Dating Advice From Little Lord Fauntleroy

Ah, springtime is nigh around the corner and it should come as no surprise that minds will give way to matters of the heart. No you silly goose, not cardiac arrest, but the act of being arrested in love!

I, Little Lord Fauntleroy, have decided to share a few share some tips and tricks to fetching the attention of a new beau or jo.

Firstly, dress-to-the-nines everyday. Only festal garb bedecked in the finest velvets and silks will catch the eye of a potential suitor. Women, only the most lavish French couture will suffice. Gentlemen, I cannot oversell the necessity of a fine codpiece. But, nothing unbecomingly stupendous, otherwise you'll not be cumming then, stupid.

Titter, titter, titty.

Now, once the proper attire and accouterments have been obtained, put out an order into the meeting market. Perambulate yourself to the closest salon/public house/emporium. Now it is time to offer your wares. But be wary of sycophants as they usually offer syphilis.

Cackle, cackle, cuckold.

Lastly, and most importantly, you must take your new playmate into your bedding chambers. Now it is time to consummate your bonking. While many prefer a contraceptive, most are receptive to hump like dogs

Guffaw, guffaw, Guy Fawkes

You have now been informed on how to date, now go forth and procreate.

Pooh-pooh, pooh-pooh, Turd.


The Comments I Made After Awesome Car Funmaker's Last Show.

As we have witnessed Awesome Car Funmaker's last show, I would like to make a remission on the behalf of Ryan Corcoran. According to an article from the Isthmus, the name Awesome Car Funmaker came from some notion Justin had while in the bathroom... probably checking his glucose levels because he's a dirty diabetic.

This is untrue, not the diabetes, the name story. I used to be in ACF and have the story of the actual origin. I wanted the name of the group to be Funmaker because I was denied acceptance to an Indian pow-wow drum group because my last name was not Funmaker.

Funmaker. Rather common surname if you're Ho-Chunk, rather comical if you're not.

Myself, Ryan, Brendan and Justin all agreed Funmaker was a fantastic name. Andy Ioudechescu, the not Adam drummer, was the hold out on the name.

Andy was into racing and souped up cars. He owned a Beamer and a VW when we started the band.

I wanted to win him over on Funmaker, so I affixed Awesome Car on there to sweeten the deal and also to call him out as a douchebag. Well, the name stuck.

I lived, loved, toured and, honestly, adored these guys for a very long time. I met Brendan because he did an article on me for school. Let me reiterate that; I met him because he wrote about me for a class. That is unbearably endearing.

In closing, to quote ACF:

It is easier to leave than to be left.

But to also quote them:

Throw another log into the fire; the fire. Dinosaur. Roar, Roar, Roar.


25 Methodically Thought Out Things About Me.

1. I was born on January 21st, 1982 after my mother was in labor for 46 hours. She resoundingly stated, "If he moves to Chicago and decides to start doing comedy, this birth was all for naught. I'll kill him."

2. Mary Brown does not know my current Chicago address.

3. When I was three, I lived in a city in Wisconsin called New Holstein. This moment remains the Sconniest I've ever been.

4. One afternoon in August, I was playing in my backyard in New Holstein. It was next to a cornfield that went on for acres. I disappeared from my mother's sight. The police were called and they sent a helicopter to look for me. The entire time I was hiding in a cupboard, y'know, as a goof.

5. Mary Brown does not want to know my current Chicago address.

6. In my fourth year, I lived in Boston for ten months. For many years, I considered it my hometown because I was a child and children are stupid.

7. In my fifth year, I moved back to Black River Falls where my parents first met. Most statements I made to other children started with, "Well, in Boston we used to..."

8. When I was five, most statements made toward me by other children started with, "Shut up queer, I'm going to kick your..."

9. By Kindergarten, I could read the newspaper and proudly shared this information with my other elementary school classmates. I was attending an institution of learning and I wanted to use my aptitude to help my peers.

10. By Kindergarten, most statements made toward me by other children started with, "Shut up smartypants, I'm going to punch your..." I considered this an improvement over kicking, as children cannot punch very well.

11. In First Grade, my elementary school started taking part in "Tornado Awareness Week" and "Indian Awareness Week." At six years of age, I understood how racism is really funny and really sad.

12. While in First Grade, Brandon Puttbrese and I had a contest: whomever made the tallest sandcastle during recess would win Laura Brown's hand in childhood dating. While my sandcastle was easily the tallest, Laura starting seeing Brandon.

13. Laura Brown is a heart-breaking trollop and Brandon Puttbrese is a disingenuous prick.

14. In First Grade, my teacher said, "Its Indian Awareness Week, does anyone know what that means?" A student named B------ P-------- replied, "You gotta watch out for them Indians."

15. Brandon Puttbrese remains one of my closest friends. This is the first instance of what has become a regular behavior of self-loathing.

16. In Second Grade, we were given personal journals into which we could write anything we wanted; it was to be our secret diary. I wrote comically pornographic stories about members of my class I didn't like.

17. During recess, I was called inside and chastised for writing "garbage". I asked my teacher why she read my secret diary. Her answer was detention.

18. In Second Grade, I stopped trusting authority figures.

19. In Second Grade, my parents took me to Disney World during the summer.

20. After going to Disney World, I decided authority figures that take you on vacations can not only be trusted but incredibly valuable.

21. Grades Three through Five were uneventful except for my growth of pubic hair.

22. In Sixth Grade, I kissed Elizabeth Brandt in the basement of my church. Shortly afterward, I washed out my mouth. This would not be my first moment of heresy.

23. In Seventh and Eighth Grade, I got really into The Grateful Dead and Phish. I now know, like children, middle-schoolers are quite stupid.

24. Grade Nine through Eleven were actually eventful as a girl saw my pubic hair.

25. Since the Second Grade, I have continually wrote comically pornographic stories and as a result Mary Brown still does not know my current Chicago address.


Have You Seen My Parrot?

Guest Blogger: George Aliga

Hi, my name is George Aliga! Oh Heavens to Mergatroyd! I have never heard such a compliment in my entire life! I cannot believe so many people loved my parrot. I walked down Michigan Avenue today and what is a typically twenty minute stroll turned into an afternoon; Children, the Elderly, German tourists; Everyone had to stop and talk about parrot: Amerigo Vespucci.
I think Amerigo is full of crackers. Did I mention I was carrying a package of saltines? Some people even said, "Polly want a cracker?"

I know its cliché, but the pure amount of adulation given to my parrot let me let it pass. I knew when I bought him at that pawn shop I was getting a deal but I never...Never thought he would become the object of everyone's praise. Even the people who didn't stop, at least gave a knowing smile...Knowing my parrot is awesome. I think to shake things up I'll get him a little cookskin cap, just like Amerigo Vespussci: a pioneer in rad.

My Best Holiday Story

One of my most memorable experiences over the holidays happened at a cozy downtown bar where you find the daytime drunks and the evening idlers. Its a local dive that only serves beer in cans and pours it's mixers from a bottle (Your Coke is carbonated? Hey, lucky day!). Not only can you smoke indoors, but you're sort of expected to.

The decor falls within three categories:

Product Signage: Not sure what is on the beer/liquor menu? Look at the wall. With the abundance of tacky mirrors, half-lit neon lights, and stock car hood replicas you'll get a good idea of what libations are available. You might even find something they don't make anymore (Still brewing Rhinelander? I thought the Hodags took over the brewery.)

"Hey Rhinelander Area Visitor's Bureau, I have a scam you are going to love."

Things That Were Alive: The bar has never had a problem with mice or rats because there are enough taxidermic game animals to scare the shit out of anything not strong enough to fight a coyote. With foxes, deer and beavers (Local adage: "You always know what bar to find beaver at.") this place is a backwoods Field Museum.

Burnt Wood: No, not a fireplace, but a piece of wood that has been burnt in an "artistic sense". I don't know why it's locally fashionable to take a hot rod into wood, but this bar is a veritable treasury of pyrography through the ages.

But I digress, I was sitting at the bar waiting for my friend Marcus Lewis.

"An Incidental Minority composes Incidental Music."

The jukebox went silent; I could now hear the individual voices of the intoxicated crowd. Amidst it all, I heard a rasp that I will never forget. It was the old man next to me. The scrape of his voice sounded like he needed a tracheotomy about 25 years ago. His voice was the personification of sandpaper and cigarettes forcibly enjoined.

Lets try to recreate his voice. Sit in a comfortable chair. Now, growl in the lowest tone you possibly can. No, even lower. Ease all constriction of your vocal cords and let the pliable tissue of your larynx sit absolutely still.

Okay, take a steak knife and shred your trachea. Not your throat, silly; that would kill you. Just cut up the talking part. A few decades of smoking could pull this off, but a decent amount of inner-throat stabbing will work in a pinch.

Now that you've serrated your voice-box, your speech is probably close to the harrowing cacophony of syllabic grunts I had to hear from this guy.

But I, yet again, digress, the old man sitting to my left had two beers in front of him. Both were open and both were in use. I had an inclination that the woman next to him was his wife, but wasn't sure.

After I saw the pure disgust towards him in her eyes and words, I was assured they were married. That is just how married people talk; gazes of disappointment and liberal amounts of unrequited staring that mostly involve the question: "Why?".

After his apparent spouse left, I heard his abrasive voice:

"Gimme a shot of Wild Turkey...I don't wanna feel feelings anymore."

Afterwards he took a strong breath, held it and let it go slowly. Even when he received his shot, he sat and stared at it for a while; almost like he didn't want to take it. He knew how this snap of liquor would pickle his liver, numb his mind from reality, make him stumble home.

After much consternation, he swallowed it down quickly, picked up his coat and headed toward the door. As he was putting on his hat and gloves he exclaimed:

"I can't wait until I'm dead and outta this goddamn hell."

That was the last night I spent in my hometown.


Ten Things I Am Unlikely To Bludgeon Someone With

1) A Cat
2) The L.L. Bean Summer Catalog
3) Unwavering Hope
4) The Screams of Innocent Children
5) God's Will
6) An Atom Bomb
7) The Better Part of a Hoagie
8) My Collection of Huey Lewis records (I don't own any Huey Lewis records)
9) Senator John Kerry
10) My Mind


Welcome 2009!

Happy New Year! After spending far too long at home for vacation, I'm finally back in Chicago and have access to the internet. I did quite a bit of writing at home (in a small town there is little else to do aside from eat and drink; believe me I did both to excess) and am starting my Second City writing class tomorrow. I'm sure I'll have a library of terrible half-though-out ideas and lines that will find their way onto my Electronic Repository.

I hope everyone had a great holiday season whether you were put lights on the tree, lighting the menorah, lighting the kinara or enlightening us all on the non-existence of a supreme deity.


The Governor's Mansion

I've always been puzzled about Governor's Mansions; especially when you are taking it over from an incumbent politician. You may have criticized how his administration misused government funds for person benefit, but then again, he installed this fantastic wet bar that is just ultra classy.

I know each new residence I've moved into has its own quirks. Most times the landlord is completely blind to it and of no help. Yet the former resident can always give you tip; like how Fonzie could start the jukebox with his elbow, except with how to make the hot water work.

"Aye, I got that dimmer switch to work."

But there is something that would be odd with a recently defeated rival, in an especially tempestuous race, calling their former rival.

"Yeah, sorry for stealing that election from your party. Why are all the "W's" missing from the keyboards?"

"Hey sorry for that whisper campaign about your supposed illegitimate child. Should the walk-in closet's tie rack be going so slow?"

"That's behind us now, want to work for my campaign?"