly long time.

By 1934 there were 600 radio stations broadcasting to 20 million homes. And those homes were getting particular. Now any show featuring dancing or charades was quickly canceled. On the other hand, Edgar Bergen, with his puppet Charlie McCarthy, became a superstar in 1937 as the first radio ventriloquist. Other novelty acts attempted radio series as well, with limited success. They included The Amazing Atwell, radio magician; The Flying Pimento Brothers, radio acrobats; and Adam Davis, radio plate spinner.

By December of 1941, people were getting jaded about radio. They dismissed the reports of the bombing of Pearl Harbor as another “Orson Welles trick.” Who could forget FDR’s riveting speech afterward as he declared, “December 7, 1941, a day that will live in infamy! No, really. I’m not kidding. It really happened. Stop snickering! Eleanor!!!!”

It was radio that brought us the news of World War II. Edward R. Murrow began broadcasting reports live from war-torn London. I mean, he told us he was in London. How would we know where he really was? It’s not like we could see him or anything. And those bomb explosions could have been the sound effects man making the noises with his mouth, you know? In retrospect, I realize now that Orson Welles really ruined radio for everyone.

During the war, radio became the home for the great comedians of the day. George Burns, Bob Hope, Abbott & Costello and Red Skelton all hosted popular programs, all competitive and all trying to top and outdo one another. In 1946, Jack Benny set the record for radio’s longest comedic pause in this classic episode:

Mary Livingston: Oh, Jack, you sold those nuclear secrets to the Russians for one million dollars! How could you?

(Pause. Long pause. Audience laughter builds and builds.)

Mary Livingston: Jack? Jack? Are you okay? Jack!

As it turned out, it wasn’t a pause at all. He had passed out from a high fever. That’s the way it was back then. The show always went on, despite illness and buzz bombs. Of course the Golden Age of Radio Comedy came to a crashing halt when “The Marcel Marceau Hour” premiered and was canceled two weeks later, right during the bit where he gets trapped in a box.

During the 1950s, radio became over-shadowed by television. As its stars and series moved to the new medium, radio shifted from comedy and drama to music. It became the incubator for rock & roll and a Mecca for teenagers. Kids would cruise in their cars with the radio on, listening to disc jockeys like Alan Freed or Wolfman Jack, playing “stacks of wax” and “pimple cream commercials.” Sometimes these were indistinguishable.

Back then, DJs would play music loudly, howl, honk horns and accept payola. The music lived on into the sixties, as the counter culture made its home on the FM dial, listening to the likes of Hendrix, the Airplane and Janis, sometimes with the radio on.

But again the times would change, and radio would reshape itself once more. In 1974 the FCC ruled that all morning radio DJs must be “wacky.” This, of course, brought the phrases “caa-caa” and “poo-poo” into the radio lexicon. Soon after came the rise of talk radio, a place with enough voices and opinions to drown out the voices and opinions in your head.

Today we live in a world with a thousand radio stations and podcasts that are just a click away. In an instant we can hear shows like “The Stereotype Hour,” “Mel Talks About His Day” and “Breakfast with the Pets.”

This is radio. It lingers on, and with it a tradition that broadcasters attempt to uphold and continue, from hot air balloons to lazy ventriloquists, to dining with pets and loud mimes. On behalf of them all, thank you for listening.


* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we sometimes feel the Middle Ages get a bad rap. Our good friend Dan Fiorella agrees. Heed the wisdom of his ancient nostrums!

Other Medieval Solutions To Modern Day Problems


We live in an era in which the government is trying to hawk “medieval inventions” like the wheel and walls as solutions to our modern-day problems, like illegal immigration and climate change. But I think we’re only scratching the surface here. There are practically dozens of medieval solutions that can be applied to today’s problems. Our staff at the monastery has been hard at work researching this and has come up with a couple of winners:

Sure, under “ObamaCare” you weren’t allowed to apply leeches to yourself to cure blood disease or imbalance of humors. We should seriously look into this. Do you know how many imbalanced people are out there?

Can you imagine how the economy would take off if we could take something like, say, clean, beautiful coal and turn it into gold? We need to get on this right now.

The rack
Face it: jails aren’t rehabilitating anyone, but what if we utilized a system of punishment that could make criminals taller? Wouldn’t that help them get jobs as professional basketball players?

Those stupid little cans of spray wouldn’t last two seconds against these spiked metal balls on a chain! People would enjoy self defense! That would be off the hook! Also, hooks.

The plague
Everyone keeps complaining about overpopulation and preserving our planet’s resources. The plague did the job once before — I bet it could do it again!

They’re like an ingrown wall, only filled with water. Maybe we should have made a stronger case for these.

The Crusades
Talk about getting the populace up and invoked! This would be a great way to motivate people and make them proactive. Also, it would help with overpopulation as well.

Too many buildings today are hermetically sealed against the elements to save energy. We need more chimneys or Santa won’t be able to give us all the toys and underwear we deserve!

The wheelbarrow
This was an amazing invention that combined the wheel and the barrow. You give them to immigrants, they load them up with all their possessions, and then they can’t get over the wall because the wheelbarrows are too heavy!

Don’t you wish you could time everything like a three-minute egg? That’s what hourglasses do! And we wouldn’t have to change them for Daylight Saving Time — we’d just have to lay them on their sides for an hour twice a year!

The printing press
No more hacking into our websites! We would have hardcopies of all our data and would only have to worry about water and fire.

Roman numerals
Show all those ISIS people and Taliban-ers that we don’t need their stinkin’ Arab numbers! And these are Roman numbers, so you know they’re good — they’re like the Latin of numbers.

I love soaps. Whenever I was home sick, I’d watch them with my mom. I had no idea soaps went back to medieval times! Oh — maybe that’s where they got the idea for those theme restaurant shows!

How cool would it be for our police to dress like old-fashioned robots? And how well protected would they be? If you’re against armor, you’re against America!

They cause bone spurs and that can come in very handy.