We’ve traded laughs, tips, and ideas over the years. I’ve co-written a column with Jennifer Layton of J Street fame, traded name placement in columns with Joe Lavin, and critiqued pieces for a number of different writers.

I’ve met Garrison Keillor of Public Radio International’s “A Prairie Home Companion” on two different occasions, I have an autographed photo of Dave Barry on my office wall, and I am in the same humor writers group as Bruce Cameron, author of “Eight Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter” which made the New York Times Bestseller’s List.

I hate them all.

Okay, maybe hate is too strong a word. How about despise, detest, or loathe.

Don’t get me wrong. They’re all wonderful people, and I even consider a couple of the non-famous ones my online friends. But I would think much more favorably about all of them if they weren’t humorists.

But how can this be a problem, I ask myself? Garrison Keillor is a kind man who offered me some advice in the early stages of my writing career (“Write about current events,” he told me). Dave Barry sent me his autographed photo after I asked him to join another humor writers group. Jennifer Layton and I email each other on a regular basis, and I’ve corresponded with Bruce Cameron on a number of occasions. He even politely declined an invitation to join a humor website I was creating.

Even with all these good feelings running rampant throughout the humor community, do you think I’m alone in my professional envy of other humor writers?

Hell no. We all hate each other.

It’s true: every humor writer everywhere hates every other humor writer.

Oh sure, we all admire each others’ creativity and talent, and publicly state how much we love each other’s work. But beneath the surface, every humor writer is dripping with envy. It oozes out of our pores. Despite all our well-wishes to our fellow humorists, we secretly despise each other.

We’re tired of hearing about everyone’s book deals, book tours, and requests to write screenplays. I’ve even heard a rumor (which I started) that one humor writer is even being interviewed personally by Disney chairman Michael Eisner to be his office coffee table. We want these successes to be our own, and we hate each other for getting what we think should be rightfully ours.

So late at night, when we’re alone, our jealousy bubbles to the surface, and we’re consumed by our loathing. We draw grotesque pictures of our competition being eaten alive by weasels. We whine and cry at our computers, “Why him? Why not me?!”

At least the others do. I’m not so melodramatic. I just sign them up for subscriptions to book clubs and porn magazines.

Why do we do it? Why do we look at our fellow humorists as competition rather than teammates and friends? Why can’t we be truly happy for them?

Because we’re all afraid everyone else is funnier than us. All of us. Even the top professionals suffer from a deep-seated envy of other humor writers.

Even though they’re friends, Garrison Keillor grinds his teeth, cries out “I’m not making this up!” in his sleep, and dreams of the day he can dunk Dave Barry in a vat of boiling oil. And Dave Barry weeps nightly as he delivers “the news from Lake Okeechobee” on a second-hand karaoke machine, and throws darts at Keillor’s publicity photos, while he downs slug after slug of homemade beer.

It doesn’t matter who supports us, tells us we’re great, or that we’re funnier than anyone else they’ve ever read. In addition to envy, we’re all have self-esteem issues that makes us believe the only people who find us funny are the people who are supposed to: our parents, spouses, and close friends.

In the past, I’ve been compared to Dave Barry and Lewis Grizzard, as in “Gee, you’re much bigger than Dave Barry is,” or “Wow, you’re not quite as dead as Lewis Grizzard.” Some people have even gone so far as to say they like me better than Dave Barry.

And these are always great to hear. My head swells as big as Rhode Island when someone says my name on the same day they mention Dave Barry, let alone making a direct comparison to him.

Trust me, any comparisons to Dave Barry and Lewis Grizzard are like gold to any humor writer, and they’re always vastly appreciated, because we need our egos stroked constantly. But there’s a part of us that always thinks “This person must have forgotten his insanity medication. There’s no way I’m as funny as those guys.”

We humor writers are a neurotic lot, because we worry about everything. We make jokes about anything, but worry that we make them about the wrong thing. We try to push the envelope on what’s funny, but worry that we’ll offend and insult our readers. We love comparisons to “the Big Boys” — oh man, do we love comparisons to the Big Boys! — but worry that we’ll forever be in their shadows.

But don’t cry for us. This is the path we’ve chosen: making other people laugh in the face of adversity, for little or no pay. So if you ever meet a humor writer, just pat him or her on the shoulder, give a knowing nod, and say, “I understand how you feel, and I appreciate what you do.”

And slip him 20 bucks, you big cheapskate! It’s not like we get rich doing this!

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I speak, of course, about porno – the sweet essence of joy and happiness that it is. I’m not going to sit here and argue with anybody about the pros and cons concerning such adult material, but let’s face it: it makes people feel good and isn’t that what life is all about, anyways? While some like to spend their free time running the bases at the neighborhood baseball diamond, there are those of us who, well, would rather be rounding a different set of bases…if you know what I mean! Unfortunately, as I’m sure so many of us have often encountered, it can sometimes be difficult to (how can I put this nicely?) find another “team” to play with. I can tell you right now, though, that this is no longer a situation to worry about because pornography’s got your back! Batter up!

I’ll pause for a brief moment while those still confused by the previous analogy leave the room…

Luckily in this day and age of independent living and, consequently, perpetual loneliness, adult material has slithered its way into the mainstream and, thanks to my favorite invention since sliced bread – the Internet (Al Gore is a genius…), the same things that used to cost us $6.95 a pop down at the newsstand are now available on our computers 24 hours a day, seven days a week! Oh yeah, and did I mention that it’s all free?!?!?!? Well, not all of it’s free, but really, nudity is nudity, right? No-cost smut is better than nothing at all? That’s what I used to think…

We all get them in our inboxes every day – unsolicited messages, or SPAM. Some receive more than others, always ranging from a wide array of topics, including the lowest prices for printer refill kits, university diplomas (soon you can simply call me doctor…), and 1,001 easy ways to make millions using eBay. Fortunately, my e-mail address is plastered all over the Internet like those phone numbers in a public restroom, so I seem to get more of this crap than your average Hotmail user. The above mentioned are usually fairly easy to avoid, as I can typically tell that they’re garbage simply by reading the titles, but with these adult websites using their clever, new mass-mailing techniques to attract visitors nowadays, more often than not I actually find myself having to open and read their mail before knowing whether or not it’s SPAM. Honestly, wouldn’t you have to think twice before deleting messages like these?

• When will I see you again?
• I’ve been looking all over for you!
• Remember me? We went to high school together…
• I need your advice.
• Live Teen Porn Tryouts!

As you can see, it’s quite the predicament I’m in; it’s pretty bad when you need a full-time secretary just to sort through your porno advertisements, isn’t it? Nah, I think I’d rather do that job myself and perhaps hire somebody else to do other mundane tasks for me, such as writing these weekly columns! Besides, if I didn’t get to go through my e-mail personally, I’d miss out some of the funniest creative advertising I’ve ever seen, which is actually what this column is eventually going to be about if I ever get around to it…

I agree that it is kind of sad, but I think some of the best advertisements I’ve ever seen have been for adult services on the Internet. Granted television has had its moments – the Super Bowl in particular – but nothing can compare to the e-mail I have here in my hand. It was so good that I had to print it out for the archives, or at least as proof to show that this kind of marketing does actually exist! The site in question, and I really don’t recommend this for the kids, was called Smut Farm (I’m sure you can figure out the address if it’s really all that important to you…). The ad was obviously presenting some seriously obscene situations, but their centerpiece just blew my mind. Smack dab in the middle of their promotional flyer was a picture of Osama bin Laden having sex with a donkey.

Yes, you read that right…nothing but the best from Smut Farm. Now I knew right off the bat that this had to be a doctored picture because, well, a donkey would never have sex with Osama bin Laden, but hidden deep below the surface there was real marketing genius going on here. Think about it – the majority of the world hates Osama right now and the majority of the world loves pornography. Put the two together and BAM!!! you’ve got yourself a winning combination right there! Come for the “Osama Does the Metropolitan Zoo”image series and stay for those pictures of the farmer’s daughter that you know you want…I’m sold!

If I’ve portrayed only one message throughout this column, I wish somebody would write and clue me in because even I’m lost at this point! The bottom line, though, can (hopefully) be summed up like this:

• Pornography – GOOD
• Unsolicited e-mail trying to sell me foolish products – BAD
• Unsolicited e-mail, yet somehow quite humorous – GOOD (up to a point!)
• Osama bin Laden – BAD

I think it’s time to stop hating the wrong things here, people! Have a safe and happy Memorial Day!!!

Production Notes:
Other Related Sites You May Find of Some Interest…

• Felicity’s Fun on the Farm
• A Man and His Sow
• Real Milkmaids Gone WILD!!!
• National Geographic magazine

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With the eye for an eye method, if a man murders 6 people, then he should be sentenced to death the same way the victims were murdered. For example, say a man has some bizarre love affair with electricity and he rigs up some wooden chair and electrocutes his victims to death (I know what you’re thinking, how convenient to use the electric chair). Anyway, this is how he should be put away. Now obviously the 6 victims can’t take part in this festivity. But the family members of the victims can.

So what should occur is a raffle between the family members of each victim to see which lucky person gets to pull down the lever to the electric chair. But only the family of the deceased can take part in this event, to make things fair. It could be a huge deal, one day with cake and ice cream, fully equipped with party hats and a clown. But not John Wayne Gacy of course.

The convicted man would sit in the electric chair, blind folded so his eyeballs don’t pop out, and wait while the family members play pin the tail on the donkey.

Then after a few hours, the drawing takes place.

“And the lucky member that will put this poor man out of his misery is,” a hush silence fills the air, “Larry, the Uncle of the young college student murdered on his way home from school.” Uncle Larry high fives everybody as he runs up to the chair that is occupied by the murderer. The camera man, invited to this affair, sets up to take photos. Larry, excited by this moment, flashes his whites to the camera, while posing with a finger in the air that states he is number one. He motions for the kids to join him, with nephews and nieces climbing all over the accused. Then, the much anticipated moment arrives.

“Ready,” Uncle Larry yells. “One…two…three,” he screams and pulls down the lever to watch the murderer fry to death. Pictures are taken at a rapid pace, with small, disposable cameras joining in. And at this point, no flashes are really needed.

The entire gala will last a whole day, with the last person to exit the room being the convict, because nobody wants to touch this man that just urinated in his pants. Unless of course, you like the smell and feel of urine. Then, feel free to take home leftovers for the next day.

At home that night, the family members congratulate each other on a successful day, as Uncle Larry frames his winning ticket stub, similar to the ones found at the ski ball machine found inside Chuck E. Cheese. The only difference is, there’s no chance of exchanging the ticket in for a nice, but useless miniature etch-a-sketch key chain that only works a few times before you toss it in the trash.

Then the kids go to bed, exhausted from the day’s events, and dream happy thoughts for the rest of their lives. Well, at least for a couple months. Or until they lose their virginity.

Three days later, when all the photographs are developed, the families’ members gather at the pizza joint in the village and sort through dozens of pictures. Some good and some bad. It doesn’t matter to most, because these people claim they were just happy to be there, like they just came in second for the Best Actor Oscar.

Everyone is very satisfied with the combined efforts, but the one thing that sickens them, is the fact that the man who was electrocuted for murdering 6 people, never smiled once in any of the photographs. But this is okay with the families, because it sure beats a boring lifetime (or 8 years in some counties) in prison.

And if this happens enough times, it will surely catch on internationally. Because why does the United States have to be the only country to enjoy catching a criminal? That way, instead of putting front and side views on ‘Most Wanted’ pictures in post offices, we can put ‘before’ and ‘after’ pictures up. This will trigger memories of the victims’ families so they can relish in the moment of the day that gave them closure. All this while they’re waiting to mail a postal package. Because there’s nothing worse than not having any closure, in anything for that matter, especially with 2 liter bottles of pop, because they’ll go flat. And by doing this, criminals would think harder about committing crimes.

But then I think we’ll see criminals committing crimes that they, themselves, wouldn’t mind being caught for, like raping a Supermodel, stealing a Dodge Viper for nothing more than a joy ride, and sniffing women’s lingerie. This way, a criminal could really enjoy his life of crime, instead of accepting a job working third shift at Denny’s.

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Until pretty recently, I was fairly sanguine about what coy son’s of bitches often call ‘The Big Four Oh’. At least I think I was, but I’m not sure I’m using the word correctly. I could look it up, but then you might mistakenly conclude I care. It’s just the kind of big word that throughout my thirties I’ve tossed around to leave people with the impression I’m ‘smart’. I know the word’s Latinate root means ‘blood’, but if I’m totally truthful here, as someone entering their forth decade ought to be, I have no idea if ‘Sanguis’ is the root word. I just wanted to use ‘Latinate’ in a sentence. Plus, I don’t even know if that’s a Latin word at all, let alone what it means. By the time you read this, that kind of posturing will be damned immature of me. So, since relatively speaking, I remain in your recent past, I’m going to ‘heap my plate’ with ‘goodies’ from the ‘Puerile Buffet’. Puerile, from the Latin ‘Puer’, which means ‘boy’. I think. And if it doesn’t, I don’t give a little tine crap.

To return to my point (and I promise to do that much more regularly by the time you read this) I’d been doing just fine with the whole notion of a forth decade of misery on the dunghill which is modern life. And then I got a pink slip. First one in my life. I admit, not getting a real job until I was thirty helped me set that record, but that was in my youth. I am putting away youthful things, now. Like health benefits. And wages. And a place to go five days a week. Forty I could deal with. Forty and unemployed? A little harder.

As I write this, I’m proud as hell to be part of the biggest upsurge in unemployment since 1991, or whatever the hell that statistic was I heard on the radio. Of course, by the time you read this I will be drunk, unshaven, weeping and hiding from my wife. I will also be wearing the same clothes I’m wearing right now. I mean, we all have to grow up sometime, right? Let’s face it, there’s going to have to be some belt tightening around Casa Burbank. The job market is not what it was when I was 39.

By the time you read this, my chance to be a ‘Young Turk’ or ‘Enfant Terrible’ will have irrevocably passed. There is some debate within my family about whether forty is too young to become a ‘Late Bloomer’. I hold the opinion that 45 is the threshold of that status while my wife favors the idea that my chances of being struck by a bus are quite a bit better than my ‘blooming’ into ‘anything’. Of course, she has a little time left before she has to face her mortality the way I’m sure I will be by the time you read this. A very little time. Measured in months. To say exactly how many would be just plain cruel in a way I will have given up by the time you read this. Six.

I recall thinking forty was terribly old. Now I’m pretty sure it falls neatly into the last chunk of being a ‘young man’. Sixty, now that’s old. Fifty? Just ‘man’. A ‘man of fifty’. As in ‘He died a man of fifty’. By the time you read this I won’t stoop to trying to pass that quote off as being from a work of literature you ought to have read.

I had brief hopes of wearing my unemployment as a badge of youth, like a very loud Hawaiian shirt or using a disposable lighter to ignite bodily gasses. Then I imagined them asking me what kind of insurance I had as the EMT’s cut away the scorched remains of my Hawaiian shirt to get at the third degree burns caused by burning back and ass hair.

As I’m sure you are all aware, some of you painfully so, I’m not alone. They even have a delightful new word for us. We are ‘Midcareers’. The warm feeling in my chest must be what Bums felt as they metamorphosed into ‘The Homeless’.

One word of caution. Anyone thinking of sending me a gag card or gift, Over the Hill Pills, “Life Begins at 40…BEGINS TO SUCK!”, that sort of thing? Err on the late side. Because if I get it while I’m still 39 and employed? I’ll beat the crap out of you. And that’s something I certainly wouldn’t do by the time you read this.

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I’m very concerned about the economy. The dating economy, I mean. Specifically, I’m interested in learning how I can leverage my current assets to create a better-rounded portfolio with stronger returns on my investment.

At this time, I invest in regular workouts, a hot car, and regular trips to the esthetician for hair removal, lymph gland expression and other cosmetic enhancements. However, with the state of the national economy causing huge rounds of layoffs, causing the dating market to become flooded with eligible young women who’ve left their now-unemployed boyfriends, I’m wondering if it’s time to reexamine my portfolio with a view toward reallocating my investments. Perhaps the portion of my portfolio devoted to the esthetician, for example, should be shifted into a mutual fund consisting of wine appreciation courses, season theatre tickets, and a timeshare condo in Barbados. Would this approach result in more net gains in the attraction and retention of a gorgeous babe?

I’d appreciate your thoughts on this.

Sterling Mason
Day Trader

Savannah Says:

A very interesting letter this week. It’s such a pleasure to hear from someone who, like myself, travels in the elite intellectual circles.

I believe your plan to reallocate certain investments is a sound one. Consider that your current investment strategy (workouts, car, esthetician) primarily benefits you. You’re never going to land a trophy wife that way!

However, if you shift some investments into assets that seem to benefit your prospective girlfriend (while actually they benefit you in the long run), you’re much more likely to see a positive return. I mean, a timeshare condo in Barbados is irresistible to a girl of impeccable taste, especially if you offer to make it available to her and her girlfriends from time to time. And season theatre tickets ensure you’ll be able to provide your girlfriend with a viable entertainment option on a regular basis. I can’t tell you how annoying it is to reach the third date with someone who’s already so tapped out of entertainment ideas that he suggests staying home to watch TV and eat pizza.

The economy here in Scrub Brush Springs took a turn for the better this past weekend. First off, my dear friend Chablis LaRoca opened her home to tours. We began in the kitchen, where she had been fixing an early-evening tuna sandwich snack when she heard a strange noise coming from the other end of her home. We then followed the hallway she fled down, shedding garments along the way, until she arrived in her bedroom — just in time to position herself at the dressing table in order to be properly peeped. We each got to hold the actual telephone she used to call the police after the Peeping Tom had disappeared again into the darkness. That alone was well worth the $4.50 admission price.

Also capitalizing on the spate of Peeping Tom events, Ernie Powell has been selling Peeping Tom souvenirs at his kiosk on Highway 324. (It’s actually an old produce stand, but he likes “kiosk” better.) Prices range from $1 for a plastic keyring to $29.95 for the limited edition ceramic bust crafted by local artist Esperanza de la Joya y Silverstein. I’m not sure the sculpture actually resembles the Peeper, since he hasn’t been caught yet. But he probably does wear dark glasses, as shown on the bust.

I think the best idea, though, is Martaan Ledgerman’s. He set up a peeping platform, sort of like a deer hunting blind, where you can sit up all night trying to catch a glimpse of the peeper in action. Bring your own binoculars! The peeping blind has been sold out every night since its opening, but then again it only holds six people. So far, there’s been no verifiable sighting, but people don’t seem to care. Well worth the $5 price of admission is what I’m hearing.

So you see, Sterling, you’re very smart to take such an interest in the romance economy. It’s spring, and investment opportunities are busting out all over!

Good luck, dear!

© 2000-2002 Elizabeth Hanes

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I believe, for women, there is a possibility of a product more intriguing than a mere action figure. For women, it would be an enjoyable and exhilarating experience to have a female doll created as a ‘reaction’ figure.

You know what I’m talking about ladies: A doll that would react to everything so we don’t have to. This ‘reaction’ figure would react to particular offences our mates say or to the attitudes of our teenagers, competitors, certain family members and co-workers. The reaction doll would sound off to our bosses, phone solicitors, noisy neighbors, social issues and political agendas. This priceless item would have a strong reaction to causes worth fighting for and do the walking and 5k running for us.

It would be a hoot to market ‘Reaction Woman’ and have a line of software, add-ons and accessories distributed from the company to enhance this product. How could one go about making ‘Reaction Woman’ a successful venture?

It would be as though the reaction figure were living a Saturday Night Live skit 24/7. I don’t believe there are enough psychologists in the universe to help a human being of this nature but a doll with this microchip could be an asset in our society.

Can you imagine it now? Get ‘Reaction Woman’ at a store near you: She argues wisely, she points her finger, she makes her eyebrows come together angrily and even sighs heavily when the opposition becomes ridiculous. She squints her eyes, stomps her feet on the ground and rounds her hands into fists and shakes them in mid-air though, in closing, ends the tumultuous exchange with a quieting statement.

In short, she handles all of your stress while you accomplish twice as much in life in half the time. As an added bonus, the creators could instill within ‘Reaction Woman’ the ability to shoot fire from her eyes and emulate a full-fledged twit-fit attack for those ‘impossible’ moments.

The company, possibly entitled ‘Run Interference’, could add a variety of phrases to ‘Reaction Woman’, such as:

• Everything is filed in alphabetical order, sir. I am so sorry about your eyesight. Let me make a doctor’s appointment for you, please. (Sniff)
• I am not taking any crap from you or your dog anymore.
• Could you repeat your well-spoken offer? I’m in the middle of preparing dinner and missed a few lines. I’m not really interested in what you have to sell but you have a lovely voice and I would love to hear your redundancy again.
• Clean your room, clean your room, clean your room, clean your room, clean your room, clean your room, clean your room…
• If you do not shut-up, I will self-destruct in two minutes and take you with me when I go.

I believe this doll could help young girls experiencing puberty. It would allow them to simulate their intense feelings through the reaction figure thus transmitting aggression and confusion brought on by the crossroads of pent-up puberty hormones that are dying to get out but aren’t allowed yet.

I believe this would help relationships around the world. The moment a mate begins a pointless argument, the woman could turn on ‘Reaction Woman’ and leave the room and allow the exchange to continue without being present.

Women around the globe could relax and enjoy the latest Nicholas Sparks or Danielle Steel book, work her garden or watch a fabulous love story on cable television. You know, the kind where at end of the movie the man approaches the woman of his dreams and professes his undying love for her as you smile through happy tears while your mate and ‘Reaction Woman’ are destroying each other in another portion of the household.

It could do wonders for malfunctioned psychological warfare, which sometimes rears its ugly head and needs to vent.

Hey, they have blow-up dolls for kinky people. Why not a blow-up doll that really does blow up when certain buttons are pushed or when a switch is turned on? There wouldn’t necessarily need to be a switch to turn on ‘Reaction Woman’. You could just clap your hands together like you do those lamps and leave the room. You could get one that looks like you so your mate would never know the difference. Women could finally live in peace and tranquility for the remainder of life on earth.

This product could be a lifesaver.

I could actually have ‘Reaction Woman’ call my grandmother once a week and agree with her point of view on all things, inform her I have given up smoking and have taken up crocheting, while I call my husband into the bedroom and pat my heirloom quilt, which was passed down by my grandmother stemming from four generations in my family and now rests in our home as one of our favorite, um, past times.

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