I just logged on to the site to discover that Daniel Robert Epstein passed away Tuesday night. I am in absolute shock. Dan was my friend. In fact, he’s the reason I even have this gig at SG. Only getting to live until the age of 31 is just unfair, especially when that person was as amazing as Dan was. Daniel was not only a brilliant writer, but he was one of the most positive, good-hearted men I have ever known, and my heart goes out to his family and to his wife, Andrea.

A few months ago, I didn’t have an article and I asked Dan if he had anything he wanted me to post for him. He sent me something, but I never got the opportunity to post it. I am going to post it now.

Daniel, I love you, I’m going to miss you, and I will never forget you. Thank you for being my friend.

Where Are the Super-Jews?

(By Daniel Robert Epstein)

I’m sitting there in my apartment, thinking to myself what can I write about that won’t piss off any famous comic book people. Then it hit me; something that will piss everybody off will work out just fine.

WHERE ARE THE JEWS??!?!?!!?!?!!?

So, where are the Jewish super-heroes in mainstream comic books? The only one that springs to mind is Sabra the super-hero from Israel. I don’t know if any of you people know much about Sabra. I believe she made her first appearance in the original Contest of Champions from 1982. She wore a uniform that had the same colors as the Israeli flag and Sabra means a special kind of kosher. I guess that is supposed to tip us off that she is Jewish. Plus, as a cape she wore a great big fur coat. Wow, the Borscht belt comes alive in Sabra the stereotypical Jew and her archenemy was The Arabian Knight, ooh ahh oh.

Now I get it: Jews and Arabs hate each other. Knock us over the head why don’t you.

Later Sabra fought The Incredible Hulk a bunch of times. I think that since Hulk (as he allows me to call him) was green, Sabra must have thought Hulk was made of money.

One Jewish super-hero and she has to identify herself through Judaism and she’s from Israel. Another question that comes forth is why there is only one person with superpowers in Israel? You would think with all the explosives floating around -- napalm and poison gas from Saddam Hussein -- you’d think at least one person would rise from the ashes of their burned house, raise their arms and cry “SADDAM!!!!!!”.

Someone (he knows who it is) tried to convince me that Walter Langkowski, Sasquatch of Alpha Flight, was Jewish. Come on, I don’t care if his last name does seem Slavic-like. A six foot blond blue-eyed CANADIAN is Jewish? I don’t think so. Sure he is a doctor, but please he’s an ex-football player. To misquote Tom Hanks, “There’s no Jews in football”.

I don’t know how it is for the goyim (non-Jews) who peruse this site, but as young kid growing up on Long Island the media inundated me with images of Christmas: Santa Claus on every single sitcom passing out gifts, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, all of them always talking about the spirit of Christmas. I had no clue what they were talking about. All I knew was that in my religion the Persians burned down all of our temples except one and we found a bit of oil that burned for eight days and that’s why I received eight gifts in eight days at Chanukah (or with my parents, one big gift and a Sam Goody gift certificate).

But even my favorite medium, the comic book, wasn’t safe from this sick and fake sentimentality. Batman meets Santa Claus (by FRANK MILLER, fuckin' a), Spider-Man’s web “accidentally” catches on a sled flying over the city, Dr. Doom delivers presents to kids wearing a Santa suit (okay it was drawn by Fred Hembeck, but still).

The worst offender was an issue of DC’s The Atom (reading that was my number one problem), anyway The Atom is invited to a Passover Seder, he shows up and it's all very serious. Everyone is wearing yarmulkes, they’re very quiet and they explain the story of Eliyahuh. This story is so obviously written by a Jewish writer who doesn’t want the goys to know about a real Passover Seder: fighting, laughing, yelling, crying hearts broken and artichoke hearts eaten. Newbies asking for some bread and getting passed Matzo (or as my Greek friend Andy Demetroplis calls it “a big cracker”). It was embarrassing reading this story and I’ve never forgiven The Atom and I guess that’s why his series has been cancelled like eight times.

There are dozens upon dozens of Jewish comic book writers, yet none of them ever tried to create new and exciting Jewish comic book characters. I guess when you think about it, young Jewish kids growing up and fantasizing about having super-powers never imagined themselves flying into church.

I would also imagine that there was a lot of people pressuring writers and artists to make their characters religions ambiguous. But fuck that, fight the power!

So I spoke to one of my favorite Jews and the man who introduced me to comic books, my brother Tom. I said “Tom, think of some Jewish super-heroes for me”. He said, “I’m on it”. He calls me back a couple of days later and says, “Gargoyle from the Defenders, his name is Isaac”.

I did some research and found nothing neither substantiating nor disproving that statement. Since it was a member of the early eighties Defenders, I decided that no one would care. That’s like telling me the entire Wolfpack crew is Jewish.

Tom calls me again and says one word, “Magneto” (for a quick side note, its amazing that now since the X-Men movie came out last summer, the entire world knows the correct pronunciation of Magneto. For years many people would argue whether it was Mag-knee-to or Mag-net-to. Believe me this was actually a controversy, which got many a fat kid’s blood boiling. Including me). Anyway thanks Tom, the most famous of any of the Jews in the entire comic world and his closest equivalent is Adolf Hitler. Hitler of the mutant world is the famous Jew. Yay! Thanks Tom! All Jews, GOLF CLAP, please.

A big FUCK YOU to Martin Goodman, Stanley Martin Lieber and Jacob Kurtzberg for being afraid.

Dear Sallie Mae--

I’m writing this letter to you because I didn’t know how else to express my feelings. Your behavior as of late has become…well, erratic -- scary, even. Fifteen, twenty calls a day, and the times I actually pick up, it seems you don’t want to talk about the relationship. You call late at night, and on the weekends. With you, it’s always “give me, give me, give me,” but there’s never any take. Why haven’t you been able to listen to me and to my needs? I’ve tried to be open and honest with you, but it seems that ultimately, you just don’t care. Over the past few months, I’ve come to realize that you have no regard for my space, boundaries, or feelings. So, it is with great remorse that I’m writing to tell you that I’ve decided that I’m breaking up with you.

When I look back on our relationship, I do so with fondness. God, the beginning was so promising, wasn’t it Sallie Mae!? I was in a bind. I couldn’t afford the astronomical $100,000 (USD) cost of film school, but you were there for me. You told me you’d lend me the money to pay for my tuition, my books, and…well, that’s it actually.

I still couldn’t afford to “live,” but at least I could live my dream! And what good times we had! After three years, I finally graduated, and I had you to thank for it!

Sure, maybe I chose the most impossible of professions. And, yeah, I’ve had some minor successes. But not enough success to return all of the money I owe you. That kind of success only comes from winning the Lottery, or dealing large amounts of cocaine over a lengthy period of time in predominantly white neighborhoods, or selling babies and/or their organs on the black market.

And at first, you were cool with my situation. You were all, “Don’t worry about it, baby. Pay me back when you can...at totally unfair interest rates and terms…" You also talked really quietly and used lots of astericks and stuff. It didn't matter, because I was busting my ass to get you your money. Hell, I still am darling.

But then recently something went wrong. Suddenly, you decided no matter what the status of my current employment was; regardless of what funds I had in my bank account, you needed all your money...NOW!

And I wanted to pay you. I did. I even told you I would pay you in a few weeks…but you just got all crazy in the head, chica!

That’s when the calls started.

And they just kept coming, and coming, and coming, and coming, and coming. Actually, while I’ve been writing this, you’ve called me twice. I recognize your numbers now, baby doll. That’s why I don’t pick up anymore. 1-866-656-3422, or 1-317-595-1440, or 1-800-848-0981, or “Unknown Number.” I got em’ all, girl. I know your tricks, mama.

Yesterday, even after I told you that the check was sent and on its way to you, you still kept up with the calls. When you called at midnight/EST, I couldn’t handle it anymore and I snapped. I called you back, like, ten times in a row and told you to go “fuck yourself, you damn cunt whore!” It was immature, I know. But what else was I supposed to do? You just wouldn't stop.

I’m calmer now. Hopefully, when you process my feelings...and then my check...you’ll stop calling. But I doubt it. You’re a psychotic hell beast, and I can finally say without a doubt, that it’s not me.

It’s you.

In the meantime, I’m going to give you a taste of your own medicine. I’ve blogged all about you. I even provided my readers with the best number to reach you directly at:

1-317-595-1440

Sure, it’ll be a different person who answers every time they call, but ultimately it’s still always you. I’ve told my readers to call you at all hours of the day and say horrible and mean things to you; to tell you to eat shit. To suck their asses. To fuck off and die. Hopefully, you’ll learn a lesson from all of this. But somehow I doubt it.

I’ve also provided my readership a link to a website that explains what an evil, evil bitch you are.

Student Loan Injustice

All my hate,

Jon

Jon_Kesselman has a new short online. Click the following link to watch it:

The Shmulik Finkelstein Story

It’s 8:45 AM on Thursday, and I’m at a Starbucks on Westwood and Olympic in LA. My column needs to go up in a few hours. I have a meeting in Burbank at 11:00. I am fucked.

It’s not that I’m lazy. I’ve been working my ass off. Some of you were probably concerned by my absence. I’m sure you probably thought I was fired, or got into a grisly car wreck, or…actually, you probably didn’t even notice. That was my narcissism talking.

Okay, here’s the deal. I just finished a new script that I adapted from the novel ‘Abe Gilman’s Ending’ (my first drama and adaptation, and I’m very proud of it), and now I’m in LA for the week as I was doing some consulting work for the MTV Movie Awards short films.

At first, I was going to tell you a cool story about how funny the short is going to be. It is. My buddy Dean Holland did an amazing job and directed the shit out of it. Not literally, of course. There was no shit “in” the shor…forget it.

I was also going to tell you how I also have a small part as Shia Lebouf’s arm. I was also going to talk a bit about how Sarah Silverman is…a truly pleasant human being to work with. She has no evil diva actress characteristics, whatsoever, and apparently can’t stop talking about this “Jimmy” character in her life. She must really be in love! But I just wasn’t feeling it. And besides, my mother always told me if you can’t say anything nice about someone, then you shouldn’t say anything at all.

Actually, that’s a lie. My mother never said that. She said that I was an unappreciative little shit who would always put my head down when she wanted to kiss me on the lips. Weird, right!?

Then, I read that Jerry Falwell died. I spent like an hour yesterday researching him, and pulling some of his most memorable quotes. God, that man was a vile fuck. Here are some selects of the puffy and androgynous asshole’s own words over the years:

“I am such a strong admirer and supporter of George W. Bush that if he suggested eliminating the income tax or doubling it, I would vote yes on first blush.”

“Textbooks are Soviet propaganda.”

Re: The Civil Rights Movement, he called it, "The Civil Wrongs Movement."

“If Chief Justice Warren and his associates had known God’s word and had desired to do the Lord’s will, I am quite confident that the 1954 decision [Brown v. Board of Education] would never have been made…. The facilities should be separate. When God has drawn a line of distinction, we should not attempt to cross that line.”

Re: the September 11, 2001 attacks -- "I really believe that the pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People For the American Way, all of them who have tried to secularize America. I point the finger in their face and say 'you helped this happen."

“AIDS is not just God's punishment for homosexuals; it is God's punishment for the society that tolerates homosexuals.”

“Homosexuality is Satan's diabolical attack upon the family that will not only have a corrupting influence upon our next generation, but it will also bring down the wrath of God upon America.”

Re: The Antichrist "He must be, of necessity, a Jewish male."

“Earlier today, reports began circulating across the globe that I have recently stated that Jews can go to heaven without being converted to Jesus Christ. This is categorically untrue.”

“There's been a concerted effort to steal Christmas.”

“It is God's planet - and he's taking care of it. And I don't believe that anything we do will raise or lower the temperature one point.”

“I believe that global warming is a myth. And so, therefore, I have no conscience problems at all and I'm going to buy a Suburban next time.”

"Labor unions should study and read the Bible instead of asking for more money. When people get right with God, they are better workers."

“If you're not a born-again Christian, you're a failure as a human being.”

“Christians, like slaves and soldiers, ask no questions.”

“The idea that religion and politics don't mix was invented by the Devil to keep Christians from running their own country.”

“God continues to lift the curtain and allow the enemies of America to give us probably what we deserve.”

“I think the Moslem faith teaches hate.”

“If I were president of the United States, I would include Moslems in my presidency.”

“Billy Graham is the chief servant of Satan in America.”

“Scientology has a terrible track record of bigotry.”

AND FINALLY, the piece ender would work off of this quote…

“I am saying pornography hurts anyone who reads it, garbage in, garbage out.”

We are all porn aficionados here! See the connection!? I had GREAT stuff for a piece, right? But then I started surfing the Internet. Everything I could say had been said. I was even thinking about writing to Jerry from Hell in character as the Jewish Anti-Christ welcoming him in. That would have been good…but I wasn’t feeling it, and I saw that FearTheReaper did something similar (nice piece BTW). I had nothing!

Then, I was going to tell you about how much I love my Blackberry Pearl cell phone. You know, the one with the little white clitoris scroll thing on the front? I had this whole bit about how I loved the phone so much, that I wanted to write Blackberry and tell them that with future models they should include a penis sized port which on the inside approximated the feel of a woman’s vagina...

But, it wasn’t all that good of a joke, and again, I just felt like I had nothing!

What else can I tell you? Hammer 2 is starting to feel good. I’m meeting with an interested investor in two weeks. If all goes well, the Mensch In Black Will Be Back! When I heard the news, I had tears running down my cheek. And I’m not talking Jerry Falwell evil gay people tears. I’m talking masculine, virile, tears of joy!

You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all of this? After all, this is a humor column…and there’s been like zero jokes. I know! I have nothing!!!! I’m sorry. I’m just under the gun here, and Helen_Jupiter, who has been incredibly patient with my sudden bout of flakiness, has been very cool. Again, I’m really sorry, Helen. I promise I’ll try to fuck up less on my column in the future.

Okay, I have to post now. I’m sorry I sucked this week, but it’s nice to be back on the site. I hope everyone out there is happy and healthy. Also, Corddry, I was serious when I asked if you had any extra Vicodins (2). I go back to NY on Friday, and that would be amazing for the flight. I’ll come to you, and pay for them and everything...

Talk to you guys soon,

JK

Jon_Kesselman is an actor who lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children

Hello. Many of you know me as Jonathan Kesselman, uber-successful, high-end urbane urban sophisticate. As amazing and successful as I am, I have found it virtually impossible to find that certain “special someone.” As a human being who is better than most people, I’ve also found it exceedingly difficult to find an online dating service that caters to my needs. Recently, however, I discovered Samantha's Table

Finally! Finally!!!

I am now in the process of putting the finishing touches on my introductory electronic mailing (to you, this form of communication is more commonly known as "e-mail") to Ms. Samantha Daniels herself, and I figured what better place than an Alt/Goth Pornographic website like Suicide Girls to get some feedback on my letter before I sent it off.

Although most of you plebes ARE NOT uber-successful sophisticates that are driven, success-oriented, extensively-traveled, diners-at-the-finest-restaurants/theatre attendees who admire and acquire art, AND who patronize many of the most worthy and visible charities in your city...I will allow you to provide me with advice. Why, you ask? Because I, Jonathan Kesselman, am a man of the people. And you people are…well, people. So, without further ado, here is my electronic mailing to Samantha.


From: ubersuccess@specialness.com
To: mytable42@earthlink.net
Subject: Regards

Samantha—

My nom de plume is Jonathan Kesselman, and I am a sophisticate and an ultra-successful filmmaker by trade. Please “Google” me, and you will find that I am very special. I, in fact, “Google” myself quite frequently, and find it quite fulfilling. Perhaps I am getting ahead of myself, as this would be something that should appear in my “Interests” section.

Anyway, as you can imagine, as an ultra-successful bi-coastal filmmaker, my incredibly demanding work schedule has made it increasingly difficult to find that “special someone.” I know she is out there, but I am just too busy to find her myself. In fact, I travel to London quite frequently. I wonder if this qualifies me as Tri-Coastal?

That was a joke. As you can see, I am also very witty, and often make pithy comments like the one you just read when I am in social situations. But enough about me…let me tell you about myself:

As I have already mentioned, I am very successful, and work in the incredibly exciting and fulfilling motion picture Industry. I am five feet eight, but I do not feel five eight on the inside. I liken myself more to a man of six feet four inches, so you should probably enter that statistic into your database instead.

My yearly income is quite substantial, and upon consulting with both my accountant and business manager, I was advised to not disclose this information via an electronic mailing. However, let’s just say I made around forty three million nine hundred and twelve thousand dollars and sixty three cents last year. Net.

Aside from dining at the finest restaurants, attending the theatre (first-run well-reviewed Broadway productions only, of course) collecting art, and traveling extensively for pleasure, I am also am very charitable. As an FYI -- my favorite charities include: Jerry’s Kids, The Chabad-A-Thon, The Democratic Party, and my Tax Shelter.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Me. I like to keep fit and active. Often, you’ll find me at the Crunch Gymnasium at Five AM riding the Elliptical and reading the Wall Street Journal and Daily Variety simultaneously. I also like to play water polo, but only in theory, as I am allergic to chlorine.

After a long day at work, I enjoy spending time at the Men’s Club where I often go to smoke cigars and drink scotch with other wealthy sophisticates. We (the wealthy sophisticates, that is) discuss many things, so I guess you can also include “conversationalist” as one of my skill sets.

There is a famous saying: "No Man Is An Island." While this might be true for most men, I am, in fact Hawaii. If you do not know much about Geography, Hawaii is the big island in the state of Hawaii. I also happen to own a few Islands of my own, and often travel in my discreet 777 to these aforementioned Islands whenever I need some R and R. This, of course, is just some extraneous background information, but perhaps it might be helpful for you in your upcoming search?

However, enough about me; I could go on and on. Rather, let me tell you what I am looking for in a Life Mate... a three hundred page addendum that I am attaching to this electronic mailing, will give you more insight into me. Please read it carefully. There’s some really fascinating stuff there!

My Life Mate should be first and foremost Beautiful. I used a capital ‘B,’ because I do not mean “cute.” I am not a fan of “cute.” As someone who is an admirer of the female form and an Aesthete in general, my partner must posses bodily dimensions that are proportionate to those of the 2003 Princess Of The Vikings Barbie Doll. I am currently unaware as to what those dimensions would be on a life-sized woman, but as I will be paying you top dollar to find my Mate, I am sure you will be able to perform the necessary calculations. Also, if you could dress my woman in a life-sized version of the same Viking costume, that would be ideal.

Secondly, I would like my Life Mate to be intelligent. However, her intelligence must be ≤ to my intelligence. I’m not exactly sure what my I.Q. is, but I feel that the Intelligent Quotient is an outmoded measure of a Man’s intellect anyway. Let’s just say I went to an expensive Ivy League college and let’s leave it at that. Perhaps, the woman you’re looking for went to a State school? Arizona or Colorado State, maybe? I’ll leave that to your expertise in these matters. The important thing is that she not only look good on my arm, but can handle herself admirably in social situations. As you can imagine, in my business, I often hobnob with the most powerful and interesting of celebrities. I don’t like to name drop, but here are a few of the Celebrities I have spent time with in the past forty eight hours:

Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears, Paris (Hilton), Jude Law, Brad and Angelina (Pitt and Jolie, respectively), Brad and Angelina’s children, Al Gore, Cher, Ashton and Demi, Rob Zombie, the little person from the Surreal Life whose name has escaped me…you know what? There are many, many more. I’ll attach them along with the addendum.

Clearly, as you can see, my Mate must be knowledgeable in the Cinematic Arts, and it would probably be appropriate if she could memorize the Box Office statistics weekly. She can be trained to do this, I assume?

Now, for the awkward portion of the electronic introductory email: my sexual proclivities. This, mind you, is not awkward for me, and NOR should it be awkward for the woman you find for me. You see, my Mate must like having sex. A lot. Also, she must LOVE to fellate me on a whim, and “non-swallowers” need not apply. I think it might help for you to know that I am very much into Mind Control Erotica, and would prefer my Partner to be submissive. She must have no qualms about wearing a “Slave” necklace, and must address me as “Master” at all times when we are in private. Also, I like to be farted on. But only stinky farts. If she is a Vegan, again, she need not apply. That is, unless of course, Vegan women have stinkier farts that non-Vegans. This is probably something for you to put on your research to-do-list.

Anyway, that about sums it up for this introductory electronic mailing. Samantha, I look forward to sitting at your table and meeting you one on one! Until then, please skim over the materials I have sent you, and put your “thinking cap” on. Look out ladies, here I come!

Best,

JBK

____________________________________________________

Well my fans, that is the electronic mailing I have prepared for Ms. Samantha Daniels. Please leave any comments in the appropriate space below.

Best,

JBK

Jon_Kesselman would like to dedicate this to the amazing GL, and any other women out there who have been made to feel shitty at the well-manicured hands of vacuous cunts like Ms. Daniels.

In my ongoing quest to discover something, anything to write about, I just came across this: GodTube.

All I can say is, Oh my fucking God. Well, technically, not my God. I’m a deeply secular Jew.

But still, you guys seriously have to check this out!

Here are some of the highlights:

This is a training video for Christian Clowns. You heard me right. CHRISTIAN CLOWNS. I swear on GodTube that I am not joking.

Notice in the video how the clowns sneak up on a bunch of Retirement Home Residents!? If I was in my Eighties, and a group of Christian Clowns suddenly just popped up behind me, I would probably shit myself and then die.

Here's a question -- if your name is Maury, or Abdul, or Tze, and a Christian Clown is responsible for your death, do you still get to go to Heaven?

Up next...

The Athiest (sic)

This video proves, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Evolution is bunk. Watch how the guy on the right laughs at the “obviousness” of the argument. This video also proves that bananas can make heterosexual Australian Christians seem very, very gay.

If you’re still confused, this very "sci-entific" explanation disproves Evolution…I think. Or, it’s about a woodpecker...or something?

I’d like to close with my favorite. A parody of Sir Mix-A-Lot’s, Baby Got Back, entitled, Baby Got Bible.

“Oh my goodness. Becky, look at her bible! It is so huge!” Good stuff!!!

This site also gives users the ability to upload content. However, as the Suicide Girls community is obviously a place for sinners and/or chronic masturbators, I DO NOT ADVOCATE uploading any content to GodTube.

That would be just plain rude and inappropriate.

Jon_Kesselman is currently happy and healthy. Thanks for asking!

From The Suicide Girls Newswire:

On February 9th, CNN, The New York Times, The Washington Post, US Weekly, The National Enquirer, and every other paper of record announced that she had been resurrected, only to die shortly after.

Amazingly enough, although she had already died and been resurrected once in the same week, on the 10th of February every major news outlet reported her second resurrection…

…and then her subsequent tragic death.

By the 14th, Anna Nicole’s incredible pattern of death/resurrection/death/resurrection had changed the face of news as we know it. All other “minor” news stories, including: the Genocide in Darfur, The war in Iraq, Iran’s nuclear aspirations, and Britney Spears’ weight gain had been overshadowed by this never-seen-before paranormal phenomenon.

But who was this beacon of light; this Saint we call Anna Nicole Smith? Although her re-re-re-re-re-re-animation was just the latest and most remarkable chapter in an equally remarkable life, the "real" Anna Nicole led a noble existence of self-sacrifice and philanthropy.

Anna not only made it okay for “plus size” models to wear Guess Jeans, but she also married a really old billionaire just minutes prior to his death -- out of selflessness! Lastly, she provided us, the frightened and confused masses, solace through her quality reality television program on E! in which she advocated the combined heavy usage of the narcotic substances Percocet and Vicodin taken in tandem with rubbing alcohol. She also was the most vocal advocate of the color Pink, which until she came to us, was wildly mistreated and under-appreciated. Her achievements and righteousness will forever live on in our hearts. She was our Princess Diana.

Except bigger. And maybe slightly less intelligent.

Anna Nicole, we will never forget you!

Jon_Kesselman urges everyone to light a candle in the wind in honor of St. Anna Nicole Smith -- preferably before the rain sets in.

Hey. It's me again! Because of the great response from the first Hammer 2 excerpt, I figured I'd give you another taste of HVH. Yes, that's my version of a cheesy ID4: Independence Day or AVP: Alien VS Predator acronym. What!? I'm excited about the movie...

The scene you're about to read occurs late in the second act. The Hammer and Mo learn that Hitler has targeted the most important Jewish figure in history...that's right, Jesus, the King Of The Jews. Naturally, they must pay him a visit to warn him.

These actors are in no way attached, but imagination is a wonderful thing -- so picture (as I do) Richard Lewis as Jesus, and Carol Kane as Mary.

If you enjoyed the first film, and enjoy what you've been reading, please Digg this story and send the link to your 'Hebrew Hammer' fan friends. I'm getting close on the financing, and every bit of help on your end is much appreciated. I'm working hard -- The Mensch In Black WILL be back!

Again, thanks to Odd Todd for hosting the pages. FYI, Todd and I have live action version screenplay of his cartoon set up at Paramount. And hopefully as soon as things calm down over there and we can hold on to an executive for more than a day or two before they shuffle off to someplace else, that project will one day get made as well. If you get the chance, check out Todd's toons...some amazingly funny stuff!

Preview Scene #2 From 'The Hebrew Hammer VS Hitler'

Enjoy,

JK

I'm in the process of putting together the financing for the sequel to my first film, The Hebrew Hammer. So, for this week's Suicide Watch, I've decided to include an excerpt from the Jewxploitation sequel, entitled The Hebrew Hammer VS. Hitler. No, I'm not lazy...

Okay, maybe I'm a little lazy, but I have been slammed with all sorts of work this past week, and figured this would be a nice departure from the usual column.

Without giving away too much of the story; Mordechai Jefferson Carver (AKA The Hebrew Hammer) and his brother-in-arms, Mohammed Ali Paula Abdul Rahim (leader of the Kwanzaa Liberation Front) have just traveled back to Nazi Germany in a 'Time Sukkah' (Time Machine). In the scene prior to this one, we learn that the while this prototype Time Sukkah is time accurate, it is not always location accurate. Therefore, when The Hammer and Mo arrive in 1943, they accidentally land inside Anne Frank's hiding place...

A special thanks to my friend, the brilliant Odd Todd, for hosting the pages. So, with no further ajew, here's a preview scene...

Preview Scene From 'The Hebrew Hammer VS Hitler.'


Jon_Kesselman hopes you enjoyed the excerpt, and is working his ass off to bring the Mensch In Black back to the big screen. Shabbat Shalom, Motherfuckers!

Last week I was sick and couldn't post anything. I feel guilty, so for this weeks' Suicide Watch, I've decided to do a 2 for 1 Thursday! JK


ISN'T IT AWESOME.COM
Movie Review: “The Execution Of Saddam Hussein”
By Jim Stark

Hola, film geeks! It’s JIM STARK here with my review of the latest horror flick to come out of the Middle East!!! Now, y’all know that I’m a BIG fan of new wave torture horror. I’m a sucka’ for any movie that is about horny nubile teens in a van that breaks down who are then graphically mutilated by a disfigured sociopath with a brother who seems normal at first but then turns out to be just as evil as his disfigured brother!!! I love watching flicks where a drill bit makes its way ever-so-slowly towards some unsuspecting douche-bag wanker’s eyeball, or skull, or kneecap!!! So, you can imagine how psyched I was when I got word of this new flick that’s been bootlegged on the Internet last week str8 from Irak (sic?). It’s called, “THE EXECUTION OF SADDAM HUSSEIN,” and before you read further…

SPOILER ALERT AHEAD!!!

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Okay, this flick has been getting a crazy amount of buzz on the Interwebs, so I had to download it! The plot line is pretty simple—the way I love em’ in this kind of movie!! Seriously, I totally hate it when the filmmakers try to make you care about the victims and shit before they kill them off. Like, who even gives a rat's ass, right!? Just get on with the cryin’ and the dyin’!

Anyway, so this movie is about this one dude in a suit, and he has, like, this beard. And his hands are bound, and he’s led up some stairs and onto this pedestal. Below, there are some crazy foreign people who take pictures, but you can’t ever really see them. So, these two dudes in cool Leatherface/Michael Myers-type hoody things put this gnarly looking noose around his neck, and then the crazy foreign people start to scream crazy foreign stuff at him, and then they hang the dude!

Wait, I’m trying to remember more of the plot…

No, that’s pretty much it. A horror fan’s wet dream, right?

Well, fellow IIAC readers, I hate to slam art and stuff, but this movie blew chunks big-time! This flick makes ‘White Noise’ seem like the 'Sitizen Kayne' of horror!!!

First off, I’ll get into the technical stuff. The movie was shot on some sort of grainy digital video camera, most likely to add to the cinema-veritas “realism” of the story, but this choice totally backfired for the filmmaker!!! Half the time, you can’t even see what’s going on, and the cinematographer tries way too hard to use handheld action to scary things up and create “atmosphere”!!! And when I say tries too hard, I mean wayyyyyy too hard. Half the time, you can’t even see what the hell is happening. And get this! Right at the point when the dude in the suit gets dropped, the camera guy loses him! I mean it’s like a good three or four seconds before we even see the dude again…and he’s ALREADY DEAD!!!! Talk about killing the money shot! LOL! Two words of advice for the D.P. — Go Back To Film School, Dork!!!

Instead of talking about what was in the movie, I’ll briefly talk about what wasn’t.

1) There were no naked boobs! That’s right. You heard me. No boobs! In. A. Slasher. Flick. I say they should have hung the screenwriter instead of the dude in the suit! HA!

2) No crazy chase scenes with a knife, a gun, or a chainsaw. Whoever directed this movie needs some serious educating in the art of horror movies. I mean, I totally respected his choice to use one fluid master shot, and I thought the hanging thing was creative, but what ends up happening is that you totally miss the reaction shots of people crying and screaming in pain and stuff. Yawwwwwwwwwn.

Okay, now let’s get into the acting for a second. The main guy with the beard and the suit was a TOTAL STIFF! And, I’m talking about BEFORE he dies!!! He just kinda stands there all glum and proud-like! It was totally unrealistic and wooden acting. If that were a “real” person, he’d be crapping himself and begging for mercy. I don’t know where they found this guy, but next time they should check the CW network for available hunky actors!! I wonder if they have a version of the CW in Irak?

So, in a word: terrible movie. Save your money, and re-rent the remakes of THE AMYTVILLE HORROR or HOUSE OF WAX!

Until next time film geeks, goodnight and good luck!!!!!

JIM STARK out!!!

_______________________________________________________

WHOOPS!

On Monday, in NY, thousands of people complained of a strange odor throughout Manhattan. God, this is so embarrassing…

I decided it would be best if I came clean. I figure public hysteria is a lot worse than my own personal shame. I am publicly going to go on record and state that on Friday, I farted. And I am SORRY! It was me. I not only smelt it, but I also dealt it. Big time!

On Sunday, I took a train to Philly to watch the Eagles play the Giants…wow, what a game! However, at the Stadium, I drank a whole bunch of IPA ale, and ate pretzels, and pizza, and sausage, and french fries, and cotton candy, and peanuts, and pretzels, and sausage, and drank hot chocolate...Needless to say, I had me a case of stadium gut!

The train ride back was agony. I hate farting in public places, and I must have exacerbated the situation by not siphoning off some of that buildup on the way home. Well, on Monday morning I woke up, smiled in remembrance of that AWESOME game, looked outside at the rain streaking down my window, and as I adjusted my position in the bed, something must of come loose; because holy shit, did I fart! I farted like I have never farted before! I could swear that the walls shook. Outside, car alarms started going off, and dogs started barking! Pretty soon, people were outside sniffing the air strangely in panic, thinking they were in the middle of some kind of terror attack. I wanted to open my window and shout out “Hulooo! It was me! I’m the terror attack! Everything’s cool!”

I didn’t do that of course, because that would have been totally uncomfortable.

Later that day, when I got on the Internet, I saw that there were people all over the city talking about my super-fart.

Mr. Stewart, if you read this blog, I’m sorry. I know my farts are stinking. Toxic? Well, now that’s debatable. I sometimes actually like the way they smell when I make them in the poo-room. But you are correct; they can make you dizzy. One time, when I was making this really big doodie, I woke up an hour later on the floor of the bathroom with my pants still around my ankles. I blinked awake, looked around the bathroom, and was totally like, “Whoa!”

I take full responsibility for hot-boxing Manhattan. Again, all I can say is, “Mea culpa.” That of course, is Latin for, “I farted!” But then I saw this...

Now, I’m pretty sure that one’s not mine. I haven’t been to Austin in years, and typically my farts get weaker as they travel. Also, I’m fairly confident my farts don’t have the capability to kill small animals. Insects, yes; but there has never been a recorded case of a mammal dying from anything squeezed out of my anus.

However, just in case, I’ll go on record and apologize to the people of Austin as well. When it comes to my ass, you never can be sure.


Jon_Kesselman usually steers clear of fart jokes, but it was like Manhattan threw this huge, gaseous softball in front of his face, and he had to swing at it. Sorry.

I’m a sucker for advertisements. When the iPod billboards went up, I went down to the Apple store and bought one. I’m lactose intolerant, but when the American Dairy farmers asked me if I “Got Milk?” I was, like, “No,” and then bought gallons of the stuff. So, it was only a matter of time before I got me some Namibian children.

I don’t know how much of their marketing budget the Namibian Tourism Board spent on Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, but let me tell you it was worth every penny -- God damn, those two are hot together! However, for those of you already planning your Namibian vacation, let me give you a heads up; it isn’t your typical Club-Med-type-situation down there. The restaurants are pretty weak, the chicks are kind of stand-offish, the nightlife is like, totally non-en-fuego, and no one speaks any English…I mean, like, WTF, right? All week, I was all, “Hola. Te hablas, Ingles,” and people down there stared at me like I was talking in another language or something!

But I will give the Namibians credit for one thing; they sure as hell know how to pump out some cute ass kids! From the moment I landed at the airport in Winhoek I was mobbed by tons of those little fuckers. With their distended bellies, toothless smiles, and their endless supply of Chiclets, the Namibian kids have the same sad/cutesy appeal that pugs have. They’re cute because they’re weird looking! PLUS, they DON’T SHED! Now, how cool is that!? Anyone who knows me knows that I’m a sucker for a distended belly and some Chiclets. Needless to say, I had to have a few of them!

I’m proud to report, that on December 8th, 2006, I adopted Uukule, Kanamununa, and Na’{click, click} Simataa (I think). Here’s a picture of my kids.



Awesome, right!?

Their names seemed cool at first, but I kept getting them all mixed up. My kids were coming back to the United States of America for a fresh start, and I didn’t want them to get their asses kicked as soon as we landed. On the flight home, I racked my brain for some bad ass, new school, original names. My friend, Ari, made a good point that many Americans pick Pollyanna-ish names for their kids; names like Hope, Faith, and Charity. Other new parents have even tapped into flower genus territory to come up with names such as Daisy, Iris, Lily. So lame! There was no way I was going down that road. My kids are African warriors, so the names I’d pick for them had to represent their inner spirit! Ari suggested that I look at an untapped source of nomenclature for original names -- pharmaceutical drugs! You ready?

From left to right, meet: Xanax, Lunesta, and Mordechai!

The options in the Pharmaceutical world are endless! For awhile, I considered the names Kaopectate, Thorazine (Thor), and Cialis, but I ended up throwing those out for obvious reasons. I almost named Mordechai, Lexapro (Lex), but decided at the last minute I should probably Jew him up in case he wanted to work in the film or television industry. You never know.

Wait, you know what? I just totally got them mixed up! I’m such a dork! Mordechai is the one on the left side, and Xanax (which is a Palindrome, BTW) is on the right with the ‘Thompson Twins’ faux hawk. When all else fails, I can always tell them apart because Xanax has Ringworm. This new parenting stuff is harder than I thought!

When we got to Brooklyn, we had some adjusting to do. Right off the bat, there was the whole figuring out of the sleeping situation. I live in a one bedroom apartment, and I couldn’t afford to buy beds, or blankets, or pillows…or stuff. But when we got home after the flight, they immediately curled up on the hardwood floor and just knocked out. They were totally psyched! It hit me that they were used to sleeping on dirt, and so for them, my hardwood floor must have been a step up! I was already making a difference in my kids’ lives! Being a dad is so sweet sometimes.

The first couple of days were a trip. I was, like, living in this crazy fantasy world. You see, I always imagined being a father would be just a whole bunch of fun. Me and my kids would watch Wrestling, and I’d coach them in Marathon practice, and we’d stay up late and play the didgeridoo…but I have to be honest, this having kids stuff is a lot harder than I thought. For starters, when I gave them a didgeridoo, they looked at it like it was a stick. But the worst part is my kids like, need stuff, and, like, constantly want attention, and that can get kind of annoying after awhile. It’s as if they’re tethered to you ALL THE TIME. Personally, I got shit to do. I can’t be having my style cramped 24/7.

So, to free up some of my time and get them to stop being so damn clingy, I enrolled the kids in school. But apparently, because they don’t speak any English, and sometimes make weird clicking noises, the principal said they were “disruptive.” What the hell!? Isn’t that what school is for? I pay taxes for that stuff. I think.

So, I decided to take matters into my own hands and homeschool my kids. My babies weren’t going to be brought up with no learningness issues. I even came up with my own killer curriculum! Want to see it? Okay, here it is:

THE JONATHAN B. KESSELMAN CONSERVATORY OF SCHOOL

(Headmaster) Jonathan Kesselman
(Faculty) Jonathan Kesselman
(Adjunct Faculty) Skyler, my neighbor downstairs, when I have to go and do stuff.

Classes Offered For The Winter Term:

1) How to cook breakfast, clean around the house, do laundry, and other stuff for the person paying rent so he doesn’t feel like you’re an ungrateful little shit, lazing around the house all the time.

2) Hygiene 101: Getting rid of that stench, and those annoying flies that seem to follow you around.

3) Sweatshop Technologies: An exploration into the technical aspects of working in a Queens’ clothing factory.

4) How to learn English by watching ‘Sesame Street.’ Taught by new adjunct professor: Big Bird.

5) Music 101: Starting a successful Boy Band.

That last one’s pretty cool. My kids can’t sing, but they can dance, AND I’ve got Xanax taking bleach baths!!! Michael Jackson, watch your back!

Now, while parenting can be a joy, that’s not the real reason I’m writing. I don’t want to get all Sally Struthers on you, but my kids and I are starving! Like, big time. I tried to make some money on the side by selling their collectors edition headshots. As they’re still working on their literacy issues, I had them individually autograph each headshot by placing their hands in some day-glo paint before touching the bottom of the photos.

Ultimately, we didn’t sell many of those. Apparently Madonna is doing the same thing with her Namibian, and she’s famous, so her kids’ autographed headshot is worth way more. Damn you Madonna! Like you don’t have enough money already!?

Below, you will find a link which will allow you to donate money to support my Namibian Children. I promise the money will go to good causes. Things like: clothes from the Banana Republic (for me), a Nintendo Wii (also for me), and probably some beef jerky for the kids. Oh, yeah. I also need some drinking money.

I know what you’re probably thinking about the drinking money, but I’m a responsible parent, I swear. You have my word that the money will be spent on MY drinks only...and potentially on a few drinks for any of the hot chicks I might meet at a bar who I'd like to bang. Did I mention that my kids need a mommy?

I hate to beg, but it’s Xmas, and you Christians are supposed to be nice and help those in need. If you don’t help us, I think Jesus will be angry with you. So please stop being selfish and send money to us; Brad and Angelina would have wanted it that way.

Merry Christmas!

CLICK HERE TO SUPPORT MY NAMIBIAN CHILDREN!!!

Sincerely,

The Kesselman’s:
Xanax, Lunesta, Mordechai, and Jonathan

(Editor’s Note: The following article contains “spoilers.” FYI, a “spoiler” means that if you read this, certain plot elements from the film 'Apocalypto' will be revealed, and therefore “spoiled” for you. “Spoiled” means that if you go to the movie, you’ll already know stuff about it before you see it. Yes, it’s a silly term, but we didn’t “coin” it. FYI, to “coin a term” means to make a “term” up. A “term” is like a word, or a phrase...or something).


I’ve just come from an advance screening of Mel Gibson’s latest film, Apocalypto, and oh boy, it’s official; this film is Anti-Mayanetic!

Before I get into the details, let me clarify a few things. First off, I am not Mayan. That’s not to say that there isn’t the possibility that I have some Mayan blood in me. Nobody can ever be sure of their entire genetic makeup, and Mayans are seriously cool—they have tats, and multiple piercings, and wear glam make-up! Some of my best friends happen to be Mayan. In fact, the vast majority of these friends also happen to be members of the SuicideGirls community. Go figure.

My friends, you need to know what you’ll be up against when the film is released on December 10th! I will write this article on behalf of you! On behalf of us! I will be your/our voice! I will be youour voice.

Not to sound arrogant, but I think I just “coined” a “term!”

Before I put the proverbial fire to Mel’s proverbial feet, I’d like to start off this Anti-Anti-Mayanetic critique by letting out the linguistically accurate, blood curdling Maya war cry—

Eiiiayyayayiiii!!!!

Trust me, when you hear it aloud as opposed to reading it, it’s very frightening. Either way, right now, I’m frantic. I’m like a Jaguar unleashed! I’m not sure if it’s because of that second cup of coffee, or the Mayan “Fairy Dust” I scored off of that Honduran dude in the East Village before I watched the flick earlier, but I can barely keep from smashing my fingers through the keyboard as I type this. I am so filled with anger and aggression…and weird hallucinations involving Och-Kan, the Vision Serpent…wait, why the fuck is Och-Kan in my apartment? Get the fuck out of here Och-Kan!!!

Eiiiayyayayiiii!!!

Sorry, I couldn’t help myself that time. I’m freaking! Och-Kan was trying to eat me! I gave him some rice cakes, so he’s cool for now. He’s kind of just slithering around in the corner by the radiator, checking my place out as he intermittently swallows his fluffy, delicious-yet-healthy snack food. I think he’s sparing my life because he knows I am a true believer. A conduit! A champion of the entire Mayan/SG race! Or, maybe Och-Kan just digs rice cakes. Either way, I’ve learned over the years that when you’re dealing with a lethal Demi-Serpent-God it’s best just to let things slide...

Wait! Eww. He just pooed in the corner. God Damn it, Och-Kan! I’ll deal with you later, you fork-tongued little dick!

Speaking of fork-tongued little dicks…Mr. Mel Gibson, you’ve done it again! When will your smear campaign against those who do not follow the tenets of your creepy fundamental Catholic sect end!? First, you negatively portrayed post-apocalyptic Road Warriors as fey 80's Punk Rockers. You even made Tina Turner come off like a bitch AFTER Ike beat the shit out of her for all those years. Cruel! Seriously.

Then, you made a mockery of suicidal police officers with chronic dislocating shoulders. Why? What was the point of that? Later, in Braveheart you demonized the English for being pasty, and patronizing, and just plain talking funny. Finally, you placed responsibility for the death of the King Of The Jews on the Jews themselves, and then blamed them for starting all the wars in the world.

And now…this!? You are a despicable, despicable man! Let’s just get to the facts, shall we?

In his press notes, Mr. Gibson states that his actors speak in the Yukatek Maya dialect. Now, everyone knows that a distinctive feature of Yukatek (and all Mayan languages) is the use of ejective consonants (e.g. /p'/, /k'/, /t/'). Often (but incorrectly) referred to as glottalized consonants, they are pronounced more or less like their non-ejective counterparts, though the pronunciation is briefly halted and then released with a characteristic popping sound. Yukatek is an agglutinative language, so words can end up seeming quite long (e.g., kuhatz'ikech He hits you, tuhatz'ahech He hit you). Like all Mayan languages, Yukatek has Verb Subject Object word order and ergative morphosyntactic alignment. That said, the obligatorily-bound pronouns on Yukatek verbs is canonically Subject Object Verb in order!

Come on Mel, this is MAYAN 101!

In Apocalypto, your actors totally bungle the ejective consonants, dis-agglutinative the protracted verbalizations, and quite frequently use Subject Verb Object word order! It’s fucking blasphemy, and if I were a full-blooded Mayan, I’d want Mel’s head on my Atlatl, which as we all know, is Yukatek for “spear thrower.”

And while we’re on the subject of language, let’s take a look at some of the ‘Characters’ in the movie. The protagonist, Jaguar Paw, has a wife named Seven, and two sons named Flint Sky and Turtles Run. Talk about stereotypical Mayan names! Jesus, Mel! You might as well have named you characters Dances With Wolves, or Rabbit Droppings, or Cleopatra Jones, or Shylock Jewy Jewenstein! I mean, seriously, this is how you’re going to dehumanize my Mayan brothers and sisters!?

Well, technically, they’re not my brothers and sisters…probably more like my cousins fourteen-times-removed. But that’s a moot point, and you know it!

I could go on, but suddenly the Mayan “Fairy Dust” is peaking, and I think Quetzalcoatl just flew into my apartment through the kitchen window. Oh my lord, it looks like he is going to attack Och-Kan! Holy shit, this is awesome! Wait! Ixtab, the goddess of suicide just walked through the front door with a noose around her neck, and now she’s wrestling Quetzalcoatl AND Och-Kan! Not only is she kicking BOTH of their asses, but she’s doing it totally nude!!! Holy Ixbalanque, I’m gonna get me a piece of this action and jump on into the fray! Fuc-Kuhatz'ikech yeah!

Eiiiayyayayiiii!!!


Jon_Kesselman Nd-o-heja-s´e-i i-ku´ara ha’e-˜no, nongatu-h´ape mayma i-mba’e kuera o-˜nongatu-va’e-kwe ´ara ro’˜y s´a megua-r'a. LOL

Two weeks ago, I started reading the Dave Eggers' novel, A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius. So far, I’ve been having a bitch of a time getting through it. Not because of the quality of the writing, mind you (so far, so good), but because of its content. In short, the book (at least the first part which I can’t seem to get through) is about Dave Eggers dealing with his mother’s anguished death from cancer. The description of her cancer and its effects on her body are told in a detailed, graphic manner. And I have to be honest, it’s driving me bat shit crazy.

You see, for some time now I’ve been convinced that reading, thinking about, or seeing images that deal with the C-word can somehow give me…I’ll just come out and say it…“The Cancer.” For example, as I type this very sentence, I feel a slight twitching in my lower intestine. Up until this weekend, I was convinced that this same twitching/aching was a sure sign of liver cancer—a liver cancer brought on by my reckless use of prescription drugs and alcohol. Until this weekend, I was unequivocally certain that my liver was a black, festering breeding ground for “The Cancer.” I was so convinced of this that I showed my brother-in-law, John, exactly where in my intestine “The Cancer” was homesteading. As I breathlessly waited for the bad news (and his deepest sympathy), John simply looked at me as if I was retarded. Shortly thereafter, he informed me that the human liver is not situated in the lower intestinal tract.

It was at that point that I realized that “The Cancer” was either A) fucking with me, or B) it was a hell of a lot smarter than I was giving it credit for.

Cancer! Fuck you, you piece of shit! As painful as it is to write this column, I will get to the heart of this fear of mine! Why is it so hard to say or write the word CANCER? What am I afraid of!? Let’s take the emotional component out of the equation and look at what getting cancer actually means, shall we?

“Cancer” means:

Lots of painful prodding and stabbing with needles and probes. It means surgery; surgery in which pieces of you are removed permanently. We’re talking pieces of brain, stomach, lungs, testicles, organs that do…important stuff.

Cancer also means chemotherapy. The pumping of toxic, radioactive drugs through your system; drugs that cause chronic nausea and vomiting, and hair loss, and sharting. I hate sharting! I did it coming out of a movie last week and spent fifteen minutes scrubbing the inside of my boxers with Borax.

“Cancer” also means the possibility that the cancer will come back, or even worse, never go away! And what does that mean? Well, in a nutshell, it means you die. You cease to exist. You go out with a slow, agonizing death.

So, now that I’ve removed the emotional component from the equation…

Fuck me! I don’t fucking want to get the fucking cancer!

And here’s the thing about “The Cancer.” One day you can be healthy…or in my case…relatively healthy…okay, fine, you can be out of shape and pudgy, and have a terrible diet, and drink too much. But then boom, the next day, for whatever reason, you’re done for!

And what caused “The Cancer?” Was it too much coffee, or beer, or NYC’s incomparable tap water? Or was it not enough exercise, or fiber, or POM©, the premiere pomegranate juice? What am I doing wrong? What am I not doing wrong? Is thinking about cancer a precursor to getting cancer? Can underlining key words about “The Cancer” give you “The Cancer!?” By writing this article, am I willing it to happen? If so, is it too late!? And what the fuck are the so-called-Scientists out there doing with all their free time! Scientists, if you’re listening, stop worrying about seedless watermelons and “The Environment!” Put your asses and heads together and cure this motherfucker, for God sakes! My life is on the line!

Yes, I get the whole “thing” about “The Environment.” I saw the Al Gore movie. By the way Al, if you're reading this, I think the film would have performed much better at the box office if you had named it something more along the lines of, “We’re All Fucked!,” or “You’re Going To Die An Excruciating Death If You Don’t See This Movie 2: The Return!!!” People seem to respond to those sorts of titles better than titles like, “An Inconvenient Truth.” You might as well have named your movie, “I’m Going To Give A Really Boring Slide Show That Will Scare You If You Can Stay Awake!!!” Oooh, I'm so scared I just sharted myself!

I saw the flick, Mr. Gore, and I got it. I got it! Hybrid cars, and Greenhouse gasses, and my kids will live underwater, and blah-blickety-fucking-blah… but here’s a news flash for you Al: I WON’T BE ABLE TO HAVE KIDS IF I GET “THE CANCER” TOMORROW!!! Are you stupid!? I thought you created the Internet! Am I the only sane person here!?

So, to Mr. Gore and his team of seedless watermelon producing scientists…fuck you and your hybrid cars! Until somebody does something about “The Cancer,” I’ve decided that from this moment forward I will only use energy inefficient bulbs. I will drive a fully loaded Tahoe and smash the exhaust pipe with a sledgehammer! I’m not going to recycle! Hell, I’m going to put the plastics where the newspapers should go, and the glass bottles in the leaf bin! I’m going to avoid renewable energy sources (whatever the fuck that means), and while I’m at it, I’m going to vote Republican! That’s right, REPUBLICAN! Because the word on the street is that the Republicans are now the Anti-Cancer party! I’m desperate here, and unless somebody figures this “The Cancer” shit out, I’m a dead man. A dead man who’s gonna go out in style! So, come on cancer, come and get me, you big pussy!!!

Oh shit, did I just fuck myself!?

Jon_Kesselman wants Mr. “The Cancer” to know that he’s totally kidding. He DOES NOT want you to come and get him.

P.S. Rob Corddry’s prostate was asking about you.

Tonight, I board a plane and make my way to Utah (don’t ask, and no, I’m not from there). In Utah, there are lots of nice Mormon people. It’s very clean. They have mountains and Wal-Marts. I hate Utah. I am going to hell for the holidays.

Let me begin by saying that I love my family. I love each and every member with all of my heart. However, something strange happens when we all get together under the same roof. I’m not sure if it’s biochemical, or some kind of chakratic (sic?) realignment, but like magic, we are all suddenly transformed into vicious, annoying Assholes. All of us. Yes, even me.

But starting tomorrow, while my 10-year-old Nephew taunts me as he beats the shit out of me on his XBOX360, and my Sister-In-Law multitasks as she cooks the Turkey and Turkey accoutrements while insulting her husband (my oldest brother) because she is overwhelmed by all of his family in the house, while my Mom sits on the sofa imperiously finding fault with everyone while experimenting in ways to push their buttons and make them hate each other, and after my Brother Josh and I have bickered over who gets the “better” bed in the house (he’ll probably win, fucker), I will be unhappy.

Are you unhappy where you are?

Here’s a tip for the T-Day weekend. Drug and drink yourself through the entire ordeal. My personal choice is a Vicodin/Klonopin/Wine combo. Do it carefully, however. A substance abuse related death is a heavy thing to lay on your family right before Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa. I’ve found that if I can titrate a steady dose of the Benzodiazepines, Narcotics, and Red Wine, I can usually sleep through most of the tension, anger, resentment, frustration, over-stuffing, and bad Television that make up a Kesselman family Thanksgiving.

Did someone invent the term “dysfunctional” to allow us to blame the other members of our families for our misery during this sham of a holiday? Is there such a thing as a “functional” family? I think I’ve seen one on 7th Heaven. However, I think if those people were my family I’d probably wake up in the middle of the night and put an Axe through their pretty little blonde heads. Yes, even the cute one.

I still can’t quite figure out why we even celebrate Thanksgiving? Who really benefits from T-Day? The Turkey Farmers? Kind of a cruel business, don’t you think? The Airlines? They’re even more cruel than the Turkey Farmers. A five hour flight, and they don’t feed you? WTF!? And what are we even giving thanks for again? Isn’t this the holiday where somebody else’s ancestors invited the Native Americans over to their “functional” homes in an effort to befriend and then lull them into a false sense of security before stealing their land and tossing them onto reservations? If so, I’d like to apologize on behalf of those dicks, but also thank whatever tribe lived in what is now called Brooklyn. I really like Brooklyn. To the Utah tribes people, on the other hand…not so much thanks to you. You should have fought the Mormons harder. I have some Mormon friends. Trust me, they aren’t that tough.

My ride to the airport comes in an hour, and I’m rushing to the finish line on this one. Sorry it’s not better. My column happens to post the same day as a National Holiday. Stop being so judgmental—you aren’t working either!

In conclusion, wherever you are spending this Thanksgiving, give thanks that your own personal hell will only last for a couple of days. You’ll be home on Sunday or Monday, away from your “crazy” families, back to your “normal” lives. For now, I’d like to raise my glass of water mixed with Airborne to all of you; nay, to all of us, who have been forced to suffer for the sins of someone else’s forefathers. Those guys are dicks.

Jon_Kesselman will be in a better mood next week. He thinks. Have a "Happy" Thanksgiving.

Since I started this column, I’ve received a steady stream of fan mail as well as letters asking for advice. I came across the following article Man Ordered To Wear "sex offender" T-Shirt this week, and was pleasantly surprised when I was contacted by someone whom on the surface appeared to be the same individual.

DEAR JONATHAN KESSELMAN: I am a married 69-year-old man who lives and works in the great state of Vermont. Recently, I was arrested for the second time for exposing my shriveled genitalia to a 10-year-old girl while working outdoors. I know I have a problem. Although I am happily married, I feel compelled to expose myself to little girls. I will serve time, and then I will receive counseling. With God’s help I will one day hopefully be able to put an end to this abhorrent behavior.

However, after going to court, the judge ordered that I wear a shirt labeled, “I Am A Registered Sex Offender” for two years upon my release from prison. Clearly, wearing this piece of clothing will decimate by business as well as prevent me from ever reconciling with my wife, or anyone else, for that matter, in my life.

There are no words to describe how sorry I am for what I have done. However, how can I begin the redemptive process, make amends with my wife, and not go bankrupt with the judgment that has been handed down to me?

VIOLATED IN VERMONT

DEAR VIOLATED IN VERMONT--

First off let me say, dude, that sucks. I live across the street from this elementary school, and I love how the light pours through my windows in the morning. It’s really humid where I live, and my bed happens to be right near the window facing the school. To combat chafing throughout the day, I lay prone on my bed each morning and bend my legs back to expose my sack while sprinkling Gold Bond Medicated Powder© on my testes. Until I read your letter, I had no idea how dangerous this exposure was. Thanks for the heads up!

Anyway, in response to your question, the answer is really very simple. You need to pack up your shit and hop on the first plane to Brooklyn or Los Angeles, preferably to the areas known as Williamsburg or Silver Lake (respectively). To further clarify, Williamsburg and Silver Lake are the East and West Coastal epicenters of ironic, disaffected Hipsterdom.

Aside from being unshaven, using “product” to create the “bedhead” hairstyle, and wearing newly bought store jeans that appear to be one seam away from disintegration; the single most important defining component to the inhabitants of these two townships is the “Ironic-T.”

To understand the “Ironic-T,” let me delve deeper into the modern-age Hipster mentality. The cornerstone of this lifestyle philosophy is, what I like to call, “The Whatever.” Past generations have employed their own version of “The Whatever;” namely, “The Cold Chillin’,” “The Keepin’ It Real,” and “The Livin’ Da Vida Loca!” {Roughly translated, “Livin’ The Crazy Life!"}

Here’s how “The Whatever” works:

Say you find yourself drinking a Brooklyn Lager at a Yo La Tengo show in Hoboken, NJ, and strike up a conversation with a cute, perky spoken-word poet from Fort Greene with boyish hair who ‘daylights’ as a Barista at a high-octane-caffeine, free-trade coffee shop, and it comes to the point in the evening in which you ask for her number. A non-Hipster might ask, “Do you think I could get your number and give you a call sometime?” Well, Violated In Vermont, let me tell you, that man would not only go home digit-less, but might unknowingly find a loogie hiding out in the foam of his Latte the next time he ordered an espresso drink.

The Hipster, on the other hand, would respond to the same scenario in the following manner:

Hipster With ‘Brooklyn Industries’ Hoodie And FEMALE Genitalia: “So, like, here’s my phone number. But I don’t really care if you call or don’t call. I’m just giving it to you because I feel like it. But whatever.”

Hipster With ‘Brooklyn Industries’ Hoodie And MALE Genitalia: “What!? You think I care that you think I care that you gave me your number? I don't care. And I might call you or I might not call you. It doesn't matter anyway, so whatever.”

Hipster With ‘Brooklyn Industries’ Hoodie And FEMALE Genitalia: “You think I care that you even care that I think you care if you call me? I don't care. You could call me or you couldn't call me. Doesn't matter to me. So, whatever.”

Hipster With ‘Brooklyn Industries’ Hoodie And MALE Genitalia: “Fine. Cool. Whatever.”

Hipster With ‘Brooklyn Industries’ Hoodie And FEMALE Genitalia: “Whatever. Fine. Cool.”

At this point, both parties would separate sound in the knowledge that they would later engage in overly-analyzed, committed yet non-committal sexual relations. Also, the Hipster With The Male Genitalia would also be confident in the knowledge that he would not be fishing loogies out from the foam of his Latte.

So, Violated In Vermont, now that you understand “The Whatever,” you now have the tools to grasp the “Ironic-T.” There has been some dispute as to when the “Ironic-T” was created, but most scholars agree that it was created by “Indie” Rock and Roll Musicians approximately around the same time they rolled out the phrase “DIY.”

An “Ironic-T” is as any T-Shirt made from the lowest grade material(s) that the Hipster will claim he/she found on the floor of his/her apartment earlier that day, and just “threw on.” This, however, is a fallacy.

In fact, in order for the shirt to qualify as an “Ironic-T,” the Hipster must have spent AT LEAST two days in various thrift shops in either Brooklyn or on Los Angeles’ Melrose Ave. It is imperative that the shirt appear to have been created sometime during the period of 1971 through 1996, and that the logo, and/or slogan, and/or design of the T-Shirt must operate on one or more of the following “Ironic-T Principles”:

1) The logo/slogan/design must never categorize, or label you, or put you in a box...or, like, whatever.

2) The logo/slogan/design is in direct opposition to how the Hipster sees himself privately or presents himself publicly (e.g. “The Cowboy Shirt,” “The High-Roller Casino Shirt,” “The Bowling Shirt, The Car Mechanic Shirt.”)

3) The logo/slogan/design contains a ‘Revolutionary’ visage or similar ‘Revolutionary’ symbology. Examples include The Che Guevara-T (CGT) or The Communist Russian Propaganda-T (CRPT)

4) The logo/slogan/design is a silkscreen of a popular Arcade/Cartoon/ Kung Fu figure or symbol (e.g. Atari, Space Invaders, Fat Albert, Speed Racer, or Bruce Lee with his crazy “I’ll fuck your shit up" eyes, complete with Nun Chucks…)

5) The Obscure Beer/Band-T (The OBBT). It is imperative that the wearer of this shirt have absolutely ZERO knowledge of that particular bands’ music or of the beers’ country of origin. If the wearer DOES know these things, then he/she is actually wearing an…

6) I’m Superior To You-T (ISTY-T). These are self-explanatory. If you don’t get it, then you’re a fucking idiot! Pfff. Whatever…

7) The Ironic Religious-T (The IRT). For example, a ‘Jesus Is My Homeboy,’ T-shirt falls into the IRT category, because Jesus is, in fact, nobody's homeboy. No, not even Pat Robertson's.

8) And lastly, the Negative Ironic Portrayal-T (NIP-T). This, Violated In Vermont, is where you might want to pay close attention…

In the case of your dilemma, you are being forced to wear a very unflattering Negative Ironic Portrayal T-Shirt (NIP-T). In your case, however, the Ironic nature of the shirt has been rendered non-existent. You ARE, in fact, a registered sex offender. While Vermont is a beautiful state, the Hip level of its inhabitants is directly correlated to the number of Phish bootlegs owned. I can tell you with great certainty that in your home state your shirt will fall on deaf eyes. They will burn you at the stake as they dance circles around your “funeral pyre,” lighting “kind buds” off of your melting carcass while they flail about in rapture to the sounds of Bouncing Round The Room. Not a good scenario for you.

However, in Brooklyn or Silver Lake, your Vermont court-issued death sentence will instantly be transformed into an “Ironic-T.” You will be a hero! People will ask you where you got your shirt. DO NOT tell them the truth.

Tell them, “This old thing? Pfff. Whatever. I found it lying on the floor of my apartment.”

They might prod further, asking if they can buy it. Tell them that you don’t believe in the "antediluvian bourgeois American capitalist system." If they try and barter for the shirt, tell them that your ex-“chick,” a perky spoken-word poet/Barista gave it to you, so it has sentimental value. Tell them it was a bad breakup, but like, whatever, you’ve decided to show her you DON’T CARE by wearing the T-shirt every day.

I hope this was helpful, and I look forward to seeing you and your “I Am A Registered Sex Offender T-Shirt” at a Yo La Tengo show in the very near future.

Best,

Jonathan Kesselman

Jon_Kesselman, like, doesn't care if you, like, dug this article or not. To him, it's just like, whatever.

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