The vile little bastards jabbered on endlessly, speaking of Lana Del Rey and Gossip Girl characters and futile high school athletic competitions, torturing me merely for attempting to listen. It was maddening talk, gibberish. Real sentences, but with incoherent words. Bobby was stoked on Sara and sometimes Mara but hella hella stoked on Beth, who lived in B-town and was “rolling that push-up bra.” Their words had with them, to my mind, the terrific suggestiveness of words heard in dreams, and phrases spoken in nightmares. And for a moment it seemed to me as if I also was buried in a grave full of unspeakable secrets.

Jet Blue was normally an adequate courier, offering us food and water as if we were actual people, and free satellite TV so none of us would talk to each other. Yet theTVs were broken that flight, and every moment without them seemed to lead me further into the heart of an immense darkness. The horror! The horror!

I don’t abide conversation. I prefer to ride airplanes with my eyes closed, pretending Benjamin Franklin is sitting next to me and I’m introducing him to the majesty of flight. He would gift me a glass harmonica which he himself had invented, and I would gift him a semi-nude photo of Katy Perry to show him how far society had improved since his time. “She walks around like that all day, every day,” I’d say to him, his eyes lighting up with jealousy.

The rest of our conversation would go something like this:

 
Ben Franklin: What’s happening? The vessel is shaking!

Paul: That’s the plane’s engines starting up. Soon we’ll travel at a great speed and lift into the air!

Ben Franklin: Like kings of the sky! This is magical!

Paul: I invented flight, you know.

Ben Franklin: You magnificent bastard!

Paul: I’m one of those two things, yes.

Ben Franklin: We’re doing it! We’re flying! You’re a genius, Paul Ryan!

Paul: Thank you, Ben Franklin! I am a genius!

Ben Franklin: When I get back to whatever time period I’m from, I’m going to tell everyone how splendid you are! We will declare a holiday in your name, when the bars and brothels shall be free for you and your kin!

Paul: *fist pump, freeze frame, cool Paul Ryan theme music plays*

 
Alas, this vivid fantasy was constantly interrupted by shouting, unintentional elbow jabs and occasional requests for chewing gum, the currency of the prison from which these savages came. “Leave me alone!” I thundered back at the small child next to me. “I’m unemployed and a miserable failure at life! Leave me to my Skydreams, where Ben Franklin and I are the bestest of friends!”

A few moments later, I was interrupted again as the child beside me asked who Ben Franklin was.

The word “hella” rang in the air, was whispered again and again, was sighed. You would think they were praying to it. A taint of imbecile rapacity blew through it all. By jove! I’ve never heard anything so unreal in my life. These small bastards struck me as something terrible yet invincible, like evil or truth, and I patiently prayed for the passing of their fantastic invasion.

Feeling bold, I attempted to make polite conversation with the unbearable child next to me. “Ever any madness in your family?” I asked him. “You can tell me. I am not such a fool as I look, quoth Plato to his disciples.”

The child looked at me curiously and replied, “What?”

The boy tried to receive further clarification, but my soul had descended into madness. Being alone on this plane, with such loud and useless children, I had looked within myself and by heavens, I tell you I had gone mad. This plane had become one of the dark places of the Earth.

I let the boy ramble on, this paper-mache Mephistopheles, and it seemed to me that if I tried I could poke my fore-finger through him, and would find nothing inside but a little loose dirt, maybe. Yes, he was loud and stupid – as are all children – but if you were man enough, you would admit to yourself that there was in you just the faintest trace of a response to their terrible noise. A dim suspicion of there being a meaning which you could comprehend from their bizarre interests and opinions.

“Do you watch ‘It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia’?” he asked. “I like Charlie, and all of them except Mac. Mac is weird.”

“Yes,” I said, smiling, realizing we had just connected and understood one another for the first time, we of such differing ages. “Mac is everyone’s least favorite character. He is unsettling and creepy. Now shut up, kid. I don’t want to talk to you.”

Well, I’m not, but I’ve decided to add the title to my name anyway. There are too many regular Paul Ryans in this world. The Twin Cities metro area has eight of them. Los Angeles has 12. Wisconsin has a Congressman with the same name, causing at least one stranger every day to make some tired joke about me running for president. The comic book world has a famous illustrator with the same name. The soap opera “As the World Turns” had a character named Paul Ryan who died while fucking a raccoon or something weird like that. Taylor Swift’s birthname was Paul Ryan before she changed it for show business.

It’s time to separate myself from this pack of fartbags. As I see it, there are only three ways to accomplish this: 1) Pretend I’m a doctor and call myself “Dr. Paul Ryan”, 2) Wear a dress and call myself “Lady Ryan”, or 3) Legally change my name to something unique and classy, like “Fanta Poon”. The first of the three options is the cheapest and easiest, so I’m going with that one.

And why shouldn’t I? Hunter S. Thompson did it. Sure, Thompson had a lot more talent and success, but did he ever poop off a balcony? I have, and it was exhilarating. The wind nipping at your bum, the danger and mystique that high altitude excreting brings, the beauty of watching a small bit of yourself soar through the air like a greenish-brown angel, the hope that a Kardashian is walking below and is not wearing a hat.

Wait! Don’t leave! I’ve done other things. Um, I have traveled to Milwaukee. I once tried to use a Canadian restroom, but got confused and left. A very exotic woman with large breasts once said hello to me in an elevator. I have seen every episode of “Sonny Spoon”, a 1980s TV show that IMDB.com described as “a show in which Mario Van Peebles gets in and out of scrapes.” I’ve never met Jack Kerouac or The Hells Angels, but “That 70s Show” actor Kurtwood Smith once offered me a soda when I delivered a script to his home.

I also own a leather couch. I’m sorry, but if someone owns a leather couch, they should be called “doctor”. Once you shell out the dough for such a luxury, the whole “mister” thing is a little misplaced, don’t you think? I bought it from Ikea, so it’s like twice what a leather couch should cost, and the cushions are sewn into the frame, which I don’t really understand. Regardless, it’s classy as all hell. We would all look good on it whilst smoking a pipe.

Granted, I’m also unemployed and do not currently own any other furniture except the couch. I also do not own an automobile, a buttoned shirt that costs more than $20 or a degree from a university that doesn’t have a hyphen in its name, but a title like “doctor” is all about the attitude. Act like a doctor and people will start calling you “doctor”. If you ask me to, I will gladly check you for any medical ailment, except penis stuff.

Dr. Paul Ryan. That’s the sort of name teenage girls write over and over again in their school notebooks while sighing audibly. That’s the sort of name presidents appoint to be the head of some sham governmental department that doesn’t actually do anything. That’s the name of a real doctor somewhere with a legitimate medical degree who will be angry when some of his patients read this and ask him why he pooped off a balcony.

My whole life, I’ve always wanted to be something special. I’m not brave enough to be an astronaut. I’m not strong enough to be a fireman. I don’t speak Spanish, so jobs cleaning the toilet at Arby’s are off the table. Life has given me no choice but to pretend to be someone who would be awarded a doctorate.

For Christ’s sake, Southampton College in New York gave an honorary one to Kermit the goddamn Frog. Don’t tell me I can’t have one. He was a puppet. I’m a real, live person who needs to get laid more often. Give one to me. An Honorary Doctorate of Being Awesome. Failing that, how about an Honorary Doctorate of Being Shitty? Or more appropriately, An Honorary Degree of Not Having Done Anything At All. I’ll take whatever you’ve got.

Due to overwhelming popular demand (and a sincere laziness on my part), this week’s column is a selection of some of my favorite letters. All of them are real. I couldn’t be this funny on my own if I tried. Enjoy.

“Sir, I think you are a disgusting pig to write such trash.”
-Catherine

“You need serious psychological help.”
-CJ

“Don’t put shit on pages that Poland is a shitty place. I come and beat the fucking shit out you bitch.”
-John

“Hey look bitch delete me from column. Fuck you who are you? Bitch of the son.”
-Ercan

“It just so happens that my little brother came across your column he read all the swears boob rubing, ass squeezing and peanus sucking you mentioned now he is going up to his little friends and they are repeating. I would love to sit here and complain but I have a kid to talk to about some language issues from the newspaper.”
-Lisa

“How do you get Christina Aguilera’s e-mail.”
-Anonymous

“i think pual that avril lavin sholud not be a singer because she used to be a reporter and she could be scaming you and also i now she is doing modaling and she is leting boys put there dicks inside her funny and bum witch i think is descasting”
-Carly

“You do not have permission to post the photo of the Steve Guttenberg star map. Delete it.”
-Michelle

“You mentioned that Clay Aiken sucked but I think it is you that sucks.”
-Traci

“My friend has the same surname as you and is obsessed with vampires.”
-Crisp

“Hi, I am doing a film on PETA and animal rights. I see you are offering $50 for someone to punch one of their members in the face. Would you be willing to be interviewed on camera about this?”
-Andrew

“I’m not sure why you call the waste plant a Poop Factory, because factories are places where things are manufactured and/or assembled, whereas the waste treatment plant is occupied with getting rid of the poop. The real Poop Factory is, in fact, your colon, Paul.”
-Bruce

“It’s bear season here. I need to know what to do if I see a bear and it is being humped by one of the beastialists.”
-David

“Thank you, sir, for your article on Jennifer Love Hewitt’s absence of nudity in ‘The Tuxedo’. You spared me the trouble of renting the damn thing.”
-Brian

“This one time, I threw up at a movie theater when i was in line to see ‘Zoolander’. People moved away from me like I was going to throw up on them. Just because I puked on one girl doesn’t mean I’m going to throw up on all 23 people that stood in line. And the girl didn’t really care, she just started to cry.”
-Pamela

“I have recently purchased a car that was highlighted as being once owned and driven by you. If you have any information that you could share with me it about this car you would be doing me a great service. Thank you for your time.”
-Geoffrey

“I don’t like Bobby Flay, but you’re cool.”
-Elyza

“I know closet homosexuals that are funnier than you, queer.”
-jgabbard@taylor.navy.mil

“I have just one question about your column: Why all the cursing?”
-Dan

“I don’t give girls ding dongs I give them the Kong Dong, it’s similar, creme filled and all.”
-Joe

“Alex Trebek feeds the poor.”
-Jake

“Go fuck a lamppost.”
-Greg

“Congratulations Paul, people are interested in meeting you!”
-OK Cupid

“If I wrote a column, I would talk about such important issues as the poor quality of pornography videos and DVDs. I would complain about how Senators are not naked. I would ask how a no-fault insurance company can subrogate in the case of an out-of-state vehicle and collect double compensatory damages, without having to pay back the subrogee. These are important issues that you just seem to not care about any more.”
-Erik

“I’m gonna pray for you. You really need it.”
-Anonymous

On that note, the first present I require is Mr. T cereal. I know it hasn’t been produced since 1986, but figure it out, people. Find it. If I don’t wake up the morning of my birthday with Mr. T cereal already poured into my mouth, ready for chewing/breakfasting, I will throw a temper tantrum that will make Naomi Campbell’s temper tantrums feel like a free blowjob.

I have a large list of required gifts this year, and you will buy all of them for me. You will buy them for me or I will kill you dead. I desire and require the following items: $5,000 in unmarked and non-sequential bills, a unicorn that won’t make me look gay when I ride it, a banana tree that’s just tall enough where I can lean out my apartment window and take bananas from it, my column published in The Atlantic Monthly with all curse words intact, a signed art print of Huey Lewis’ “Fore” album cover without any fucking snide commentary about it, and Lizzy Caplan and Kristen Bell. Just bring them to my apartment. I’ll handle the rest, using a little bit of Paul’s Charm.

Paul’s Charm is a drink made of lime Kool-Aid and sleeping pills.

I don’t want to hear any goddamn excuses this year. “But Paul, you want things that don’t exist” or “Those gifts are expensive, and you haven’t spoken to me since the third grade” or “You didn’t buy me a gift for my birthday, so why should I get you one?” Stop it! Just stop it! I don’t want to hear any of this bullshit. If I hear one more person treading water on my birthday gifts, I’m going to asphyxiate you all like David Carradine.

Don’t improvise on my presents, either. I don’t want some stupid little hat you knitted. I don’t want some amusing shirt you found in Hot Topic. I don’t want a goddamn book about comedy writing authored by The Farrelly Brothers. Don’t try to bake me cookies – I’m diabetic, you sick son of a bitch! All I want is the money, the unicorn, the banana tree, the art print, my filthy tripe in The Atlantic and two kidnapped actresses. That’s it. It’s like six things. Stop being lazy.

Also, I want Whitney Cummings and Chelsea Handler’s sitcoms taken off the air, and their heads bashed with a mallet. Also, I want Leonardo from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles to appear at my birthday party. He is my favorite turtle.

Am I being unreasonable? Probably. I live in Hollywood. Creating unreasonable drama is what we do. Get used to it, because this current generation of “people” grew up idolizing Snooki and the Kardashians, and once they enter the work force, you and everyone else in the world are probably going to hang yourselves.

So why not get me some presents before you off yourself? I know some of you may be strapped for cash. That’s why I’ve come up with a few simpler ideas for presents (notice the plural). For instance, let me play one game of Call of Duty where 12-year-olds aren’t allowed. I just want to get one kill without receiving a message titled “Faggot” or “Faggot!!!!!” or sometimes the more Anglo-Norman “Fagget!”

Here’s another great, simple gift idea: Find me a job. Any job. And so help me God, don’t say Arby’s, because I’ve applied there seven times and they always look at me funny and say, “Aren’t you that guy we banned for drinking horsey sauce straight from the spout?” and I say no, and then they take out security camera footage of it.

More cost-effective ideas: How about a $10,000 gift certificate to White Castle, or a $5 gift certificate to your sister? Perhaps you could not talk to me for a week, or let me play games on my cellphone when I’m supposed to be listening to you. Maybe you could help me get run over by a cab so I could live off the settlement money and never have to interact in a social setting again.

Pick and choose, mix and match. I don’t care. Just get me some goddamn presents. Clearly, I deserve them. I’m handsome (but not too handsome), I’m smart (but not too smart), I smell like a brand new Macbook Pro and I don’t roll up my jeans. Those credentials must be worth something in this world. They have to, otherwise the universe might as well just take a dump and start over from scratch.

Get me something. Do it now. Then wake up tomorrow and get me more stuff. Then give it to me and immediately leave. I’m 33 years old and this is what I want. This is what everyone who is 33 years old wants. Give me cool stuff, leave, and let me get drunk alone while watching Japanese samurai movies. That’s it. Happy birthday to Mr. Paul. Good morning, good afternoon, good night.

Hobo: Hey man, got any Kit Kats?

Paul: What?

Hobo: You got any Kit Kat bars?

Paul: You’re panhandling for Kit Kat candy bars?

Hobo: Yes.

Paul: Doesn’t that seem . . . a little specific? Maybe you should just ask people for change, and then you can use the change to buy Kit Kat bars.

Hobo: Seems like you want me to add a middleman. I don’t care for that. These days, our country produces useless middle management workers almost exclusively.

Paul: Do you even know what country you’re in right now?

Hobo: Spain?

Paul: No, not even close.

Hobo: Africa?

Paul: That’s a continent. A continent with lions. Have you seen any lions lately?

Hobo: Am I in a country on the continent of Africa?

Paul: Again, do you see lions? No. You’re in America. A good general rule is if you see fat people instead of lions, you’re in America.

Hobo: Shit. I’m worse off than I thought. Do you have any Kit Kats?

Paul: No! I have some change. Take it. Use it to buy Kit Kats.

Hobo: No, I’m afraid my political and socioeconomic morals don’t allow for that.

Paul: You’re a hobo! You have poop all over your pants!

Hobo: Yes, but it’s my poop. I didn’t pay someone else to do it for me.

Paul: Having me buy Kit Kats and then give them to you is actually more complicated than . . . Jesus Christ, I have a migraine. Look, it’s 7am. I can’t deal with this first thing in the morning. I don’t have any Kit Kats. Sorry. Leave me alone.

Hobo: Adios, mi amigo!

Paul: You’re not in Spain!

The hobo moves to a seat across the aisle. A few moments later, a transexual sits next to Paul.

Tranny: Hey man, got any Mounds?

Paul: Is that a pickup line? Gross.

Tranny: No, man. Mounds bars.

Paul: Like the candy bar?

Tranny: Yeah man, got any Mounds bars?

Paul: No! Dear God, no. Has anyone ever said yes to this question?

Tranny: No.

Paul: Have you ever, over the course of your entire life, seen someone physically purchase or eat a Mounds bar?

Tranny: No.

Paul: Then you already know the answer to your question.

A moment of silence.

Tranny: So do you have any Mounds bars?

Paul: Holy shit, no. No a thousand times. I am not a vending machine.

Tranny: I’m not leaving here until you give me a Mounds bar.

Paul: Well, good luck with that. I guess we’ll be hanging out together until we’re both dead.

A moment of silence.

Tranny: So do you have any Mounds-

Paul: Things have not changed from twelve seconds ago! And by the way, it’s rude to just ask for things whilst providing no conversation whatsoever. Maybe that tip will help you in your future searches for terrible candy bars.

A moment of silence.

Tranny: So . . . what do you do for a living?

Paul: (sighs) I work as an assistant.

Tranny: That’s unfortunate. I’m sure things will pick up for you soon.

Paul: You’re a tranny who panhandles Mounds bars!

Tranny: Yeah, but I’m not a male secretary. (to the hobo sitting across the aisle) Hey man, got any Mounds bars?

Hobo: Why yes, I do! Here you go!

The hobo takes a Mounds bar out of this pocket and hands it to the tranny.

Tranny: Great, thanks!

Hobo: My pleasure!

Paul: Where am I? Is this a dream? Did I eat some kind of bizarre Indian food last night? What’s going on?

The tranny takes the Mounds bar and places it in a bag that has roughly 200 Mounds bars in it already.

Paul: What the hell is that? You don’t eat them?

Tranny: No, I just collect them.

Paul: What do you mean you collect them? Collect them for what?

Tranny: When you were a kid, did you collect baseball cards?

Paul: Yeah.

Tranny: Well, I collect Mounds bars.

A moment of silence. Paul is puzzled.

Paul: Do you have a favorite?

Tranny: A favorite what?

Paul: A favorite Mounds bar from your collection?

Tranny: What? No. They all look the same. What are you, crazy?

Paul: I can’t take this anymore. I’m not even halfway to work, but I’m leaving this bus. I can’t stay here.

Paul exits the bus at the next stop.

Tranny: What a weirdo.

Hobo: I know, right? These city buses are full of freaks.

I cease to give a shit. I shant give a shit. I hath none shits to giveth, evermore.

I know human resources people will research me online. I know they’ll find a treasure trove of offensive material that any dope could use to make a case against hiring me. It’s almost impossible not to do so. I’ve published 1,202 humor columns over the past decade. 1,201 of them include the word “poop”. The comedy troupes I’ve been in have produced a dozen videos online where I make a fool of myself. My favorite is titled, “Rape Cologne”.

I’ve started online petitions, using my real name, demanding that we replace American currency with Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and force Wisconsinites to use sodomy as the only form of currency. I’ve petitioned to behead wealthy people for all crimes, even just parking tickets, and to require athletes to have photos of their shrunken testicles printed on billboards when they get caught using steroids.

In the past week, I’ve posted at least 100 comments on various websites in which I accuse recently deceased painter Thomas Kinkade of “selling glow-in-the-dark turds out of shopping mall toilet stalls.”

Don’t get me wrong. I care about getting this job. A lot. I really need a full-time job, and this position I’m interviewing for would be perfect. But after 10 years in the real world trying to hide my comedy habit from employers, I no longer give even one-quarter of one-eighth of one percent of a shit about potential employers researching me online. Let them research. Let them snoop. Let them use a fake account to friend me on Facebook and then curl their lip over a curse word I used in a post. I no longer give a fat shit.

The things people post online give no insight into their work ethic, demeanor or general usefulness in the workplace. Look at me. I write jokes about poop on the internet, yet in real life my work references include the chairman of a film studio, the president of a major indie film studio, and an executive producer of the longest running TV show in history. Sorry you didn’t like that joke about Snooki trying to snort cocks up her nose like cocaine, but you’re the one who spent hours digging for it. I didn’t put it on my resume.

I know hiring people is a difficult job. Predicting whether an employee will be a flake is about as easy as predicting the winner of the Super Bowl 20 years ahead of time. This uncertainty causes us to dig for as much dirt as possible. But snooping around people’s Facebook pages won’t tell you much. You’ll learn how much they love Florence and the Machine and what their high score is on that Draw With Friends game that people use to send drawings of penises to each other, but mainly you’ll just end up overthinking what should be a very basic decision: Do they have good experience and references? Do they seem to live up to their credentials in person? Then hire them.

My first real job after college was as a reporter for a small newspaper. After I was hired, the editor jokingly made a reference to one of my humor columns from college. He had researched me online before hiring me, and found my entire website, with every childish column and blog post I had ever written. I asked why he hadn’t brought it up, and he said it wasn’t important. My work experience, references, and demeanor in the job interview were solid. My website’s edgy content only confirmed that I had a sense of humor. I worked at that newspaper for four years and did quite well, even winning a few awards. My editor had no regrets. As long as I wasn’t talking about him in those columns, he didn’t care. And neither should anyone else.

So don’t take offense when I say “I don’t give a shit” about you finding this column, HR people. It’s just my friendly, mildly kinky way of welcoming you to my personal life, and reminding you that you really have no business here. So browse and enjoy, but remember that none of this provides any insight into my future at your company. The only thing this column proves is that I’m incredibly handsome, which may prove overly distracting to your female employees. I think that’s worth the risk.

P.S. If your browsing leads you to any columns about “diarrhea waterparks” and people who wish there was more diarrhea in diarrhea waterparks, those articles weren’t written by me. Those were written by Congressman Paul Ryan (R-WI). He is a filthy, filthy man.

“It’s a water park. Please stop calling it a Diarrhea Park,” said Tom Franklin, owner of the Diarrhea Park. “It’s very unusual for people to get sick from water parks. We had a few cases of cryptosporidiosis last week, and we apologize for that, but the problem is fixed and there’s no reason to write sarcastic news articles pretending that we purposely give people the runs.”

Water parks and public swimming pools are well known for purposely giving people the runs. They specialize almost exclusively in filthy, pee-ridden water seasoned with toddler poop and dead skin from elderly people. Those who visit water parks usually do so because they enjoy forcefully swallowing other people’s pee as they dive into the water from a platform ripe with invisible foot fungi. Chlorine helps to give the diseases a tangy flavor, but if too much is used, the diseases are killed, leaving only clean water and chest hair from Finnish men in the pool.

This is not the first time Duluth’s Diarrhea Park has been caught using clean water. Millie Monroe, an epidemiologist for the Minnesota Department of Health who specializes in poops, said she’s found clean, healthy water in the pool at least three or four times over the past decade.

“The fact that this is happening again is an outrage,” said Monroe. “There’s supposed to be poop in there. Why would I pay $80 for a hotel room next to regular water? I’m paying that price because I want to open my mouth underwater and taste everyone in the pool. All I tasted last week was chlorine. No jizz or soiled diapers, just chlorine water. It’s like eating a sandwich that only has mayonnaise on it.”

Longtime customers of the diarrhea resort are equally upset about the mishap.

“If I’m not going to get crypto, I don’t want to be here,” said Tom Hennessey, a father of four. “My entire house is filled with noisy children and my loud, ugly wife. The only alone time I get is on the toilet, and having the runs for two straight weeks is the only way I’m going to finish reading The Hunger Games.”

When informed that cryptosporidiosis can also cause nausea, dehydration and a low-grade fever, Hennessey became even more wistful.

“Oh man, that sounds so great. It’d bring me back to my college days when I still had money for drugs. I hope they fix that place soon. Daddy needs a break.”

Spokespeople for the park claim many cases of cryptosporidiosis may have gone unreported, and some customers may be diseased right now without even knowing it. The majority of customers said they’re still planning to stay away until the water levels are brought down to standards. Franklin is planning to brown bag his lunch for the next few weeks to offset the loss of profits. He also canceled plans to purchase a cat, and may instead have to settle for buying a single cricket from Petco. He will name the cricket Smuckers.

“Please don’t quote me in this thing,” said Franklin, all six lines of the Diarrhea Park’s phone ringing endlessly on his desk. “I’m very busy here, and you keep making up all this weird stuff about brown bag lunches and cats. Is that supposed to be funny? I don’t get it. I have two dogs. Why would I buy a goddamn cricket?

“And stop calling it a Diarrhea Park! We’re a fun, family-friendly [diarrhea] destination that has [diarrhea]slides, a twisted [diarrhea] typhoon, and a [Diarrhea] Tumbler with a four-and-a-half story [diarrhea] swirl! Why do you keep adding brackets in front of the things I’m saying? You did. I can see it on your notepad.”

Monroe has requested that the fouling of the water be expedited.

“If you currently have diarrhea or have had diarrhea within the past two weeks, please come to the Diarrhea Park,” said Monroe, looking like Sarah McLachlan in those animal cruelty commercials. “We need you. The Diarrhea Park needs you. It needs your cryptosporidiosis. Get in your car and drive as fast as you can. We need your bare ass in our pool.”

“No! Don’t come here!” screamed Franklin. “Don’t send diarrhea people to our pool! Are you crazy? What the hell is wrong with you? This is not a community toilet! This is not a hot tub at Wisconsin Dells! If you’re sick, stay home! This is a safe, fun place for families! There’s no swirling allowed here! I will arrest anyone who tries to swirl in my pool!”

As Franklin yelled, Monroe could be seen at the top of the tallest waterslide, removing her pants and slowly crouching.

 
Reviewer arrested for inciting thespian riot

Dennis Kempton, editor of Oeuvre Magazine, was arrested Friday evening for writing an honest theater review. Kempton didn’t like a show, gave his honest opinion in a polite, fairly tame review, and was taken into custody shortly thereafter.

“This is a close-knit arts community. We don’t want honest feedback here,” said Detective Sergeant Trotter of the Duluth Theater Police. “Theater reviews should be free advertisements, nothing more. The lifers who have acted and directed here for years have created a nice little bubble of comfort and safety for themselves. If we allow constructive criticism to burst that bubble, our theater scene may actually become useful to creative people who wish to improve their skills and someday move on to a larger, more competitive market where they aren’t coddled.”

Kempton will be tied to a large rock and dropped into the Mississippi River at sunrise tomorrow. If he floats and survives, he will be burned for being a witch. If he drowns, his corpse will be burned to prevent his evil spirit from possessing other reviewers.

 
Hey, look! A boat!

You’ll never believe what will be in port tomorrow! It’s a boat! Yes, another one! It’s full of iron ore pellets, just like all the others! This boat, built in 1983, was originally called the Baranga Maranga, which is Scottish for “Boring Ship That Carries Pellets!”

Want more info on slow-moving things that no one under the age of 90 or above the age of six will find interesting?! Call our motherfucking boats hotline!!!!! It’s updated 24 hours per day with hot, sexy information on up to three boats!!!!! I love exclamation points and boats!!!!! BBBBBRRRRRRRMMMMMMM BOOOOOATS!!!!!!! Seriously. Boats. You guys. Boats.

 
Party with a policeman program starts Monday

The Superior Police Department is holding its annual “Party with a Policeman” event Monday. Just show up to the police department drunk and holding a six-pack of beer, a large bag of marijuana or a nose full of cocaine, and you’ll be given a free chocolate chip cookie by Superior’s finest! Offer valid Monday only. Select residents may be arrested instead of cookied.

 
Come see a photocopy of Paul Ryan’s penis

The College of St. Scholastica will be hosting a rare viewing of a photocopy of columnist Paul Ryan’s flaccid penis in the campus library. Just walk up to the desk and politely ask the librarian to see it. If she acts like she doesn’t know what you’re talking about, become indignant and loudly accuse her of being a penis hoarder.

Please do not attempt to make a photocopy of the photocopy. Ryan has strictly forbidden this, for fear that non-professionals may accidentally hit the “reduce by 90%” button, causing his penis to be shown in its actual size. Also, please don’t hit the “darken” button, because that would ruin the surprise of next year’s art show, “Paul Ryan’s Penis in Blackface.”

I can’t get meetings with TV networks. I’m not a well-known writer. My friends and I don’t even have agents or managers. We have the same amount of clout in show business as old men who mail angry letters to studios over reruns of “NYPD Blue” that they find offensive. In fact, we have less clout than those old men, because elderly people are a huge source of revenue for networks. They’re the only people left on Earth who don’t use DVRs to fast-forward through commercials.

Filming your own TV pilot is the sort of thing you do when you’ve lived in Los Angeles for six years and realized that landing a job as a TV writer is about as likely as winning the Powerball or meeting a Playboy Playmate in the men’s room of a Denny’s restaurant. One day your ten-thousandth “Please stop sending us unsolicited scripts” rejection letter arrives in the mail and you say, “To hell with them. I’m going to film something myself. How hard could it be?” So you write a script, buy a cheap consumer-level HD camera and find filming locations where you’re least likely to get arrested for trespassing or stabbed by hobos.

My friends Matt and Mike and I have all worked lower level “gopher” positions on professional TV pilots, fetching coffee for people and running errands. We’ve watched professionals film things. We’ve also been producing five-minute comedy videos online for years. We figured a pilot of our own would have a level of quality somewhere between old episodes of “Saved by the Bell” and – if we were lucky – that episode of “Diff’rent Strokes” where Dudley gets molested by the bicycle shop owner.

It wasn’t as simple as expected. The first mistake I made was choosing a really complicated subject matter for the script. Our comedy pilot was about a homeless man who comes into an inheritance and must learn to readjust to civilized society. Most sitcoms have two filming locations, maybe three. Ours had ten. Plus two montages with multiple locations each. Basically put, I am an idiot.

My second mistake was choosing to only film on weekends, rather than just taking a few weeks off from work and filming it all at once. When searching for actors or crew members to help with your production, nothing quite intrigues them like the idea of giving up all their weekends for three straight months. We found a few actors willing to help us, but had to play the largest roles ourselves. We had no crew members, so whichever of the three of us weren’t in a scene would work the cameras and sound equipment. In a few scenes where all three of us were on camera at the same time, we would just press the record button and have no one behind the camera.

I don’t know how we managed to get good footage. I don’t know how we survived each shoot. All I know is by the end of our three months of filming, the three of us wanted to murder each other. Here’s a conversation from our first day of filming:

Paul: How was that?

Mike: Great!

Matt: Good stuff. Let’s film one or two more takes for coverage. This is gonna be really good.

Paul: Awesome! This is going to be a perfect TV show!

And here’s a conversation from our last day of filming:

Paul: That was shitty. Should I do it again?

Matt: I don’t care. I cease to give a flying shit about any of this anymore.

Paul: I don’t care either. Fuck it. And fuck you too, by the way.

Matt: Fuck me? Fuck you, dickface!

Mike: Would both you guys just shut the fuck up already?

Paul: I hope you both die in a car accident on your way home.

The third mistake I made was assuming that at least 15 percent of things would go as planned. I’m not sure what I did to upset the nature of the universe, but we were cursed from the start. It rained endlessly, delaying and halting filming multiple times. Mike collapsed in the middle of one of our shoots, requiring us to call an ambulance. Our lead actress had to fly to New York at the last minute because of a death in the family. One of our actors simply didn’t show up, requiring us to completely change our opening scene with no notice. A hipster who owns a barber shop threatened to call the police on us, leaving us with only one take of a key moment.

But it’s done. Matt is finishing the editing, sound work and removal of the 94 percent of shots in which I accidentally looked into the camera. You’re not supposed to look into the camera. Matt repeatedly told me not to look into the camera. His mentioning it just made me look into the camera more. I am not a skilled actor.

Is our pilot perfect? No, but it turned out well. It will make people laugh. The footage looks good, the performances other than mine are excellent, and even my acting is still slightly better than Jerry Seinfeld, or The Daily Show’s Jon Stewart in that horror movie he agreed to do in the late-90s. It works, and that’s more than I can say for “Whitney”, “Are You There, Chelsea” and the generic “I’m a detective who’s really perceptive” shows that will eventually replace them.

Ryan has written for the Reader Weekly since 2002, when publisher Bob Boone discovered him and naively assumed Ryan would someday write insightful content instead of dick jokes. Ryan is widely considered “over the hill” and has suffered several notable injuries over the past few seasons. Last year he had Tommy John surgery to repair his writing arm, and his work hasn’t quite been the same since.

In his prime 10 years ago, Ryan was a Nobel Laureate and three-time Pulitzer Prize winner at the University of Wisconsin-Superior, where he wrote about boobs and various things he was proud of having urinated upon, just like he does now. But the genre of poor taste Ryan helped pioneer has been hurt by an oversaturation of material over the years. Film and TV studios now produce brash sexual content almost exclusively. Crudeness, it seems, has become a cliche.

“Hunter S. Thompson once said, ‘When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro,’ and that’s become very true,” said Miguel Gorbachev, a world-renowned expert on classic literature and badger fellatio. “Crudeness is done, it’s passe. Once the mainstream establishment starts using it to make money, it ceases to be a tool for the nobodies to freak out the squares.”

Ryan doesn’t seem concerned. He likens himself to actress Lindsay Lohan, who’s also been reduced to producing mediocre content during rare bouts of sobriety.

“She’s an unbearable, obnoxious piece of garbage, just like me, and she also only has $14 in her checking account right now, just like me, but we’ll both rise again,” said Ryan through a translator, who for some reason was hired to translate Ryan’s comments into Chinese. “The Reader Weekly doesn’t like me now, but just wait until I write my next column! It’s a list of tips for students, or tips for Irish people or something. I dunno. It’s gonna be a list, though. People love lists. Hu Jintao shangdi baoyou, wo de makesi liening zhuyi de lingzhu he zhu!”

Ryan then asked his translator not to translate the last sentence, so people won’t know he’s a Communist-Marxist-Leninist spy.

Despite being demoted to the minor leagues of shitty, irrelevant news publications, Ryan’s contract still allows him to earn his full salary of $3 in Brewhouse gift cards this year. However, Publisher Boone’s move will still free up nearly $6 in Duluth Family Sauna “dude massage” coupons the following year. Boone will use those coupons himself.

Asked what Boone told him to work on in Superior, Ryan said, “He basically just wanted me to work one town away from him so I’d stop deleting his cellphone contacts and shaving his cats while he sleeps.”

Besides Ryan, the Reader also optioned reporter Barb Olsen to AAA Superior. Boone said Olsen was writing content that made the rest of the newspaper look “really shitty” in comparison. Rumor has it Boone is looking to use her freed up gift cards to hire Duluth News Tribune Editor Robin Washington.

The News Tribune is expected to counter this by offering Washington occasional use of the company jet, which is actually just an old cardboard box that columnist Jim Heffernan found in a dumpster and decorated like an airplane. Heffernan and colleague Sam Cook often ride in the box together, taking turns pouring each other martinis and pretending they work for the Minneapolis Star Tribune.

Ironically, Star Tribune reporters often play make believe in a similar cardboard box, pretending it’s a coffin and that sweet, sweet death has freed them from their miserable, thankless line of work.

Ryan has already begun rehabilitating himself and planning his comeback. He’s been working with retired league MVP Slim Goodbuzz to improve his alcoholism, and has even reached out to Hall of Famer Paul Lundgren in hopes of learning how to write a coherent sentence that doesn’t include the word “vagina”. Scouts have noted multiple appearances by Ryan at Lundgren’s 12,000 square foot solid gold mansion in East Duluth.

“Paul Ryan wants to be that guy,” said Scout Paul Whyte. “He wants to be unreasonably wealthy, like everyone else who writes part-time for alt-weekly newspapers in markets that can barely support two movie theaters. He’s got the drive, but he’s almost 33 years old, and I tend to wonder if he has any magic left in him. Most alcoholic, meth dealing, slut hoarding, Pokemon collecting, cocaine-fueled necrophiliacs like Paul lose their ability to write around the age of 27. Here’s hoping a family member molests him or he loses a leg in a farming accident so his writing can become interesting again.”

To his credit, Ryan said he’s been trying to get molested for decades, without any success.

In the meantime, be sure to catch Ryan’s new column, “Feeble Meanderings”, in Weekly Todd. This periodical is available exclusively in massage parlors and bars with wood chips covering the floor.