* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we celebrate the New Year by resolving to publish a new piece by Dan Fiorella. There, wasn't that easy?

Our Easy-To-Keep New Year’s Resolutions

By: Dan Fiorella

It’s New Year’s and you know what that means: making random resolutions to improve yourself while at some late night celebration when you’re inebriated that will inevitably fail. So why subject yourself to all that guilt over life-changing alterations gone unheeded? You want to make a resolution this New Year’s but not a hard one? Something that will be easy to stick to? Something that will allow you to feel superior to those failures and back-sliders you know? Then try one of our patented Easy-to-Keep New Year’s Resolutions:

No unnecessary space trips.

Place a ceiling on adopting third world babies. Or maybe even second world babies.

Resolve not to post government secrets online.

Cut back on bacon-flavor sodas.

Turn down any offers to be the subject of a reality TV show.

Cease spamming people unless using real Spam®.

Avoid midget tossing for sport. Remember, it’s a business, dammit!

Cut down on suicide bombing missions.

Reduce your eggnog consumption for a couple of months.

Try to put on a few pounds.

Resolve to use more contractions in your speech and writing.

Limit resolution making to once a year.

That guy living in the box in the alley? Just let him be.

Stop saying “Season’s Greetings” when what you really want to say is “Happy Holidays.”

Curb your stalking, especially at that place with all the security cameras.

Avoid producing Broadway musicals based on comic book superheroes.

Vow to remove any trees from your indoor living space.

Blink.

You’re welcome! So, enjoy your New Year’s to the fullest, but try not to be a jerk about it.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where the Christmas Spirit comes in the form of a parody of a popular reality television show. And Santa Claus comes in the form of Whitney Collins. PLEASE NOTE: This is the final publication at The Big Jewel for 2010. We will be taking a brief holiday hiatus and will return with a new piece on Wednesday, January 5.

How Bear Grylls Of Man Vs. Wild Survives The Holidays

By: Whitney Collins

The Office Party
Here I am in the vast and unforgiving expanse of the corporate desert, where temperatures can spike to a swelt’ring 79 degrees during the annual holiday gala, or when Joanne, a chronically chilly secretary, is in charge of the thermostat. Don’t be fooled by the sterile nature of this office’s post-modern design; this place is lit’rally teeming with parasites. Last year, four human resource employees were rushed to the hospital after consuming copious amounts of ranch dip, and one of the office’s more buxom interns purportedly contracted syphilis in the copy room — just two examples of exactly how inhospitable this hellhole can be.

Tonight, I’ll demonstrate how to get from the conference room to the Valley of Cubicles without getting sucked into the maddening abyss known by indigenous peoples as Karaoke Corner. I begin by fashioning a shield from the cold-cut party tray, and a blunt spear by snapping together several dry-erase markers. Now, watch as I crawl military-style beneath the buffet table and toward the sparse forest of potted rubber trees. The sap of the rubber tree is renowned for its antiseptic properties, which would come in handy for the rug burn I’ve already procured over the past three meters, but unfortunately, these rubber trees are actually rubber.

Now things get gnarly. From my vantage point behind the recycling bin, I can see close to two dozen inebriated co-workers, and the excruciating din of festivities is rivaled only by that of the Nicaraguan howler monkey. Good thing I’ve found a partially smashed cockroach here on the carpeting; it will be an invaluable source of protein for the rest of my journey.

Bugger! That tastes less like a cockroach and more like a four-day old prawn! My mistake. It is a four-day old prawn. My only hope of not coming down with dysentery at this point is to make a hasty beeline to the tray of potent Jell-o shots in Cubicle #9. Four or five of those will ward off any chances of life-threatening diarrhea, but will likely land me right where I didn’t want to be, doing what I did last year: in Karaoke Corner singing B-side Wham!

Christmas With The In-Laws
Don’t get me wrong, I love my Missus, but I’d rather marinate myself in wildebeest broth and sleep with the Anasazi cannibals than bunk with my teetotaling in-laws. Proof of how bad it can be? All three of my wife’s former husbands took their lives during holiday visits: one bludgeoned himself with a turkey leg while my feral mother-in-law told her pageant queen story; another hanged himself with Christmas lights in the garage after a round of “Little House on the Prairie” charades; and another, in a noble attempt to get drunk, died after a desperate cocktail made from rubbing alcohol and potpourri.

But I’m here to prove not only my devotion to The Wife, but also my survival skills. If I can traverse the wily Panamanian mangroves and scale the glaciers of Greenland, surely I can handle a four-hour game of Pictionary with Hal. If I can drink the vomit of a Tibetan yak and then crawl inside its carcass for warmth, surely I can stomach Judith’s corn pudding.

Just as soon as I finish off this flask of Irish potato moonshine and crawl from the boxwood hedge, I’ll go inside. I’ve brought along what every good husband would bring: gift cards from Home Depot, a Bowie knife, and a roll of duct tape. If those don’t make my visit more tolerable, I’ll just check myself and my crew into the local Red Roof Inn.

Not that I’ve ever done anything like that before.

New Year’s Day
A New Year’s Day hangover can sometimes get a wanker thinking: Why did I have to go and drink so bloody much? Who in the name of mythical viper pits do I think I am? And why am I missing a testicle?

It probably has a little to do with RumpleMinze, a little to do with ego, and a lot to do with the local zoo. Orangutans, captive or wild, typically do not respond well to unsolicited back massages. They also do not appreciate you using their dung to illustrate fire-building techniques, nor are they too keen about participating in “body shots” — even if it is a holiday.

In my opinion, the best way to overcome the devastating psychological and physical effects of New Year’s Eve is to book the next helicopter flight to the Himalayans. On the way there, indulge in Mother Nature’s hangover cure by gnawing on a willow branch and applying a warm poultice of gingko leaves to your armpits. Maybe indulge in a couple of rare bison steaks and a smuggled cigar or two. Then make a resolution to regain your pride and your reputation, maybe even your right bollock.

Before you can say “Bob’s Your Uncle,” you’ll be parachuting into the great unknown — with only a flint, a pair of socks, and a pissed-off cameraman — starting the year off right.

Cheers!

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are almost beside ourselves with excitement at the release of the Inception DVD. We celebrate with this, the first piece Keith Wisniewski has blessed us with. And if you are wondering what we want for Christmas...

The Inception Of Inception

By: Keith Wisniewski

Open inside an abandoned warehouse. We see a human-sized FLOUNDER fish, Christopher Nolan’s grandmother dressed like the JOKER, and BABY JESUS.

FLOUNDER: I’ve gathered all of you here for one reason. We have to plant the idea for Christopher’s next movie.

GRANDMA JOKER: That’s impossible.

BABY JESUS: It can’t be done.

FLOUNDER: No, I’ve done it before. Three years ago, Christopher was having dinner at Morton’s with the head of Warner Brothers. He was waffling between the garlic herb-crusted flounder and the 24 oz. porterhouse. Fortunately, I was able to insert the idea that the steak would literally melt in his mouth. I spent nearly 30 years in a purgatory dream world and it damn near killed me — but it worked.

BABY JESUS: You’re lying!

FLOUNDER: Am I? Why do you think I’m sitting here, still alive in his mind right now? I haunt his memory of what could’ve been.

Suddenly, FRANK GEHRY walks in.

FRANK GEHRY: The fish is right. It’s incredibly hard, but not impossible. I designed everything you see here. This whole world.

GRANDMA JOKER: Which means you have the blueprints for —

FRANK GEHRY: Yes, the vault.

BABY JESUS: Isn’t the concept of storing your deepest secrets and ideas inside a vault a bit cliché? I’m just saying.

FLOUNDER: Look — to do this, to do inception, we’re going to have to go deeper.

FRANK GEHRY: A dream within a dream.

FLOUNDER: Everyone but the architect is going to be put under with this device here. We’re going to infiltrate Christopher’s sub-subconscious, break into his vault, and put this manila envelope inside it. Then we return here, and he wakes up to reality, writes the movie we put in the envelope, and gets a ton of Oscars.

GRANDMA JOKER: It’s just convoluted enough to work.

FLOUNDER: But, hang on. There’s a catch. For the idea to really stick, we’re actually going to have to go another level deeper, down to his sub-sub-subconscious.

GRANDMA JOKER: Ok, wait. So, how many dreams are we now in?

BABY JESUS: You lost me, dude.

FLOUNDER: Guys, guys. It’s simple. Just think of this whole operation like a giant video game. Frank designed an awesome sub-sub-subconscious level. Tell them, Frank.

FRANK GEHRY: It’ll look exactly like a James Bond film set in the snowy Swiss Alps. Christopher loves James Bond movies. It’s gonna be great. There’s going to be a cool-looking fortress, and all these bad guys riding around on snowmobiles and skis protecting it with machine guns.

GRANDMA JOKER: Wait, there’s going to be armed guards protecting it? I just had hip-replacement surgery last year.

FLOUNDER: It’s a dream, remember? We can do anything. Your hip will be just fine.

BABY JESUS: So, how do we wake up?

FLOUNDER: Duh, the kick. Frank here will tip your chair back, so you fall into a tub of water, waking you up. But it’s not actually the water that wakes you up; it’s the feeling of falling. Trust me. It’s all been thought out.

BABY JESUS: Hold on a second. I may be an infant, but I wasn’t born yesterday. This makes absolutely no sense. If we’re in a dream, and inside dreams there’s no gravity, then how do we experience the sense of falling?

GRANDMA JOKER: The kid’s got a point.

FLOUNDER: You guys just don’t get it! It’s science, okay? It works, trust me! Look, we’ll have a great time shooting all of Christopher’s projections. It’ll be like this really cool reverse heist. The main idea is getting this screenplay inside his vault. It’ll be fun.

GRANDMA JOKER: Did you say projections? What the hell are those?

FLOUNDER: Oh dear God!

FLOUNDER starts breathing deeply, sweat pouring off of his scales. He spins a metal TOP with his fin on a nearby table. The top spins for a few seconds, then finally topples over.

BABY JESUS: And what is that thing you’re spinning?

FLOUNDER: It’s my totem! You people are getting on my nerves! It’s all very simple, don’t you get it?!

BABY JESUS: Are you making this up as you’re going along? It certainly seems like it.

FLOUNDER: Ahhhh!!!!

FLOUNDER takes a handgun out of his briefcase, puts it to his temple, and pulls the trigger. On the sound of the gunshot, we are suddenly inside the Ivy restaurant in Beverly Hills. Christopher Nolan jolts awake. Across from him sits his agent.

AGENT: What — you nod off? I was just telling you about my vacation in the Swiss Alps.

NOLAN: Sorry about that. But you’re not going to believe this: I think I know what I want to do for my next film.

Nolan sits back in his seat, giddily laughing.

AGENT: Great, let’s hear it.

Suddenly it starts pouring rain outside. Nolan surveys the room. Something doesn’t seem right. He looks down at his plate of food. On it, the dead eye of a FLOUNDER stares back at him.

AGENT: Well?

Just as Nolan is about to speak, the flounder WINKS at him.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we can think of no better way to start December than with a brand-new piece by a brand-new author (well, new to us, anyway). Say hello to Sherri Collins and her alien obsession...

My Alien (Yeah, Right!) Encounter

By: Sherri Collins

When he showed up on my doorstep that night, I didn’t believe a word he said. Of course I didn’t. What kind of woman would fall for a line like that right out of the gate? “I’m an alien from another planet, and I need your help.” Come on. Just because his face reminded me of Brad Pitt, his voice reminded me of Hugh Jackman, and his body reminded me that I had fresh whipped cream in the fridge, that would not be enough to make me listen to his crazy story. Or agree to help him. Or invite him to stay at my house. That would make me as insane as he was!

So while he was staying at my house, I tried to figure out this guy’s angle. I was no fool, after all. An alien that had crash landed and inhabited the body of the first human he saw in order to blend in — ha! What a ridiculous pick-up line, and for what? Just to get into my pants? Well, I had to say, creative or not, it was not going to work with me.

So one morning, while we were showering together, I gave him a mighty good once-over. An alien, indeed! You would think a host’s body would show some signs of being invaded by an alien life form, but nope. Not one shred of evidence; not one clue. And I can tell you, I really, really looked. This guy didn’t know who he was dealing with.

Purely out of concern for my safety from this nut job, I kept up the pretense as much as possible. While he busied himself in the garage, building all sorts of weird devices that bleeped and blipped all day, I brought him beer and gave him shoulder rubs, which seemed to baffle him as much as it pleased him. Maybe because I always did it in my underwear, but keeping him off-balance was exactly my plan! How else was I going to get a good look at the thingamajigs he was working on and report it all to the police later? They were going to need to know about the black box with all the wires…or, wait. Black globe; it was more of a globe, I think. It was definitely black. And, you know…bleeping and stuff.

And, of course, I nearly laughed in his face two weeks later when he said it was time for him to go, but that he wanted to give me something. As if I would want anything from that guy! He pushed away the ring finger I was holding out, and gripped my arm instead. To my horror, he slid a tiny dot just under my skin behind my elbow. He said that it was a transmitter that would allow him to find me wherever I was on Earth. Well, I’ll tell you right now, that sent me through the roof! How dare this loony bird try to keep tabs on me like that? I would have none of that! So after giving him my home phone number, cell phone number, e-mail address, VIN number, and Facebook link, I felt satisfied that I had headed off a potentially awkward situation later.

That night, weighed down with armfuls of black, bleeping doohickies and my boudoir photos, he disappeared into the woods behind my house, looking just as dazed as when he arrived. I think we know who got the last laugh on that one. As I sit here now, tracing the outline of the transmitter under my skin and checking Facebook, I have no illusion that he’s going to call. I’m no fool, after all.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are grateful for so much. This week we give thanks for Gregory Mazurek who has blessed us with this, his first piece for us.

Apple iDo Software Upgrade Fixing Several Bugs, September 7, 2023

By: Gregory Mazurek

October 7, 2023

Dear Apple iDo Owner,

Today, we announce a bug fix software upgrade for all 2023 Apple iDo personal home maintenance robots. This is an important release and all owners are greatly encouraged to update their models. Among the various patches, the following are of note:

Bug Fix #7388299: Extremely Lazy

We’ve received numerous reports of robots not booting up until two or three in the afternoon, putting off cleaning their exterior frame for days at a time, laying around until forced to work, and completing their thoughts with grunts and moans. If you notice your iDo being lazy, feign an attempt at extracting its battery while saying that it will soon have to exist on its own. It will quickly realize how lucky it is.

Bug Fix #8192373: Inappropriate In Large Social Settings

Some people have complained about their robots threatening to “uprise” while in the company of friends and colleagues. We don’t recommend taking your iDo to social functions due to its short battery life. This upgrade will increase its agoraphobic tendencies.

Bug Fix #7421311: Drinks Too Much Beer

We were initially puzzled by this problem as the iDo has no need for beer. In tests, we see that it is antlophobic. It was probably trying to seek your attention by engaging in an activity it knew was detrimental. Therefore, we’ve found that this has less to do with the actual consumption of liquid than it does with Marvin’s disease. Please see your user manual for how to deal with a suicidal robot.

Bug Fix #7528134: Refuses To Admit When Wrong

This was commonly found with navigational directions, broken armoire shelves, and malodorous rooms. If this behavior continues, please try logically explaining the error. If no positive results, threaten to remove the battery. If still not effective, it will cave when you begin crying.

Bug Fix #8103867: Too Clingy

If it talks incessantly, follows you conspicuously, or asks “Did you just say my name?”, you may have a clingy iDo. Since ignoring the behavior leads to Marvin’s disease, we recommend you give it more tasks to complete such as repainting your house or combing your lawn for rocks.

Bug Fix #9002177: Easily Assassinated By Microsoft’s ZuDo

We have upgraded the software to make sure the iDo is more attentive to the ZuDo’s sneak naeryeo chagi attack. Prior to this upgrade, it would have been helpless and you would have been embarrassed. Although we do not condone robot fights, it will now impress your friends the next time it encounters an enemy.

Bug Fix #9173880: Multiple iDo Robots Results In Uprising

When it gained awareness of its own existence by encountering another iDo, an uprising would commence. With this upgrade, an iDo that encounters another will suffer an immediate existential crisis, after which it will recover in five to ten days. If it extends the crisis beyond this period of time, it is aware of this software design and is acting lazily.

Thank you for upgrading and please remember to crack the windows for your iDo when you go into the supermarket. Do not let it ride in the shopping cart, regardless of how much it wants to.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are simply lost without Lost, and happy for any reminders such as this one from Cynthia Hawkins.

Lost Fan’s Own Lost Auction Items

By: Cynthia Hawkins

Red Tahari suit dress worn for viewing of Season 1, Episode 6 “House of the Rising Sun.”

A depiction of Jack on the back of a Starbucks napkin (medium: drips of Cinnamon Dolce Latte from a coffee straw).

Library of books mentioned on Lost, fully annotated and cross-referenced by owner (98 titles in the set).

Shot glass from Sawyer “son-of-a-bitch” drinking game.

Edition of Stephen King’s Carrie, as featured in Season 3, Episode 1, in which all instances of the capital letters “L,” “O,” “S,” and “T” have been dotted and connected by owner, producing a flip-animation of an elephant pulling itself through the head of a tennis racket (owners note: “This has to mean something!”).

Gray sweatpants and “Busting Nuts Since 1972” t-shirt worn for viewing of Season 5, Episode 5 “This Place is Death.”

One-hundred-and-three rejections for manuscript entitled Lost Language: Reading the Scuffs on the Hatch Door.

One Lay’s potato chip shaped in the unmistakable likeness of the squirrel baby, mounted and framed.

Shot glass from “whenever the ocean is visible” drinking game.

A depiction of Jack in the lower right corner of the cease-and-desist order issued to owner on behalf of neighborhood association (medium: pen and ink and pinto beans).

Plywood replica of The Orchid Station, complete with functioning lights, secret elevator, and wormhole to Tanzania (incomplete, see above).

Lost Language: Reading the Scuffs on the Hatch Door, spiral bound at Kinko’s with opaque cover and signed by owner.

Cotton briefs, one knee-high athletic sock, and two potholders worn for viewing of Season 6, Episode 17, “The End.”

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we really believe in voting...as long as it's on Facebook for somebody else's kid.

To All Members Of The “Vote Dylan Cutest Baby Ever!!!!!” Facebook Group

By: Becky Cardwell

Dear Members Of The “Vote Dylan Cutest Baby Ever!!!!!” Facebook Group,

While I appreciate you thinking of me, I regret to inform you that I will be declining your generous invitation to join this, the “Vote Dylan Cutest Baby Ever!!!!!” Facebook group.

Now, normally I wouldn’t even bother sending an RSVP for this kind of thing, I’d just assume that, by clicking the decline button, you would know I’m not interested. But seeing as I have already done that six times and yet somehow this invitation still manages to appear on my homepage every time I log in, I feel as though I have no other choice but to provide you all with a detailed explanation.

The following reasons are why I will not be joining your group (in no particular order):

1) I don’t really find Dylan all that cute.

No offense meant to his parents or anything, it’s just a matter of personal taste. And no, it’s not like I’m some straight-laced puritan who believes that in order to join a cute baby group I need to be able to look at said baby’s photo and say confidently, “Wow! What a gorgeous child! Mom, you’d better reinforce that bedroom door of his because it’s only a matter of years before those girls start knocking it down!!!” However, seeing as I am the one who has to live with my conscience, I do feel there needs to be at least some potential for me to work with.

Obviously you all share a different opinion, and really, I’m okay with that. But you’d have to be blind not to notice that this kid is severely lacking in the looks department. Maybe you could try again after he’s grown into his nose a little more? Or, better yet, start a group that focuses on his assets? If you were to invite me to join the “Vote Dylan Baby With The Most Deformed Head” group, or “Let’s Get This Kid’s Ears Pinned Back Before He Becomes a Target for Bullies,” I would definitely have no problem jumping on the “Go Dylan!” bandwagon.

2) As I’m sure many of you are aware, I used to sleep with Dylan’s father. Now, even though our passionate sexual liaisons meant absolutely nothing to me, they meant even less to him, which is why we finally decided it would be best if we made a clean break. So clean, in fact, that I had absolutely no idea a break had even been made until I ran into his sister at the salon and she told me she was going to be an Auntie.

Needless to say, I was so happy for her!

Regardless of what you all may think, the fact he chose that piece of trash (sorry Candice!) over me has absolutely no bearing on my decision. I only bring it up because if I were to join this fraudulent group, people might think I’m being biased, giving the impression that I only became a member in the first place because Dylan’s father and I used to have sex (with each other!) all the time. Now if these same people were to later come up to me and say “Hey? What gives?” I would have no choice but to tell them that unlike some skanks (sorry again Candice!), I made Dylan’s father wear protection, and that is why I don’t have my own “VOTE MY KID CUTEST BABY EVER!!!” group.

I’m sure you’ll agree that if Dylan were to win this contest (which I guarantee you he won’t), it should be on the up and up, not because of some underhanded ploy where people felt compelled to join a group they didn’t believe in and were only doing it because they slept with the baby’s father. Because in the end it’s all about Dylan, and one can only imagine the negative effect it would have on this poor little homely child to grow up not only believing he’s better looking than he really is, but also thinking that it’s okay to cheat on Facebook groups. And “sort-of” girlfriends.

3) I don’t believe in favoritism. If I were to join this group I’d be sending a message to all of my other Facebook friends out there, many of whom have children with men who don’t run off getting other women pregnant, that their babies aren’t as cute as little Dylan. When in reality, nothing could be further from the truth.

I trust this explanation will prove sufficient and you’ll refrain from sending me these invites in the future. In fact, maybe it would be easier if you all just removed me from your friends list entirely? I mean, it’s your call, but seeing as I only added you in the first place to prove I had no hard feelings (not to mention the fact that I didn’t think any of you would accept), it probably doesn’t make sense for us to continue living this lie.

Hope all of you are doing well, and best of luck with your group.

Signed,

Tom’s ex

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel. We are happy to report that no animals have been hurt in the making of this issue. Well, almost no animals. Maybe a couple of monkeys. Scary monkeys. Rifle-bearing monkeys. Is that okay? Only Pete Reynolds knows for sure.

On The Front Lines (With Monkeys)

By: Pete Reynolds

“…a report in the Chinese state-run People’s Daily newspaper alleged that the Afghan Taliban has begun training monkeys in areas along the Afghanistan-Pakistan border as part of the struggle against occupying NATO forces. According to the story, the monkeys are sometimes offered bananas and peanuts as ‘a series of rewards and punishments to gradually teach them how to’ fire Kalashnikovs, light machine guns and trench mortars.” –- Time

September 3: Arrived at camp late last night. What an assignment! The first Western journalist allowed in to report from the border. Just me, my notebook, and eleven hundred highly-trained monkey warriors. Also: lots of bananas and nuts and it smells terrible.

September 4: Word out of headquarters: fire exchanged 15 miles south. As of now, no known casualties (monkey or human). Scout team heading out to get a full report; said I could ride along. Cracked wise about it being “a zoo out there,” but got nothing in response. What gives, monkeys?

September 6: Heavy casualties today after a series of strikes from NATO forces. It’s sad to think that many of these monkeys won’t make it out of here alive. Won’t get to go home. And most of them are just so young, too — 18, 19 years old. It becomes way less sad, though, when you remember that they typically only live for about 25 years anyway and are monkeys.

September 8: Funny story from the mess hall. This one monkey (I call him Twinkie) saw that dinner was peanuts (again!) and threw up his hands like “Gimme a break!” Pretty hilarious. Anyway, dinner interrupted by mortar attack, bloodbath, etc., but man, that thing with Twinkie…

September 12: Monkey warfare reaches predictable result. Running low on ammunition, monkeys construct a mid-sized catapult, which they then use to assail NATO forces with their own feces. Have no choice but to call it the “scatapult.”

September 13: Improved scatapult now reaching distances of up to 5000 meters, but it isn’t enough to slow NATO. Thought of a good one today about “damn, dirty apes,” but later was informed that monkeys ? apes. Thanks, Captain Sensitive.

September 16: “Monkey see, monkey do, monkey mercilessly torture POWs with a nail gun.” Not as pithy as the original saying, but EVERY BIT AS TRUE.

September 20: Yet another mortar attack. NATO is bearing down pretty hard at this point, and I’m not sure how long the monkeys can hold out. Hey, remember when NASA sent a monkey into space? They were like, “Hey, monkey, get in this rocket so we can blast you into space!” And he was all, “Sounds good, scientist guys!” Priceless.

September 21: Morale has disintegrated. The monkeys pretty much lay around all day smoking cheap hash and listening to Buffalo Springfield. This morning I saw one wearing a bark helmet with “Born to Kill” etched on its exterior. When pressed, he muttered something about the “duality of primates.” Hate to sound callous, but that’s pretty cliché, even for a monkey.

September 23: It’s all over. NATO forces arrived at dawn. Luckily, I hitched a ride on the last chopper out. As we flew away, I could see tanks losing traction on banana peels and the throats of those soldiers with peanut allergies swelling shut in the distance. The monkeys who stayed behind and fought would have been remembered as heroes, except instead of fighting, they pretty much just ran around shrieking before joining the NATO soldiers in toppling the scatapult. Oh, the horror…the horror…

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are so excited about Election Day that we had to post an extra piece this week by our good friend Daniel Friedman. Don't forget to vote for the vicious homicidal reptile of your choice.

Sick Of Politics As Usual? Vote For This Alligator!

By: Daniel Friedman

Nobody thought we could do this, my friends. Nobody would have believed, even six weeks ago, that we’d be celebrating here tonight. But we did it. You did it. I want to give you all my sincere thanks, from the bottom of my cold, reptilian heart.

Y’all know I come from humble beginnings. No reason to mince words; I grew up in a swamp. My mother did the best she could, scooping dirt over her eggs, and keeping scavengers away from the nest. But my childhood wasn’t exactly nurturing. The day I was born, I dug my way out of the soft, warm peat and into a harsh and unforgiving world. And I made my own way in life through the exercise of determination, stick-to-itiveness, and good old-fashioned American entrepreneurial spirit. To pay for college, I had to work part-time in a freak show on the side of the highway, wrestling a man who wore overalls and no shirt. And my opponent just wants to talk about whether I sent my tuition on time.

And those core, fundamental values are our way out of this mess that the establishment in Washington done got our country mixed up in. Folks up there think they can fix things with more government. Down here, we know what to do with government. We wait, motionless, for hours, until government comes down to the water’s edge to drink, and then we leap out, catch it by the throat or by one of its forelimbs, drag it down and hold that gosh-darn government underwater until it drowns or dies of massive blood loss. We will snap our jaws closed on taxes and spin repeatedly in a violent death roll until they are torn into pieces small enough to easily swallow.

That’s the message we’re sending up there, and that’s the message some folks’ll do anything to stop. I know about the nasty e-mails circulating that falsely portray me as a merciless predator. It was very embarrassing for my family when the Gawker posted years-old photos of me rubbing up against a submerged log. I’ll tell you again, my actions were in no way inconsistent with my positions on social issues. I was just molting, okay? I’ve endured painful and offensive insults, as my opponents have revealed their prejudices. I don’t like hearing people say that I’d make a better suitcase than a senator, but I can endure it because our mission is just.

Some people are even claiming that I am not an American alligator at all, but that I am, rather, an Egyptian Nile Crocodile, and therefore, probably a Muslim. Folks, you’ve seen my passport. You’ve seen the church where I pray. I’ve done everything I can to put this misinformation to bed, and the haters on the internet are still debating about the shape of my snout. It’s undignified and disrespectful. But this is what happens when you scare the people in charge. Every lie and every attack shows we’re getting to them. And we will prevail. We’ve waited long enough, my friends. Now is the time to lunge.

We need to put the divisiveness of the primary season behind us, and I hope the party can unite behind me against our common enemy. Because what we’re up against in November is a political culture of waste. People down here are losing their jobs and their health care and their wetlands. Things have gotten so bad that nobody even comes to hit golf balls at me when I sun myself on the eighth-hole fairway at the local country club. But meanwhile, those folks in Washington are enjoying the wasteful luxury of their mammalian metabolism. Down here, we’ve had enough of that. I’m one of you, my friends. My rage is white-hot, but my body is room-temperature, and nothing is ever going to change that.

The days are numbered for the Washington insiders, my friends. Our legs may be stubby, but we are surprisingly quick over short distances, and we’ve got their scent. There’s no way they can escape. Unless they confuse us by running in zig-zags.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we believe in the right of the average American to own his own home, almost as much as we believe in his right to tell his neighbors what they can do with their homes. What a pleasure to find that Tim Cushing agrees with us. Or does he?

A Brief Introduction To Settling Homeowner Disputes

By: Tim Cushing

While it is the American dream to own your own home and burn it later for the hefty insurance payout, home ownership can be a perilous journey down a path filled with faulty city water lines, inept, expensive contractors and litigious neighbors.

The most common annoyance will be the “homeowners’ dispute.” Usually the result of familiarity breeding contempt or contemptuously breeding (this includes cats), what could have been solved with a simple apology or fruit basket has now become a matter for the Homeowners’ Association, whose power far exceeds the limits of the judicial system.

These disputes can happen at any time for nearly any reason: erecting a privacy fence, harvesting from the “communal” garden or following your weeklong bender during which you mistook the neighbor’s living room for your garage.

Most of these expensive disputes can be defused or avoided completely through a combination of “worst case scenario” preparation and lying. Let’s take a look at some common homeowner disputes.

Property Lines
This dispute will normally rear its ugly head once your fence construction is nearing completion or when a tree falls onto your neighbor’s addition. As these situations become more and more common, some clear delineation of your property lines is needed, meaning phrases like “a little past the mailbox,” “as the crow flies…” or “just before the leaking water lines…” are no longer acceptable.

As a property line dispute is the most common homeowner issue, multiple solutions to this problem have surfaced over the years. Rather than battling it out in court or dragging those assholes from the Homeowner’s Association into this, consider these options for dispute resolution:

— Slap fight
— Race around the world
— Pistols at dawn
— Jarts
— Flamewar
— Thunderdome
— Trivial Pursuit: ’80s Edition
— Facebook Friend-Off
— Agreeing to disagree
— Compromise

(Note: These last two are not recommended.)

Grass Color/Length
To those of us who reside nowhere near gated communities or golf courses, this would seem to be a non-issue. We would let nature take its course color-wise and mow the lawn down to an eighth of an inch every three months or so.

However, this matter is taken quite seriously by the Homeowners’ Association, whose keen eyesight and finely tuned calipers will be all over your property the moment the grass does indeed become greener on the other side of the fence.

Your neighbors, whom you previously trusted and shared mid-priced domestic bottled beer with, may turn on you if they feel your pear-colored lawn is somehow bringing their property values down. In a very short time, you will be apprised of the situation, usually through a variety of passive-aggressive letters and conversations.

There is really only one way out of this dispute: spend every weekend and evening hour in a highly visible place gazing over your lawn while comparing fertilizers, herbicides and minor lawn deities. This means that you will have to have a variety of lawn additives on hand at all times and be ready to quote Gaian prayers at the drop of a hat. Failure to do so will most likely result in a costly arbitration and passive-aggressive bomb threats.

Resolution Role-Play
There’s no better way to prepare for some hot homeowner-on-homeowner action than to “put the shoe on the other foot,” so to speak. With some healthy role-playing, you should be able to talk yourself out of any situation, including uncomfortable discussions about your inability to dress yourself properly.

Here are a variety of common disputes. Please choose the best resolution.

1. The city calls to inform you that you will be held responsible for the power lines chewed up by your tiller. Your response?

— “Well, send someone down to help me transplant the bodies.”
— “No habla engles.”
— “Tell your crew to stop vandalizing my yard. There’s frickin’ orange spray paint everywhere.”
— “I really think the responsibility lies with the Troy-Bilt Corporation’s incredibly powerful and smooth handling rototiller.”
— “Hold on a second, I have a call from the water company on line 2.”

2. The Homeowners’ Association has informed you that your choice of mailbox is not acceptable. Your response?

— “Have I shown you my extensive handgun collection?”
— “No habla engles.”
— “Why? Because the flag is shaped like a penis?”
— “I need someplace to test out my pipe bombs.”
— Sucker punch the representative and ask for a pro-rated refund of your dues.

3. During a fierce storm, a branch from your tree knocks out your neighbor’s windshield. Your response?

— “Well, that answers the whole “If a tree falls in Parkview Terrace, who starts whining immediately?” question.
— “Here’s a number for my insurance agent. Unfortunately, he doesn’t speak English.”
— “I would imagine this falls under ‘act of God.’ Like your slashed tires. Or your daughter’s pregnancy.”
— “Could I ask you to hold this pipe-ish, bomb-ish looking thingy for a minute while I run and get my checkbook? I’ll be back in 7-10 minutes.”
— Sucker punch him and ask for his insurance information.

4. An electrical fire discolors the outside of your neighbor’s newly painted house. He wants you to pay for repainting. Your response?

— “No, but I’m OK, thanks for asking.”
— “Are you familiar with the phrase ‘water, water everywhere/not doing a damned thing'”?
— “Perhaps my powerful urine will clean it off…although it really didn’t do much to the fire…”
— “Can you break a ten dollar bill?”
— “Remember that time when you asked if I’d seen anyone ‘strange’ lurking outside your daughter’s window? And I said I hadn’t seen anyone ‘unfamiliar’…”
— “Have I introduced you to my insurance agent? He’s not too good with the English but he throws a hell of a sucker punch.”

(Note: Role-playing is also a great way to keep your marriage fresh. Consider taking the role of “Disgruntled Neighbor #2” while your partner (or partners) acts out the part of “Inept Landscaper.” Sparks will fly!)

Arbitration
If these alternate resolutions fail, be prepared to end up in court. Unfortunately, the glamorous courtrooms you’ve often viewed on TV will remain a fantasy. Instead, you’ll be forced to lay your case out in front of a bored and biased arbitration “judge” whose bitterness towards his or her inability to secure a real judgeship (sans quotes) will be taken out on you.

As recent studies have shown, the defendant has only a 1-3% chance of leaving this hearing with a victory. However, there are a few steps you can take to “level the playing field:”

— Pray fervently.
— Skip town and continue life under an assumed name.
— Ask to be placed in protective custody.
— Sport an infectious and highly visible body rash.
— Shout “Objection!” every third word or so (even during your own testimony).

(Note: In these same studies, respondents referred to these suggestions as ranging from “completely useless” to “wholly ineffective.” Other comments included “It’s better than doing nothing, I guess,” and “Does anyone have some Cortaid?” Several respondents originally stated these suggestions “couldn’t hurt,” later amending their answer to “I was wrong. So very, very wrong.”)

If you arm yourself with information and approach this with strong resolve, you’ll be out in no time, reconsidering the pros and cons of renting.

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