Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Misc. Humor (page 1 of 4)

Breaking Up With My Therapist

Reading at “Come as You Are,” a night of storytelling at the Charles R. Wood Theater in support of Warren-Washington Association for Mental Health.

The Planets Now Revolve Around Neptune

For the last four years, this blog has been all about my penis.  I’ve written about my penis, given voice to my penis, posted drawings of my penis, and emailed photos of my penis to most of my female readers, including that infamous 2008 Christmas card with the miniature mistletoe and the copy that read, “Let’s Make it a Happy Holiday — Kiss Me!” I have not discussed my penis here for my own amusement or whim. I am not selfish, crude, or misogynist.   As a people-person, I believed that I was giving my female readership what they wanted.   I respect women.   I just thought that women were ALL ABOUT the penis! Have I been wrong all along?

I’m sure my male readers will understand this logic.   A man lives in a world that revolves around his penis, much like the planets orbit around the sun.  So you can imagine the mind-blowing surprise that would come from learning that a woman’s world does NOT revolve around the man’s penis!  That is a major paradigm shift for a man, as if NASA scientists suddenly said that the planets now revolve around NEPTUNE!   In Galileo’s time, they burned people who dared speak this heresy.

On Friday, I wrote a little story about sex and senior citizens.  As a literary experiment, I wrote it from the POV of women.   I tried my hardest to capture the voices of women talking about sex, in case, one day, someone wants to hire me to write the screenplay to Sex in The City 5: The Retirement Years.

I asked a few of my online friends for an honest opinion on the post. I picked those bloggers who I knew would not be offended.   I went to my Google Reader and chose those women who seemed the sluttiest, kinkiest — women I imagined to once be hot-to-trot, easy-in-college girls, who now, despite being married with children, still think about having sex ALL THE TIME.  One of these women, the delighful MammaLoves, is a political consultant in Washington D.C., which I figured was a codename for “high price hooker for U.S. Senators (Democrats only – she has morals),” so I immediately asked her to read my post.

Her review:

There are good parts, but it’s a little stiff (no pun intended). The women would be more animated and less focused on penis. We like penises, but we don’t talk about them a bunch. We also don’t focus on them as the hot part of a man. We like chests and eyes and asses and legs. And we don’t write about ourselves as removed. Does that make sense? I like the concept, but here is room for much more humor. And you know humor.

Women don’t focus on our penises?!   Have I been blogging incorrectly all this time?!   No wonder this blog never makes those A-lists of “Best Blogs.”    Are you saying that you DON’T want photos of my penis in your inbox?!  I know women don’t date a man for money or status, because that would be wrong and superficial, so I thought it must be the Penis!   Are you saying that if I did push-ups and sit-ups, and developed my chest and abs, that this would be sexier to you than me undressing, taking you into the bathroom, and proving to you that I can pee into the toilet from a good six feet away, if I aim properly and have my “game” on?!   (note to men — the compass app on the iphone is the greatest tool ever to find the precise angle of impact)

After I unpack and get myself organized in New York, I need to start working on my new memoir that I recently pitched to the editors at Random House, “All the Clitorises I’ve Loved Before:   The Personal Journey of One Blogger’s Transformation from Penis-Centric to Vagina-Centric in the Few Months Before BlogHer (In Order to “Brand” Himself as More of a Giver than a Taker… Just In Case…)”

I Woke Up Today with a Penis! Can My Marriage Survive?

Today’s guest post is written by blogger/mother Marinka of Motherhood in NYC.   Marinka and I are fairly new to each other online., but she’s funny — and I adore funny women.   But her name brought up some red flags.   “Are you Russian?” I asked Marinka.   Yes.   She and her parents has come from the Soviet Union when she was very young.  A-ha!  A Russian-born woman!  I know her type VERY WELL.  She will get you drunk on vodka, have her way with you, break your heart, and then toss you into the Black Sea.  So, here you go, Sophia — I mean Marinka — I’m giving you a ridiculous topic just because I’m passive-aggressive!

Who’s Afraid of Dick Woolf (With Not-Very-Sincere Apologies to Virginia and Mr. Wolf)
by Marinka of Motherhood in NYC

Ladies, ever wonder if your marriage would survive if you suddenly woke up with a penis?  Why not ask  your partner?  It will bring you closer and make for lighthearted conversation. 

I ask my husband if he would still love me if I were to sprout a penis, and he says “yes” so quickly that I become instantly suspicious.  I mean, who can agree to something like that without mulling it over, maybe running a few Google searches and having a heart to heart with friends or maybe a mental health expert or a dozen.  At the very least, shouldn’t he be asking me why I was asking?  Or how this penis would happen to appear?  Or if I’ve had my meds adjusted recently?

The more I think about it, the more obnoxious his “yes” becomes.  As far as I can tell, there were only two possible reasons for it.  First is that he wasn’t really listening to what I was asking, and even if he were, he just wanted to get the conversation over with as quickly as possible and this was the best way to get me to shut the hell up.  Second is  that in my sudden penis growth he sees an opportunity for an early retirement as he parades me around the talk show freak circus circuit and cashes in.  I am uncertain which option is more offensive, but I do know that my evening plans of watching “Gossip Girl” are on hold.  Indefinitely.

“What do you mean ‘yes’?” I ask him.

“What?” he says, leading me towards Theory Number One of Not Listening To Me.

“You would still love me and stay married to me if I had a penis?  Isn’t that weird?  Wouldn’t you be alarmed and maybe concerned and skeeved out?”

“I guess.”  He shrugs.  I sometimes think that shrugging by adults is a defense to most crimes committed against them.

“So, why do you say ‘yes’ if I asked you if you’d still love me?”

He looks at me as though I were asking a completely ridiculous question.

“I said ‘yes’ because I thought that your getting a penis was an unlikely event, like something that we won’t be facing in the near future—along the lines of ‘will you love me forever, no matter what?’”

“WHAT?”

“What ‘what’?”

“You mean when you’ve said that you’ll love me forever, no matter what, you meant it the same way you mean ‘I’ll love you if you have a huge penis’?!”

“How do you know that you’d have a huge one?”

“Oh please.  I wouldn’t have a fun-sized one.”

“Ok.”

“What do you mean ‘Ok’? You think that I’d have a tiny dick?  You have some fucking nerve.  You don’t really appreciate me, do you?  You’re constantly emasculating me.”

“Are you PMSing?”

“Fuck you.”

“Let me grab my ankles, now that you have a penis.”

“Well, if you had a mangina, it would totally be over between us.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“A mangina.  A male vagina.”

“Look, if you are not PMSing, you’re insane.  What is a male vagina?”

“You don’t understand anything.”

“Thank god for that.”

So yes, apparently,  my marriage would survive my growing a penis.  As long as we never discussed it.

This Time, It’s For the Women

The big question on my mind after yesterday’s post was “What type of pornography do women like?”  After doing extensive research and interviewing several female bloggers on Facebook chat while offering unsuccessfully to show them my new “web-cam,” I now can present the results. 

The methology used was completely scientific, and included questions such as, “What do you fantasize about when you make love to your husband?” and “What visual stimuli gives you the most intense orgasm?”

Bad “Sexy Email” Advice

The internet is one big vat of useless advice given by experts who know sh*t.   You would think a guy could learn something useful from being online.  After all, I don’t just want to spend all my time online reading the sob stories that you call “your blogs.”

Today, I was thinking of something much more important — ways to improve my sex life.  I figured I would do the logical thing: search Google with the phrase “How to Improve Your Sex Life.”  I immediately came across this article titled “How to Improve Your Sex Life with Sexy Emails.” Hmm… sexy emails.  I can do that. I already write a blog.  Maybe I can actually use my writing skills and my English degree for some practical purpose.

So I spent some time lookng over “the six steps to spicing up my sex life by writing sexy emails,” as outlined by the eHow Relationships Editor.

None of it made much sense.

Step 1 –

Identify how you want to improve your sex life with sexy emails.

This is a really dumb step.  Isn’t it obvious?  I hope to improve my sex life with sexy emails by actually have sex with someone.  Duh.

Step 2 –

Meet people in your area by posting personal ads or responding to posts in adult forums.  Start corresponding with people in whom you are interested, moving straight into sexual chat or taking things slowly at first and elevating them as the situation warrants.

Hmm… go straight into the sexual chat OR take things slowly?  Let’s see.  You say I should go on an ADULT FORUM, and then you want me to take things slowly?  How slowly should I go?  I’m on an ADULT FORUM!  I realize I may look desperate by jumping right in with the dirty talk, but should I really be disguising the fact that I am on an ADULT FORUM lookng to chat about sex?

“You mean this isn’t the “Celebrity Circus” Forum?  Whoops!  What is this forum about anyway?  Women who love men with c*ck rings?  How intriguing?!  I never would have guessed.  This is so unlike me to be on this forum.  Are you wearing a bra?”

Step 3 –

Allow the situation time to evolve naturally.  Once you’ve maintained an ongoing correspondence with a partner you like, you can suggest a real-life rendezvous over dinner or drinks.  From there, there’s no telling where things might lead.

From there, there’s no telling where things might lead?  What are you saying…that she may end up stabbing me in the subway station and leaving me for dead?  I don’t want surprises.  I WANT to BE TOLD where this might lead!  I want this to end in SEX.  Period.

Step 4 –

Improve your sex life with an existing partner by using sexy email to explore your desires. Surprise your partner with a sexy note, taking it easy at first until you test the waters out, and pay attention to how your partner replies to your move.  If she’s game, she’ll respond in kind.

This step was an utter failure. I tried it tonight.

Yahoo IM: “Sophia, are you wearing a bra?”

Yahoo IM: “Neilochka, no, I’m not.  Hey, do you want to play a game of online backgammon?”

Step 5 –

Use sexy emails to describe scenes you’d like to play out with your partner or to drop hints about sexual tricks you want to try out.

Scenes?  Tricks?  What are you talking about?  I don’t want to put on a Broadway play or a magic show! I want to have sex.  Sheesh.

Step 6 –

Post ads seeking people to join you and your partner if you’re looking to add some group fun to your sex life.  Then, you and your partner can act as a team to seduce a third (or fourth or fifth) party to take part in your bedroom fun.

Huh?  Five people in one bed?  Is that supposed to be fun?  What size bed do most people have?  I thought five people in one bed was the reason most people escape from third world poverty-stricken regimes?

The internet sucks.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the MonthThe Pigeon on the Patio

A Five Minute Long Wild Sex Comedy

— starring Neil, Sophia, Neil’s Mom, several half-naked girls from Queens, and introducing Moondog, as Neil’s surfer dude buddy.

FADE IN:

INT. DON CARLOS’ FISH TACOS – REDONDO BEACH – DAY

Neil and Moondog have just finished hanging ten at Redondo and are now chilling at Don Carlos’, the sweetest joint in town for fish tacos. Hot girls in bikinis are constantly walking by. All the girls seem to know Neilochka (his surfer name) and Moondog.

Neil: “I think it is time, Moondog. I’m gonna find me my own place and move out.”

Moondog: “About time, dude. My ear was burning like the hot sand hearing this every week after week… for three years…”

Neil: “Maybe I’ll first go to New York for a few weeks cause I still don’t have any digs. Just feeling as down as GeekDude without his Red Bull. I’m feeling major wipeout over my babe.”

Moondog: “Sure, man. We’re all bummed about you and Sophia. But maybe it’s time to move on. Time to ride the next big wave. Definitely go to New York for a trip.”

Neil: “Yeah, I can go see some of that, what do you call it, art. At that museum from that movie. That museum rocks. They got the stuff from the posters… but they’re real!”

Moondog: “Hell no, forget the old dead white dudes. You need to get over Sophia. You got to start schtupping everything is sight. There’s some pretty hot skirt over there in New York.”

Neil: “Sweet. But can’t I do the same here in LA?”

Neil looks over at a buxom beauty in a tight bikini as she rollerblades by, her breasts a bouncin’!

Moondog: “Dude, surfer dudes like us are a dime a dozen at the SoCal surf and turf. In Gotham City, we’re exotic. They hear your LA accent and your Hollywood style, and they’re already getting wet from the tide. It’s time for you to get on that plane, and shine off your own Big Apple hidden away down there…”

Neil: “And where do I meet this chicks? I don’t have the Benjamins for those Samanthas and Mirandas.”

Moondog: “LOL, dude. NYC is P***y Grand Central. They’re everywhere. East side, west side, all around town! Just look at a map of Manhattan. It’s shaped like a giant breast with the nipple pointing out to Brooklyn.”

Neil: “That’s no nipple. That’s the Brooklyn Bridge.”

Moondog: “I’ve felt up two girls from Brooklyn and there must be something in the water there because Brooklyn nipples could slice a pizza pie. No wonder the Dodgers had to move to LA. They couldn’t concentrate on the game. All those Brooklyn nipples.”

Neil: “Well, I won’t be in Brooklyn. I’ll be in Queens. And I’ll be staying with my mother. That’s not a very good spot for a little romance.”

Moondog: “Hey, I met your mother. She’s cool. The babes won’t even know she’s there. But be strong. This is for you… to live it up… don’t call Sophia… for anything…”

CUT TO:

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM – QUEENS – NIGHT

Neil is making passionate love to Freya Aaronson, the once Orthodox, now Reform, Jewish girl he loved in high school but never looked his way, but is now a an assistant editor at Random House and currently submitting her fiction to the New Yorker Magazine.

Freya: “F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me harder, Neilochka! Nothing could feel as good as you f**king me, Neilochka… maybe except getting published in the New Yorker! F**k me, Neilochka!”

Neil: “Could you just be a little quieter? My mother is sleeping next door. She has to go to work tomorrow early.”

Freya: “F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! Wasn’t your mother written about in the New Yorker because she’s been working forever at Farrar, Straus, and Giroux? Would she mind if I left behind a few of my stories, Neilochka? They’re perfect for the New Yorker. F**k me, Neilochka! Your mother is amazing. F**k me, Neilochka!”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM – QUEENS – THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil is in bed, being ridden by Yvonne, the flirtatious black girl from the local stationary store, a brainy grad student at Fordham. The bed is pounding against the wall.

Yvonne: (as she rides him) “Oh my god, dinner was amazing, Neilochka. So good. And my friends consider me a foodie! I can’t believe your mother’s secret ingredient for her brisket is… ketchup. I never would have guessed. How long does she cook the brisket for? It was so tender. So soft.”

Neil: “Can we talk about this later? A conversation about soft, tender meat is not something a man wants to hear when…”

Yvonne: “Do you think she would mind if we went for seconds of the brisket? I can’t stop thinking about it! That brisket was so good. I need to get the recipe. Will she be serving this brisket for Passover?”

Neil: “Passover was last week.”

Yvonne: “Too bad. Try to come fast so we can go have some more brisket.”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM – QUEENS – THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil is in bed with the petite Emily Ning, a divorced mommyblogger. She lives on the third floor of the same building as Neil’s mother. She works in PR for a Hong Kong-based bank downtown. She is an ardent blogger and loves reading Citizen of the Month. She is giving oral sex to Neil.

Emily: “Do you like how that feels? Do you like that? Am I making you dizzy? You didn’t expect me to know how to do that, did you? How about if I use BOTH hands on your?”

THE CAMERA PULLS BACK

to show that Emily not only giving oral sex, but is also throwing punches in the boxing ring on Neil’s Wii-connected TV, and talking to her opponent, another mommyblogger, via cell phone.

Emily: (into phone) “You didn’t expect to go right, left, did you? You’re going down!”

Emily continues on with her oral sex, looking bored, then leans over to her laptop and sends a quick message to her opponent via Twitter.

Emily: “Knockout, sucker!!”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM – QUEENS – THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil’s head is between the thighs of Anna Castro, his long-time friend from elementary school, who he has liked ever since they danced the Tarantella together at the fourth grade dance festival. Anna is lying in the bed, her legs apart, waiting impatiently for Neil to take some action. Now, Neil is on the phone, looking frantic:

Neil: (into phone) “I know what I said, Sophia. I said I wouldn’t call you. But I’m telling you… it’s not in the right place with her. I can’t find the spot. Yes, I have my glasses on. Isn’t it in the same place on every woman?… You don’t have to be sarcastic! I didn’t complain when you called me with that stupid computer problem about Photoshop Elements… Yes, she’s nice… It’s none of your business… OK, her name is Anna. .. Yes, the one from the fourth grade dance festival. .. No, I didn’t step on her feet… Yes… yes… Yes, I’m taking the damn cholesterol medicine… Listen, I didn’t call you to chat…”

Neil’s mother opens then door to Neil’s room, carrying a tray of Oreo cookies and low-fat milk.

Neil’s Mother: “Would anyone like a snack?”

Anna quickly jumps out of bed.

Anna: “Thank God. Yes!”

Neil’s Mother: “I’m watching “Dancing with the Stars” on Tivo, Anna. Would you like to join me?”

Anna: “Absolutely!”

Anna exits with Neil’s mother.

CUT TO:

INT. DON CARLOS’ FISH TACOS – REDONDO BEACH – TWO WEEKS LATER – DAY

Neil and Moondog are chilling at Don Carlos’, chowing on fish tacos and drinking Coronas. Moondog is shaking his head in disbelief.

Moondog: “Dude… never tell this story to… anyone.”

The End

Republican Religiosity

religion.jpg

Note:  Sophia suggested that I take this post down since it wasn’t in the spirit of the Holidays, especially since it is the post right after the big Holiday concert.   I did take it down, and then I remembered, from past experience, that everyone will just see it on Bloglines and Google Reader anyway, and I’ll just look like a wimp.  So, I put it back up.   Proud of me?

Unlike the Queen of Spain, who enjoys a little religious controversy now and then (see her current post), I’m a lover more than a fighter.  My point here isn’t to attack any religion, especially all you nice religious Christians and Jews who just sang your hearts out for everyone to hear, but to acknowledge that everyone’s religion is sort of weird if you really sit down and think about it.   That’s why it is called “faith.”  So, I’m not sure what Mitt Romney’s Mormon religion has to do with anything.   If I’m not going to vote for him, it’s because he’s a lousy candidate, not a Mormon.

OK, here’s the mediocre post.  It was difficult coming up with a topic after the concert, because everything I came up with seemed anti-climactic.

WASHINGTON (Reuters) – Republican presidential candidate Mike Huckabee said he considers his rival Mitt Romney’s Mormon faith a religion, not a cult, but questioned whether Mormons believe “Jesus and the devil are brothers.”

Huckabee raised the question on his own in an interview to appear in The New York Times magazine on Sunday, and ignited a new flap in the up-for-grabs race to be the Republican Party’s nominee in the November 2008 presidential election.

Clearly, Mike Huckabee, needing to jumpstart his campaign, is insinuating that Romney is not fit to be President because of Romney’s religious background. He’s just not one of us!

Am I Republican? No.

Will I vote for Mitt Romney? No.

Do I agree with Mike Huckabee? Absolutely.

The President of the United States is the most important position in the Free World. We want a rational leader, one is is not swayed by “odd” beliefs or cultish stories masquerading as the truth. Do we want a religious “Mormon” running our country, his finger on the “button.” Of course not! Just take a “tour” of the Mormon temple in Salt Lake City on the way to Park City, like I did, and you’ll know what I’m talking about. Our country requires someone logical, someone we can trust, like a Christian or Jew, a person of religion who believes in FACT — proven historical events like immaculate conception, individuals getting resurrected, angels, and entire seas magically splitting open to let thousands of people walk through to safety.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Why a Pillow is No Substitute for a Woman

The Ghost of Christmas Concerts Future

santa2.jpg 

Two days ago, I was feeling very Grinch-like. 

“Why am I hosting this stupid holiday online concert?” I asked myself as I shuffled along Wilshire Boulevard, spitting on the floor.  “I don’t even like Christmas.  I don’t even celebrate the holiday.” 

I walked by a make-shift Christmas tree lot, set-up in the parking lot of a Chinese restaurant.  There was fake snow on the floor and tinny Christmas music was playing on a lonely speaker on the ground.  

“Bah, Humbug!” I said.  “I’m going to cancel the damn concert.  I don’t care about holidays and I don’t give a s**t about other bloggers anyway.  All they care about is advertising and links and NaBloPoMo and Facebook.  And their so-called “Holiday cheer” is fakery!  After the holiday, they just go back to stabbing each other in the back.”

That night, I started writing a blog post explaining why I was canceling the contest, and basically insulting every blogger I’ve ever met as a narcissistic loser or nutcase. 

“Why I should even write this blog for free when they all should be paying me $100 dollar a day each for the honor to read one of my posts.   Let Dooce entertain the masses.  I’m better than that!”

All the anxiety must have made me very sleepy, because I fell asleep on the couch before I had a chance to press “Publish.”

I was awaken suddenly by the presence of a shadowy figure.

“Sophia?”  I asked.  “Is that you?”

“No, Neil.  It is your father.”

It was the ghost of my late father.

“Dad?  What do you want?”

“What is this bulls**t about you cancelling the concert this year?”

“Eh, what’s it all for?  Hanukkah is already half over.  And we’re Jewish.  We don’t even celebrate Christmas.”

“But don’t you remember how much I loved Christmas?”

My father reminded me about how he dressed-up like Santa every year in the hospital he worked at.

“Well, you’re a more caring man than I am.  I’m selfish.  I ask you, “What’s in it for ME?”

My father’s ghost started to fade.

“Dad, where are you going?”

“Neilochka, my son, your heart has turned to stone.  I’m unable to change your ways.  Now the BIG GUN will come for you.”

“The big gun?  What are you talking about?  Who are you talking about? Are you talking about God himself?”

The entire living room shook like the Northridge Earthquake.   Smoke filled the room and another ghost walked towards me.  He was an older man, short, and smoked a cigar.  He was dressed in a brown suit and had bushy eyebrows.

“Neilochka… Neilochka…” he spoke…

“Who are YOU?!   You’re not God?

“Of course I’m not God, you schmuck.  I’m Irving Berlin.”

“Irving Berlin?  You’re the big gun?”

“Irving Berlin.  Born Israel Isidore Baline.  A nice Jewish boy like you.  My father was a cantor who certified kosher meat.”

“So what?  What do YOU want from me?”

“I also had my doubts about Christmas when I was your age.  What do I know about Jesus?  But then I said to myself, “What do these goyishe shmendricks know about writing a good Christmas song?  It takes a Yiddishe mind to come up with “White Christmas.”  You let some white bread in a cardigan like Bing Crosby sing it.  He gets the credit, but you get the dames.”

“The dames?  You got the dames from writing a Christmas song?”

“Come, Neilochka, let me take you to my Christmas past.”

Irving Berlin took my hand and we flew out the window.  We flew from Redondo Beach to Hollywood… and then into the past.  The Hotel Roosevelt on Hollywood Boulevard dissolved from 2007 to the time of the Golden Age of Hollywood.   It looked pretty much the same, just more glamorous.  We found ourselves in a penthouse room.   In front of the two of us was a scene from the past —  a younger Irving Berlin in bed with four Hollwood starlets.  

“You see, Neilochka.  Shiksas just love Jewish men who can write a good Christmas song…”

My eyed widened in astonishment.

“You mean if I put on the Christmahanukwanzaakah concert this year with all these female bloggers around… I will…?”  I asked.

“First… let me show you what will happen if you DON’T put on the Christmahanukwanzaakah concert this year.”

I grabbed the composer’s hand and back we flew to Redondo Beach, into the future — to MY FUTURE.  Time blew away like the wind and we found ourselves  in my  living room, watching the future Neilochka.  It was Christmas eve 2007 and I was sitting by myself, the laptop in front of me… my pants down…

“My God, what am I… am I looking at online photos of Penelope Cruz and playing with myself?!”

“That’s what it looks like!”  said Irving Berlin.  “Ha Ha!  The best part is that in a second, Sophia is going to enter the house with friends she invited over for some coffee and cake, and everyone is going to be shocked, especially the couple’s young daughter.”

“This is horrible.  I can’t stand it.  Stop it!  Stop the future!”

“What about the concert…”

“OK, OK, I’ll have the Christmahanukwanzaakah concert.  Just take me from this future.  Take me away.”  I screamed, sobbing…

I grabbed the arm of the ghost’s jacket and we flew out the window and into the night sky.  I was still crying.

“I understand now.  Thank you!  Thank you for letting me see what could happen.  I am a changed man!  I’ll never badmouth the Christmahanukwanzaakah concert again.  It is my duty to host the concert.  I want to be that inspiration, like you.  I want to make people happy.  I want to please those female bloggers so much that I get four shiksas in my bed, just like you did!  Please, Mr. Berlin.  Show me the alternative future.  Show me my REAL Christmas eve this year after I host the Christmahanukwanzaakah concert.

Time swirled around us like a  tornado and we were suddenly back in my living room on Christmas Eve 2007.

“Here is your REAL future, Neilochka.”

I was sitting on the couch, still leering at photos of Penelope Cruz, playing with myself.  Sophia was about to open the front door, her friends behind her.

“WTF?!” I yelled. “It’s the exact same future as before!  What about the concert?  What happened to me shtupping MY four shiksas?!”

“The concert was great.  But you with four women?  What the hell do you want from me, you nudnik?  A miracle?   I’m only Irving Berlin, not God!” 

The 2007 Blogger Christmahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert

— is Monday, December 10th.  If you want to participate, send me an audio file or a link by Sunday, December 9th.  The songs I’ve already received are absolutely terrific, a great combination of fun and heartfelt!  If you are unable (or too wimpy) to sing, you can help “decorate” the set by sending me a Holiday photo of your family, your tree, your menorah, or something seasonal.   Or recite a poem.   Or make a video of you juggling snowballs.  If you are still having trouble recording your song, email me.

So far, we already have versions of Have Yourself a Very Merry Christmas, Sleigh Ride, and Silent Night.  You are welcome to do another version if you would like.  Remember to say what song you are working on in the comments so we won’t have too many duplicates.

Have fun making music!

My Cyber Clone

hal2001.jpg 

Blogging, Facebook, Twitter, E-mail.  Sometimes your online life can be so overwhelming. The biggest productivity killer of them all is IM.  How many conversations can you have in one day with people you hardly know?   I know my productivity has soared since I found the solution — MyCyberTwin.

MyCyberTwin is a website that allows you to quickly create compelling virtual personalities called CyberTwins. These virtual beings live and breathe on the web and chat to your friends, family, colleagues or customers on your behalf.

Creating your very own CyberTwin is easy. All you have to do is register and then give your CyberTwin some ideas of things you want it to chat about. If you feed your CyberTwin content from your own IM conversations, email or blog, it will actually learn to talk and be just like you! It will be your digital personality and represent YOU online.

Basically, you give the site information, and your cybertwin starts to chat with others just like YOU would, learning to react more and more like YOU as time goes on.  It begins to mimic exactly how you respond on IM, so it becomes your voice while you do more important things, like play Scrabble online.

Here’s a transcript of my IM conversations this morning.   Notice that when my online “clone” encountered an unusual situation, it was able to “re-adjust” the script to fit the new scenario.

BOB SENDS A MESSAGE.

Bob:  “Hey, Neilochka.  What’s up?”

Neil Clone:  “Hello there.  Are you a man or a woman?”

Bob:  “Ha Ha.  You are funny.  I’m a man, of course!”

Neil Clone:  “Do you have a high Technorati rating or are you someone who can advance my career in any way?”

Bob:  “Huh?  What’s Technorati?  And I’m unemployed right now… well, I do some freelance XML coding…”

Neil Clone:  “Unemployed male person!  Please excuse me.   I have to go to the store and buy a bra for Sophia.   I will contact you some day.  Good-bye.”

NANCY SENDS A MESSAGE.

Nancy:  “Hi, Neil.  Loved your last post!”

Neil Clone:  “Hello there.  Are you a man or a woman?”

Nancy:  “Ha Ha.  You are funny.   You know what I am.”

Neil Clone:  “From the quick-pace of your type-stroke, I am 87% positive that you are a female.”

Nancy:  “Yes, I am!  I am woman, hear me roar!”

Neil Clone:   “Woman with pop culture reference.  78% chance you are college-educated.   69% that you will have sex by second date.  What are you wearing, person of female gender?

Nancy:  “A business suit.  I’m taking a lunch break at the office.”

Neil Clone:  “I love your blog.   You are the prettiest blogger in the blogosphere.   I am a Pisces.   We should f**k right now.   We can do it online.”

Nancy:  “Neil, that is a completely inappropriate and disrespectful.  Can’t you at least wait until I get back home and my husband and the kids are asleep?”

Neil Clone:  “You want me.  You want my…  please hold on, there is another incoming Instant Message.”

NEIL’S MOTHER SENDS A MESSAGE.

Neil’s Mother:  “Neil?  Are you there?”

Neil Clone:  “Hello there.  Are you a man or a woman?”

Neil’s Mother:  “What?!   I’m your mother.”

Neil Clone:  “Mother?  Mother is a woman.   What are you wearing, hot momma?”

Neil’s Mother:   “Are you meshugguna?”

Neil Clone:  “Something is wrong with circuitry.  Overheating.   Red flag!  Red flag!  Flirting with actual birth Mother.  Self-destruction mode on.  10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1-”

NEIL’S IM MESSAGE:  AT THERAPY 

Funny Foreign Names

Ha Ha, what’s funnier than a foreign name that sounds somewhat salacious?!    Sophia had a job in Orange County, so we stayed over at the Doubletree.  We received two phone calls for “His-Wong,” making us think that some Bart Simpson-type kid in Newport Beach was playing phone pranks on the unsuspecting tourists coming to see Disneyland. 

It didn’t occur to us, until today, that this was the name of the previous guest.

Hilarity ensued!

wong.jpg

Please note:  I don’t usually go for this cheap ethnic humor, but I once was in Hong Kong and I was sitting at a shared table eating some noodles, and some young Chinese guys were laughing at the way I was holding my chopsticks.  So, consider this payback!

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