Archive for June 2006


Oh my god I’m insane.


I know I’m insane.


Everybody thinks I’m insane.


They don’t tell me that I’m insane, but they all think that I’m insane.


I’m not insane.


I’m completely fucking normal.


I am NOT normal.


I’m not insane though.


Am I insane?


How do I know?


How do YOU know?


Are you insane?


You’re not normal. What’s so normal about you?


You have an apartment? You have a job? You have a car payment?


You’re insane. You’re insane to the max!


YOU promised to pay the bank each month for the next five years. YOU legally obligated yourself to fire a regular monthly bullet in the head just so that ya can own a car. What’s the big pay-off for buying your car? Freedom?


Exactly what is your freedom, Toyota-Man? Where do you drive? Where are you going to go? What’s the big payoff?




You get to drive to work?


Every day? Really? You get to sit in traffic on the 405 and haul your self-indulgent ass to work every morning. Earlier and earlier so that you can beat the traffic. And where do you work? What do you do? Is it fun? Is it important? Could the entire world do without you? Maybe, but you’ve got a car, so when they come to burn down your cubicle, don’t sweat, you just hop in your car and split! Zero-to-sixty in twelve seconds.


And when you’re just about finished paying for the car, you’re almost out of the woods but then you —


Wanna trade up! Trade up! Trade up!


“I wanna trade up! I wanna new car! An Audi!!!! I want an Audi! People like me drive Audis. People like writers, people like producers, people like other assholes who are just like writers and producers!


I identify with Audis!


I identify with Audis because Audis are just like me and my personality! Some people’s personalities are VWs and cow-print upholstery. My personality is Audi. My personality is silver! And black leather interior and red dashboard lights!


That’s my personality! My personality is metal and leather and lights!


My personality is red lights!


Not green lights. Green lights is, “Do!” Red lights is, “Don’t!” And that’s my personality. I’m don’t! I’m not do. Do is boring. Do is grandpa. You’re do. I’m don’t.


Can I get an Audi? Can I trade in my Corolla? How much will you give me? Can I get the A4? How much is it per month?”


You’re normal.


I’m insane.



[c] 20006 Russ of America

My 3rd Grade Girlfriend In The 4th Grade

For fun I searched The Net for my 4th grade girlfriend. That is to say, she was my 4th grade girlfriend because she was my 3rd grade girlfriend in the 4th grade.


I’ve lost you.


Let me try again.


When I was in the 4th grade I had a girlfriend in the 3rd grade. I wasn’t in the 3rd grade, my girlfriend was the 3rd grader, and she was my girlfriend in the 4th grade.


I was in the 4th grade and had a 3rd grade girlfriend, so she was my girlfriend in the 4th grade, in the 3rd grade.


Got it? 3rd grade girlfriend in the 4th grade.


So anyway I typed her name into The Net and hit enter and crossed my fingers and there she was, her picture staring back at me! Above her beaming smile hung Bitch-Goggles — oversized glamour-puss sunglasses designed to transform cute, normal, nice girls into snobbish tinted bus windshields.


There’s her picture! Look at her smile! Look at those teeth! I remember those teeth! They look exactly the same as when I’d first seen my 3rd grade girlfriend in the 4th grade, in the 2nd grade. She was in the 2nd grade and I was in the 3rd grade when I first saw my 3rd grade girlfriend in the 4th grade.


What a mind-fuck to see a 30 year old version of the first girl to ever crush my spirit. And there was her picture. And there were her words.


I could remember that cheerful blonde 3rd grade girlfriend in the 4th grade playing Chinese Jumprope in her kung fu slippers with her friends. Her feet pecking the hot San Fernando Valley asphalt like drumstick tips on a tight snare.


We once shared an Astropop as we watched some kids play handball. My 4th grade 3rd grade girlfriend and I watched some 3rd and 4th grade kids play handball on the handball court in the 4th grade. Or at least *I* was in the 4th grade. We hadn’t kissed yet, but we’d swapped spit on the Astropop. That was pretty hot.


Soon things got a little dicey. Within a few months of our romance, she started dropping hints, evolved to making suggestions, and culminated with outright requests that I procure for her some manner of golden neckwear. I ain’t talking scarves; I mean actual golden metal.


“I wouldn’t mind having a chain someday. I think that you should buy me a chain someday. Are you gonna get me a chain or do I have to date Jon?”


My 3rd grade girlfriend in the 4th graded wanted 24k! 24k for 3rd G G in the 4th G!


I was panicked! Panicked! If I didn’t buy this 3rd grader a gold chain, she’d find another beau. What pressure! Who poisoned this quick-footed, round-toothed blondie?


This was all becoming a very sophisticated relationship.


How did the 3rd grade girlfriend in the 4th grade expect her 4th grade boyfriend to buy a 1st rate necklace for a 3rd grader? How could I possibly find such capital to fund a jewelry purchase? I had very little equity in my Nash skateboard. I didn’t even know how to multiply! Where could I have gotten a job? I couldn’t complete homework with any regularity, but I should make consistent, timely payments to my jewelry financiers?


And how did she expect me to commute?!


I’d still like to give her a necklace.


Made from a heavy, durable rope.



[c] 2006 Russ of America

Who’s The Boss Spec Script

A scene from my Who’s The Boss spec script.




Hi Tony, did you pick up Jonathan?




Jonathan. Did you pick up Jonathan?




Tony, you didn’t pick up Jonathan from school? Why not?




Why not?!


I got a lot on my mind right now, okay?


Like what?


Like a lot of things. Like cleaning this house, like Mona’s heavy jugs, like worrying that in ten years Samantha is going to be compared to Shannen Doherty.


Tony! What do you have against Shannen Doherty?


She’s got crooked-eyes, Angela! Crooked-eyes! One eye hangs lower than the other and I don’t want Samantha hanging out with someone with crooked-eyes because that’s a sign of being — a crooked-eye.


Tony! You’re prejudiced!


Aay-oh, oh-aay! Don’t you ever call me a disrespectful name like that again or I’ll jam this pasta spoon up your ass and break off the handle!


You think you’re so fucking tough, don’t you, you penny-ante wash-out wop boxer? I’ll cut your fucking dick off you filthy dago and glue it to your face so you can fuck yourself when I stick your head up your ass.


Okay, you’re totally the boss.







[c] 2006 Russ of America

Revive Five!

Five is an art lost to time.




I loved Five.


The act of giving another person five.


Five what?


Five fingers. Nobody does that anymore. Do you remember when we used to give each other Five? I remember it. Five was ALIVE! We were alive with Five!


Now people give each other daps and macho half hugs, but no Five. What happened to Five? Did someone take away Five? Did Bill Cosby say that we had to get rid of Five because it was demeaning to Blacks? Did Jesse Jackson say that Five was against Jesus? Did OJ say that Five killed Nicole Brown?


What happened to Five?


Sometimes an old white guy will make you give him a high five.


“Alright! Gimme High Five, Russ of America!”
“Fuck you and fuck High Five! I want REGULAR Five. Regular brand-name horizontal Five. One for you and then one in return for me. Nothing fancy. No tricks. Five. Traditional, 1970s Pimp Five.”


“Here you go my good sir! Please allow me to impart upon you, five.”
“Five of what?”
“Five of Fingers!”
“Ah, thank you my good man! Five of Fingers for me! I need Five of Fingers! Why, just this morrow I ran right out of Five of Fingers! Thank you my fine chap! I am in receipt of your generous Five and I should be honored to reciprocate your hospitality by returning to you a Special Five from my Private Collection as I am prepared to do this very moment.”


You don’t get that anymore. You just don’t get True Five.


Sometimes I see parents teach their children how to give Five; in many cases before the child learns her ABCs. But the tradition will end with the children and be banished to the textbooks of urban anthropology —


Unless we Revive Five!



[c] 2006 Russ of America


How To Score A Free Meal From Granny

How To Score A Free Meal From Granny


    1) Put on the t-shirt from a skeleton costume.
    2) Show up at Granny’s house as planned.
    3) “Oh my goodness, you’re a bag of bones! Eat something!”



    1) Take off your skeleton costume.
    2) Make love to Granny.
    3) Stay for breakfast.



[c] 2006 Russ of America

How To Make Love Like A Pro

How To Make Love Like A Pro

    1) Have sex
    2) Feign interest
    3) Charge money



[c] 2006 Russ of America


“What’s the Ladyboys of Bangkok?”
“Well Dad, my friend Domzalski went to Scotland and that’s what he brought me as my souvenir — a brochure for the Ladyboys of Bangkok. I guess they’re popular there or something. He’s got a weird sense of humor. Ha ha!”
“What’s a ladyboy? Is that like a transvestite?”
“A transsexual.”
“That’s a guy who’s become a woman?”
“A transvestite is someone who dresses in women’s clothing, for any variety of reasons. A transsexual is a person who believes that they really should have been born of the opposite sex and so they live as women. So anyway, yeah, that’s why I keep the flyer over there in my ‘World’s Biggest Queer’ mug.”



[c] 2006 Russ of America


It’s easy to be angry at people. People are fucking idiots.


People individually are stupid and collectively are fucking idiots.


Experts will agree that it’s easy to be angry at people, because people are fucking idiots, but they’ll remind you that you have a social obligation to challenge yourself to be accepting of people, even when they’re acting like fucking idiots.


Experts are fucking idiots.



[c] 2006 Russ of America


Last night I slept in such a fashion that I awoke in great discomfort with both arms completely numbed and pinned underneath me, hands clutched tightly to my chest.


Switching positions would ease the discomfort, but my appendages were locked and irresponsive. On this first try, I furiously worked to move myself to a more comfortable position by kicking and wriggling, only to find my legs enmeshed and twisted in the tonnage of an organic, monstrous swamp-like comforter. Trapped deep within the vines of this down-stuffed jungle there was no prayer for rescue.


I ground my teeth. “Calm down. Be cool. Focus,” I thought. Using my powerful glutes as ballast I first flexed my left ass-cheek, channeling all of the blood to that side, and then I flexed the right, causing all the blood to be redirected to that side. Left cheek, then right cheek until the inertia improved the breadth of my sway, and I could pivot on my stomach. The hope was to provide the clearance required to extricate my dead guns. But I lost my rhythm and sputtered to a stop.


Concerned that my energy-levels had drained so swiftly from struggling furiously in this mire, I considered a third and final effort. I had no choice but to tender the release of these useless meat logs, or I would die there in my bed, passive and in decay. There was no food, no water and no way to communicate the severity of this pusillanimous infirmity attacking me while I slept. Death loomed.


On attempt #3 I flexed my glutes until I got rocking. I breathed deeply and visualized freedom. If I focused I could summon up the requisite conviction and WILL my arms outward once my chest cleared a path for the escape.


“Do it, Arms of America! Left arm, MOVE NOW!” My left arm LEAPT out from underneath my trunk as my body rocked to the right! Deftly and without loss of power, I whipped the arm to full extension to get the blood and nerve connections aligned. I took pause to recognize this glorious achievement.


Under the trauma of stress my computer raced on, calculating the timing and writing the code that would liberate me. The universe decelerated. Each frame of this motion picture clicked into my retina. In each frame I parsed the data and prepared my next coordinated move as my container lumbered leftward across the bed. At the end of the swing I executed the directive, “Do it, Arms of America! Right arm, MOVE NOW!”


The last arm shot outward and time ramped up. I snapped the second arm to extension and collapsed face-down on the bed, gasping for air, where I would remain until I could initiate the auxillary power systems. I thought calming thoughts during this potentially harrowing sixty seconds until sufficient enough strength returned to the arms as to liberate my legs of the sheets and roll myself onto my back, a free man!


Humble yourself before your god this evening.



[c] 2006 Russ of America

Your Panties

Are those your panties in the laundry room?


They’re very nice.


And big. Those are nice, big panties. Not TOO big! Not too big that you should get self conscious or develop an eating disorder but big enough to look at the pretty fabric. Oh! It’s marvelous!


Small panties: you can’t see the pattern. You can see the pattern if you’re looking at the front but otherwise you can’t see the pattern because there’s not enough fabric on the back of small panties. Small panties are small. And why do panties have that beige interior?


Big panties: you can see the entire pattern because it goes all the way around the panties. All around the big panties.


UH-OH!! These panties have a lace trim. A sexy, black lace trim! UH-OH!!


This panty that you’ve left in the laundry room is purple and magenta and green and it’s paisley and shiny and gorgeous and pretty and wonderful!!


And it’s hanging on a hook. Right there.


I see it!


Hanging on a hook in the laundry room. You should pick it up.


They’re your panties. You should pick up your FABULOUS magenta black lace panties because they’re there in the laundry room.


Right there in the laundry room. Are those your panties?


I see them!


Please take your fucking panties out of the laundry room.



[c] 2006 Russ of America