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Archives: Feb 2013

A new face

It’s been nearly seven years since I’ve updated my column photo. I’ve been asked many times to update it, both by the newspaper staff and my readers. These people have a range of theories as to why I haven’t updated my photo. Some assume I’m now grossly obese. Others suspect I lost an eye while fighting a hobo for a discarded sandwich. A few people believe I’m wanted by police for a series of bestiality charges.

Well, all of those theories are wrong except the last one.

I actually look about the same as my current column photo. The low cost of plastic surgery in Mexico, combined with the fact that you can buy botox in large barrels on Amazon, has helped me remain unreasonably handsome. Combine those advantages with the fact that I hate going outside and never leave my apartment, and you’ve got a modern day fountain of youth.

John Munsell: A man who was not a douche

“We missed you at auditions last night,” said John, a sad look in his eye.

“I know, sorry,” I said.

“You didn’t show up.”

“Yeah, I was really busy.”

“Look, I know this isn’t what you want to do with your life. You’re majoring in journalism, you’re going to be a writer. You’ll be a great writer, but this isn’t about a career. Once you get the courage to step up on that stage, it will change your life. You’re good at it. It comes naturally for you. I just wish you would have come out the other night. We really missed you up there.”

Then John Munsell walked away, shaking his head like a disappointed father.

Great Expectations

Man: Happy Valentine’s Day, darling! I wrote you a poem.

Woman: That’s so romantic! Read it to me!

Man: Okay. Ahem. “The rooster crowed, beckoning the morning mist, as I ejaculated inside the Mervyn’s
saleswoman with the force of a thousand bald eagles.”

Woman: Um . . .

Man: Shit, sorry. That’s the wrong sheet of paper. That’s actually a chapter from a novel I’m writing. Do
you wanna know what it’s called?

Woman: Not really.

The Bet

The clock shows 4pm, but Duluth is already dark. Thick black clouds hang heavy in the sky, rolling into one another and reforming. A dense fog snakes through the city, seeping into every alleyway and storefront. As the cold wind makes the doors of city hall shudder, a half-naked humor columnist seizes the opportunity to slip inside the building without making a sound.

Mayor Donny Ness sits with his back to his office door, methodically plugging numbers into an Excel spreadsheet. The intruder – covered only by a thin, faded pair of plaid boxer shorts – creeps into the office with the most careful placement of footsteps. Not a rustle, not a breath, not a creak of the floor. Just perfect silence.

The typing stops, and a soft click is heard from behind the mayor’s chair. As the intruder approaches, Ness swivels around in his chair with a cocked pistol in his hand. The cruel smile on his face could curdle a gallon of milk.