Hello, this is Jeff typing, and I have an unfortunate announcement to make.  A few days ago Metten and I acknowledged the 350 lb mama’s boy in the room, and finally had a conversation about the future of this website.

And we’ve decided to take it down.

This is something that makes me sad, because it’s been a lot of fun.  We’ve been at it for roughly a year, and, at the risk of sounding self-congratulatory, there’s some really funny shit posted here.

But, for whatever reason (needless to say, I blame myself), Mockable never attracted a large audience.  At one point there were roughly 500 visitors per day, which ain’t too shabby, but it’s decreased over the past few months.  Not a good sign.

When I came up with the idea for the site, I envisioned it as a depository for comic bitching about the little everyday things that irritate us.  I thought we’d get to the point where Mockable pretty much ran on autopilot, as readers provided the content.

Indeed, we received a lot of great submissions, and I thank everyone who participated.  You guys are awesome!  But the large, vibrant community I imagined never gathered.  Again, I take the blame.

I want to thank everyone who visited the site on a regular basis (both of you), everybody who submitted a guest Mock, and especially Metten.

Over the years I’ve attempted to collaborate on various projects with people, and it hasn’t gone well.  There’s usually a disparity in passion, if you know what I mean.  One of us is more committed than the other, and it leads to hard feelings and the wheels quickly flying off the project.

But Metten has been committed throughout.  In fact, he’s largely responsible for keeping the site operational over the past few months.  At the end I was posting fiction one day a week.  WTF?

So, anyway.  Thanks for everything.  And you haven’t heard the last of the Metten/Kay collaborations.  This one didn’t work, but the next one will.  I’m convinced of it.

Metten might want to post a goodbye, as well.  Or maybe he’ll let this one speak for both us.  I don’t know.  But we’re going to leave the site as it is for a week or so, then remove everything but our farewells.  We agree that Mockable shouldn’t just sit here dormant and sad and flaccid.

So, if you’re interested, revisit the archives while you can.  And we’ll see you guys elsewhere, real soon.

Thank you!

Mockers for Hire is a professional mocking service provided by mockable.org.  Just paypal us $49.95, give us a mailing address and a description of the person you want mocked and we’ll mock the living shit out of them. (400 word minimum)   We might even berate and verbally abuse them for no additional charge.  What can we say…we love our job. We’ll also provide you a framed print of the mock to leave on their desk while they’re at break.  It beats the hell out of that pathetic, passive-aggressive piece-of-shit note you were going to leave on their chair.   Seriously…college ruled?  The Dollar Store frame and HP color graphics will really show that you care – and the professional mocking will prove to that sexual harrassing sonofabitch that you mean business.  Mockers for Hire – giving people  shit who may or may not deserve it since 2009…Give us a try!

Oh Susan of Bagdad, AZ.  Poor Susan of Bagdad, AZ.  Stupid, stupid Susan of Bagdad, AZ.  How in the world did you get this job? It’s really simple Susan.  You take the purchase order, you code it to the number written on the goddamned purchase order and you print a check.  Then you send the check to Chuck.  Let me repeat – read number, type number, print check, check to Chuck.  Yet somehow you add zeroes to the check and code it to R&D.  We nearly had to talk Simone in R&D down off a ledge when last quarter’s budget figures came out because she was led to believe that 6000% of her budget had been expended on cleaning supplies. Please tell me – did you even look at the check you cut?  Did you honestly believe that housekeeping needed 3.2 million dollars worth of floor cleaner?  I guess this doesn’t say much for Chuck either as he signed the check and let it go out…but shit lady – if you can’t figure out a check, how the hell did you successfully apply, interview for and then drive to this job every morning without smashing into buildings and blowing up your car?  I honestly think that the floor cleaner itself would have had a better chance of successfully filling out its own purchase order than you would of actually doing it right for once.

We all know what must have happened.  Chuck hired you because you’re such an attractive young lady, right?  Maybe Susan’s just a little eye candy to show off for the clients like Karl down in sales?  Yeah, probably not unless Chuck has some sort of hair fetish.  Seriously woman – in addition to this mock, we all chipped in and got you a gift certificate to Great Clips.  Please do us a favor and have them wax that shit.  It looks like you ate some sort of woodland creature, vomited it back up and then somehow affixed it to your upper lip.  This story seems most plausible to us considering your world-class halitosis.  (ed. – I know what you guys are thinking – these mocks used to be fun, but now they’re just mean…well pardon us, your majesty!  This lady’s face is so hairy we almost bought Susan a mustache cup for her morning coffee.  We just call ‘em like we see ‘em) While you’re there, you should have them hit your forearms with the thinning shears – ’cause damn.  Don’t believe us Susan?  Take a look at that picture of you on the beach from your vacation to Bradenton last year.  Your bikini bottom is stretched to its limit. It looks like a neon green garbage bag full of pubic mane.  Seriously, it looks like its fucking moving.

In addition to all the other gifts we’ve gotten you on your special day Susan, we have enclosed a box of kleenex.  For some reason, you seem to always have a cold.  Remember Kelly, the girl who quit three months ago because of “personal problems”?  Did you ever wonder why they never filled her office?  It’s because her “personal problems” were that she went nuts listening to you suck mucus back into your cavernous head for eight hours a day.  We feel stupid saying this because you’re in your thirties – but blow your fucking nose Susan.  Jesus!  The only thing worse than listening to you snort all day like some sort of pig on methamphetamines is when you don’t have the mental capacity to deal with your runny nose and all the snot gets caked in your mustache. In short, Susan, you’re gross.

Finally, we deal with a lot of smells here on mockable.org.  It’s not something that’s intentional…it just sort of comes with the territory.  Having said that, the smell emitting from your desk, Susan, is like nothing we’ve ever encountered.  It’s like a mix between bad breath, body odor, unwashed clothes, feet, a little bit of butt and Pert Plus.  We are relatively sure that the only way to deal with this is for you to voluntarily jump into the vat of acid that Batman knocked Jack Napier into.  It’s going to be painful, but I think it will help everyone in the long run…and there’s no way the fall could make you any stupider.

Someone asked for a health update – and since I’m in a considerable amount of trouble at work and school, and can’t really be funny at the moment, I’ll try to quickly oblige.  The official diagnosis was sarcoidosis – which is a kinda rare disease that manifests itself predominantly in dark-skinned Mediterranean people and me.  Nobody knows what causes it and there are generally three ways to make it go away – do nothing, steroids or surgery.  My pulmonologist went with steroids.

I’ve been on them since last December and here are the three things I know about steriods:

1) I’ve gained 25 pounds – I can no longer put on my socks without holding my breath.  My pants are holding on for dear life and my body has taken on a new, decidedly undesirable shape.

2) My face is all puffy and I’m getting zits.  I look like an actor in a fat suit.  Think Ben Stiller in Dodgeball. What?  Shut up – that movie kicks ass.

3) Every day is a challenge to keep from murdering someone with a ball point pen. They walk into the office and say, “Good morning, sir.”  And for no discernible reason, my mental response is, “FUCK YOU, YOU STUPID PIECE OF SHIT!!  I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”    The same goes for all of my other interactions in life.  If you guys knew what I did for a living, and all the stressful situations that come with the job – you’d be amazed that I’m not on death row right now.  Seriously,  I nearly slaughtered a youth soccer team for allowing an ugly little girl to play on their team.  Goddamn that little girl was ugly!  I’m getting used to it, and I’m getting better…but Jeebus!  This world would be a better place if most of you were dead.

So anyway, I take drugs and go in for a $2500 CAT scan every three months.  Then the doctor says nothing’s changed and I have to bite my lip to keep from killing him with my bare hands.  But hey – At least it’s not penis cancer, right?

Unless for some reason you guys really care, this will probably the last you hear on the subject.

Dear Dumbass,

Yesterday was St. Patrick’s day.  A magical day where everyone’s a little of the worst part of a stereotypical Irishman. Because some guy allegedly drove some snakes from some Island to somewhere else, we are given license to drink a German beverage and talk like a leprechaun until we vomit green bile on someone that isn’t our husband/wife. We get to stumble around and make inappropriate suggestions to members of the opposite sex and act like a total piece of shit without having to endure an intervention and (most of the time) nobody even calls the cops.  It’s truly a beautiful phenomenon.  The only better holidays are the Super Bowl and Cinco de Mayo because we get to be equally retarded (that’s right, I said it – one’s brain functions are in a state of retardation) without all the preachiness of the religious people who think this is an excellent “teachable moment”.  Yes, we understand the irony of wallowing in sin as we celebrate the deeds of a saint…or at least we did up until all but our essential brain functions shut off (by the way, it appears that one’s bladder isn’t really all that essential – I’ll clean that up in the morning…or maybe the afternoon) now shut the fuck up.

Quick tangent – Right now some of my best work is in the field of Facebook comments…check out this little gem I just posted – “So I’m hanging out drinking with Bignar (ed – Bignar is John Bignar, a guy I went to high school with), and he’s had 8 beers. I don’t know if you know this, but Bignar drives a Ford Escort. He finally decides that he wants to get a bunch of girls from the service (an escort, if you will) and drive her around in his car. So he’s driving around with escorts in his Escort. He finally has that 9th beer and he starts flailing and blindly throwing punches in every direction. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a carload of escorts fleeing an Escort. It was some fucking night…” So anyway…there’s more where that came from, so go be my facebook pal or whatever…

Everything about this most holy day is beautiful…except for one thing – people like you.  You stare at me with a condescending eye as I sway back and forth like Muhammad Ali on a boat.  You point at me as you lean over to your other soapboxing friend and say, “That’s why I hate St. Patrick’s day.  All the goddamned drunks.”  On behalf of all the slobbering neanderthal perverts like me – go fuck yourself.  Going out on St. Patrick’s day and complaining about the drunks is like going to a NASCAR race and complaining about all the cars.  To borrow heavily from Mikey of the Goonies:

The next time we see sky it’ll be over a different day – a day wrought with responsibilities and sadness. The next time you sit down, it’ll be at a desk in front of a computer rather than 5 feet from two hot girls who are ten years my junior, drunkenly grinding on one another as though they are attempting to start a survival fire through the power of groin friction. That middle-aged woman and her friend over there who keep glaring at our table, they want the bestest stuff for society.  And most of the time we’re willing to provide that for ‘em.    ‘Cause most of the time it’s her time. Her time, up there. Down here it’s our time. It’s our time down here in the public urination and debauchery.  Our time to kill the brain cells that remind us of the meaninglessness of existence.  Our time to vomit on the stage while singing “You’re So Vain” on the Karaoke machine.  It’s our time goddamnit so for once in your life would you shut up and let us be drunk and stupid for at least three nights a year?  We’ve earned it – and besides this is our biblical right as sanctioned by the catholic church. That’s all over the second we ride up Troy’s bucket.

Wow.  I’ve motivated myself.  Despite the fact that it’s 8:30 in the morning on the day after St. Patrick’s day, I think I might take the day off and go out drinking and get in a fight with someone smaller than me…and of the opposite sex.  So to wrap up, please leave us ridiculous drunks alone on our special day.  Maybe you could go down in the basement and watch a movie or something.  Or you could take to the internet and tell strangers and former classmates about how “stupid” the holiday is.  I’m sure that’d be much more fun than tongue kissing a stranger that smells like makeup and cigarettes and then yelling, “WOOOO!”  Whatever you do, just do us a favor and leave us to it, ’cause it’s our time.

Sincerely,

metten

America, still reeling from the news of Scott Baio’s untimely passing, enters its fourth day of mourning on Tuesday.  Candlelight vigils have been held nightly at dozens of locations around the country, and devastated fans worldwide are tying bandanas around their right legs, in remembrance of the fallen actor and cultural icon.

The tributes have been glowing and unceasing.

“(Baio’s) contributions cannot be overstated,” said U.S. House of Representatives Minority Whip, Eric Cantor.  “I think it’s safe to say he was the voice and face of a generation.  The man was a giant, and there will never be another like him.  Someday I hope to see his face on Rushmore.”

Eric Schmidt, CEO of Google:  “For one hour on Thursday afternoon, all search results at Google dotcom will return nothing but Scott Baio-related results.  Also, for the remainder of the month, the left O in our logo will be Chachi’s head.”

Breaking an almost thirty-year silence, legendary author J.D. Salinger released the following statement to the press yesterday:

“I, like so many, was and am an avid fan of Mr. Baio’s immense talents and contributions.  Indeed, in early 2002 I was involved in a minor fistfight in a Cornish bar, when another patron insinuated Dr. Jonas Salk was the greater man.  I had to set the fellow straight on the matter.”

L.L.L. Anderson, Director of NASA:  “All of us at the institute are devastated by the news of Mr. Baio’s death, and our best wishes go out to his friends and family.  In recognition of his unsurpassed contributions to the human race, we have received signed statements from seventeen world nations, all agreeing to refer to Earth’s moon as “Scott” for the balance of the year.  Godspeed, my good man.”

Jerry Hill, president of Pretentious-Ass Blog Commenters of America, left the following identical comment at dozens and dozens of websites and forums over the weekend:  “Goodnight sweet prince.”

On Monday’s edition of NBC’s Today Show, co-host Matt Lauer teased an upcoming segment with the following words. “Move over Jesus?  Was Scott Baio the greatest human who ever lived?  In a few minutes you’ll meet two people who are making the case.”

Scott Baio began his career as an actor, famously portraying the character “Chachi Arcola” on the 1970s situation comedy Happy Days, as well as a short-lived spinoff, Joanie Love Chachi.  He later enjoyed success in many fields, including physics, chemistry, physiology, race relations, bluegrass music, soccer, and animal husbandry.

Baio died Friday, following a freak accident involving a “potato gun.”

While metten continues his annual walkabout/bender/suicide attempt, please enjoy this excellent offering from Chuck in Belpre.

Being self-employed is a wonderful thing. I set my own hours and if I feel like having a slob day and sleep until the crack of noon I can. On the other hand I have a strict set of rules I hold myself to. One of those rules pertains to appointments. If I make an appointment with a client for 10:45 a.m. I am there at that time, or maybe even a few minutes early. Apparently showing up on time and ready to work is something that has gone the way of the steamship. Clients seem to be impressed with punctuality.

I have been feeling my age recently and that just will not do. Oh, I know that after more than five decades of living and abuse the body will start to break down a little. And not giving it the utmost in care doesn’t help much either. There was that period that passed in a George Dickel and Black Beauty haze. But it was fortunately short-lived. But, I am carrying more poundage than I should. Think large Chrismas goose. And the Winstons are not exactly contributing to my general well being. Most mornings find me horking up a gelatinous mass in colors of caramel or desert khaki.

So I bit the bullet and made an appointment with my doctor…better known as the Angel of Death.

My appointment was for 2:10 p.m. and I showed up at two o’clock on the dot. As I approached the receptionists desk I was once again amazed at how much she resembled Bernadette Peters in The Longest Yard, right down to the beehive hair-do. Well, if Peters was carrying an extra fifty pounds or so. I have had the same doctor for over a decade and yet she can never remember my name. I told her who I was and that I had a 2:10 appointment. She looked at her appointment calendar for way too long and then told me that the doctor was running a little late and I would have to wait. No big deal, that happens sometimes and it’s usually not a long wait. But I had to ask how long and she informed me that the doctor was behind on his rounds at the hospital and it would be an hour wait…or possibly longer. I am not easliy excitable and usually keep calm in most situations but I could hear the sound of rushing wind building inside my head as I thought of sitting in the waiting room for an hour or more. I mean how many times can you watch that educational tape that all doctors seem to have on a loop telling you in that condescending voice which cruciferous vegetables are the most healthy or how to lift heavy objects without throwing your lower back into spasms?

I figured if I had that much time I could put it to good use and get some errands done while the doctor made his way across town. I told Bernadette I would be back in about an hour and this is where Rod Serling entered the office.

She told me that if I left I would be charged for a missed appointment and would have to re-schedule. I said, ‘But the doctor isn’t here.’ She said, ‘Yes, but you have a 2:10 appointment and if you leave then you will have missed your appointment. That’s office policy’. The wind in my head became tornadic.

I said, ‘So if I leave while the doctor isn’t here and come back when he is here I will still be charged and not get to see him even then? That makes no sense.’

‘It’s office policy.’ she said. ‘And you are holding up the line.’

I turned around and tried not to flinch but I think I made a noise like someone had stepped on a baby chick. Standing there was the largest human being I had ever seen. It was if someone had stretched a t-shirt down over a small haystack. I had no idea you could get Billy Idol shirts in that size. It had a mop of greasy hair and a beard that would have made Jerry Garcia weep. And it was wearing red sweat pants and flip-flops made from recycled tires. It spoke. ‘I have a 2:15.’

I told him the doctor wasn’t here and he said that was ok with him. ‘I seen a new People magazine over there I haven’t read yet.’

I guess there are plenty of pictures in People. I would have bet anything that he moved his lips as he read.

So I sighed heavily and did what any red blooded tough guy would do. I sat down and waited.

Remember…bend your knees and eat your Brussels sprouts.

First of all, because my lazy ass isn’t writing all that well lately, we’re running low on guest mocks.  We need more, so like those greedy bastards at the Red Cross – we’re gonna badger you until you write something… Elle? BlondeGoddess? ShinyRod? Chu’s Hot Sister? Skully? DTO? Chuck? Big Mike? Zazu? Big Bear in Ohio? Bueller?  Bueller? Bueller?

This week features another excellent offering from Taiwan On.  Read it, then go to his site and read that and then come over here and give me a hug…ya big oaf.

I like to read. A good book makes you feel that you are not alone. There are other human beans that have thoughts other than “Me eat now” or “What’s on TV?”.

Recently, a friend of mine had the chance to visit Taiwan for a few weeks. He was stuck in a hotel, so I loaned him a few books so that he could have something to do other than masturbate or watch the idiot tube (or both simultaneously – fun!).

When he left Taiwan, he thoughtfully returned the books and, I guess as a “thank you”, he included a book that he had purchased. I will not cite the book title or author because, well, the book that my friend gave me is possibly the worst book ever published. And I don’t want to make James Patterson feel bad about writing “Cross Country”.

I made it through the first 42 pages and, after throwing up a bit in mouth, I had to stop. It was already Chapter 12! Note to fellow readers – if a book has chapters that are two pages long then burn that book immediately. Screw the greenhouse affect. The book must be burned.

I am sure that this “book” was purchased in an airport convenience store. It has a professional book cover with an embossed title and everything. And, get this, the book cover has the phrase “#1 New York Times Bestseller”. That has to be impossible. It’s like saying that the St. Louis Rams are the “#1 Football Team”. Or that Uzbekistan is the “#1 Tourist Destination”.

From my brief stomach-turning read of the “book”, this guy named Alex Cross is a down-to-earth guy that won’t let the “man” get in his way. Here are some quotes from the “book” – just incredibly bad. How does this shit get published?

- “I wasn’t soft. If anything, I was still too hard, too unyielding, too uncompromising.”

- “They wanted to scare somebody, I was thinking as I entered a brightly lit, warmly decorated alcove.

- “Or maybe one very smart killer, trying to keep us guessing”.

I could go on but it would just get worse. It is surprising that the author even knows what an alcove is. Apparently this “book” is the 14th installment of the Alex Cross series. I have just one thing to say (which I have said before in other mocks): Stop. Please stop.

If you’d like to contribute a Friday Guest Mock please send it to mockable[at]gmail.com  If it’s funny and won’t get us sued, we’ll most likely feature it at the site.   And don’t forget to include the address to your blog or website, so we can link back at ya.  Thanks

“Wasn’t it just terrible what happened to Mary McCloskey?” said Edna St. James to Ann Williams early on Monday morning.

“Yes, just horrible,” answered Ann. “I’ve always been a little leery of those lift chairs.  They found her body all the way across the room!”

Edna St. James lived in apartment 311 in Golden Heights Senior Citizen’s Complex and she was the designated gardener in charge of the front flower beds. Ann Williams lived in 708 and was one of the resident “characters” — some would say a royal bitch. Mary McCloskey was the fallen resident of 212. She had looked out the window a lot.

“I hope that old biddy’s out of the flower bed when I get back, I need a new flower,” said Ann to herself as she walked toward city hall to pay her water bill. Ann was very fond of plants and flowers and simply loved a single fresh bud in a small vase on her kitchen table. She had been buying her flowers at the grocers, but the prices had grown intolerable so she had recently resorted to visiting the complex’s prized flower beds.

Edna was very protective of her flowers, almost laughably so. When she would find that one had been picked, she would become visibly angry. She posted signage on all of the bulletin boards and was very suspicious of anybody who commented on them. Most just stayed away for fear of being publicly persecuted. At Golden Heights, flowers were neither a sign of peace nor tranquility.

When Ann returned from her errands Edna was indeed gone.  So she boldly stepped one foot over the miniature plastic fence and snagged a healthy red bud from the black soil. She then winked at Rose McClannahan who sat giggling into her hand on a nearby bench.

Seven hours later an ambulance screamed to a halt in front of the complex. Mass rubber-necking immediately broke out.

“What happened?” said Rose.

“Why, I don’t know,” whispered Ann.

A large slab of ceiling tile had fallen on a tooth-sucking Jesse Winsome in the cafeteria, and he was pronounced dead by the paramedics. Out front a horror-stricken Edna St. James ran through the double doors and stared at the empty space in her flower bed. Ann and Rose watched and said nothing.

Ann found this behavior to be curious. Residents were dropping like flies and all Edna could think about was her damn flowers. She just couldn’t figure that woman out.

While sitting on the bus on Thursday Ann began to piece together some bizarre idea that linked the flower bed to the residents of the complex. She noted that on every day a resident had died, she had earlier picked a fresh flower.  She was momentarily horrified but then quickly dismissed it as the overactive imagination of an old woman.

When Ann returned to the complex that afternoon, she stopped at the flower bed and for the first time took a good long look at it. Edna was giving her suspicious glances as Ann counted to herself. The flowers were planted in perfect rows of fifteen. There were seven rows and there should have been 105 flowers, which was the exact number of units at Golden Heights. But seven flowers were missing. And seven tenants had recently died!

Ann could hardly carry herself to the elevator. Her cheapness and attempts at being cute had caused seven people to die. She went into her apartment and eventually slept a tortured sleep.

Ann had always been a morning person however, and when she awoke she was full of vigor and looking on the bright side.  She convinced herself that she hadn’t reached the age of seventy-three merely by accident. She thought of herself as being a very shrewd woman, and was preparing to fall back on that virtue one more time.

Ann despised living on the top floor and wasn’t about to continue to do so. She devised a plan that would eliminate Edna St. James and win her control of the flower bed. She would then cause one of the first floor apartments to become empty, which she would immediately seize as her own.  Ann was second in line to receive a ground floor apartment, behind Edna who would be dead by then.  It was perfect.

On Saturday morning Ann slid out of bed and proceeded down to the dew covered flowers.  She counted down three rows and over eleven, Edna’s apartment being number 311. She closed her eyes and pulled the flower from the ground. And four hours later Mrs. Upjohn in 511 slipped on an olive and emptied most of her blood supply under the stove. Ann had started counting from the wrong end. Damn!

But on Wednesday Edna St. James quit breathing when she guessed the exact amount of the showcase on The Price Is Right. Ann had completed phase one of her plan. Very soon waiting on an elevator would be a thing of the past for her.

On Friday Ann went to the funeral home and tried to decide on a color of drapes for her new apartment, while Edna’s relatives howled in grief. Then Ann’s friend Rose walked in, and placed a bouquet of familiar flowers on the midriff of the dead Edna St. James.

“Rose, where’d you get those flowers?” inquired Frantic Ann.

“You know she loved them so, I just felt it was appropriate,” answered Sincere Rose.

Ann rushed back to the complex to find flames shooting out of the seventh floor windows. She looked down in horror, and saw that the entire seventh row of the flower bed was missing.  Then a fireman’s helmet fell from the roof and put her to sleep forever.

So anyway, I am trying to get this thing published and the powers that be aren’t exactly fighting over me.  So I figured I’d take care of that by posting an excerpt about a drunken beef jerky eating contest and then I’d sit back and wait for the offers to come in…That’s how this business works right?  Hello?

“Hey bitches! We need some jerky!” screamed the first man through the door. Jike struggled to stand up. The man stopped and gaped at Carolyn, his entire existence moving in waves. “But you guys need some beef,” he said as he pointed. The drunk’s finger remained on Carolyn as his eyes attempted to focus on Jike.

“Except that guy. He’s had enough beef. And enough jerky. This guy’s had too much everything!” Jike steadied himself on the counter and motioned toward the remaining men.

“Subjugate your friend or I’ll summon the authorities,” said Jike calmly. The drunk continued staring at Jike.

“You subjugate your thyroid gland or I’ll call a bariatric physician,” replied the drunk, who was now pointing at Jike. Carolyn sat up with intrigue. One of the drunk’s friends shrugged casually.

“Sorry man, he’s pre-med,” apologized the friend. “Please just direct us to the beef jerky and we’ll get out of your hair.” Jike exhaled loudly.

“The dried beef is situated at the end of that passageway, athwart from the coolers,” said Jike.

“You fart,” said the drunk as he ran to the jerky. The drunk’s friends watched as he loaded his arms with an end cap full of jerky.

“Forgive me for asking guys,” said Carolyn, “but what are you going to do with all that beef jerky?”

“I love jerky,” said the drunk. “I want it inside me.”

“He loves jerky,” repeated one of the men who had been mute until now. “Apparently he wants it inside him. He’s gonna eat all the jerky in the place. Don’t worry; he’s got a credit card to pay for it.”

“Does he possess a cellular telephone that he might use to summon an ambulance?” asked Jike. Nearly everyone nodded as the drunk dropped the shrink-wrapped meat on his counter. Jike looked down at the meat, looked up at the drunk and then looked at his friends.

“Is this man driving?” asked Jike.

“What’re you gonna do? Refuse to sell him the meat?” asked one of the friends. Jike looked to Carolyn, who retorted with a shrug. Jike rang up the purchase as fast as he could.

“Fifty-six seventeen,” said Jike. “Will that be cash, check or charge?”

“The answer is charge my good man,” hollered the drunk. Jike took the card and scanned it. He put the meat in a sack as he waited for the register to approve the transaction. The drunk offered a wavy line in lieu of an actual signature and took off with the meat.

“Ohhh jerky, I want you inside me!” he yelled as he escaped the Clarenceoco at top speed. His friends shuffled out behind, laughing amongst themselves. Jike and Carolyn stared at each other silently as they waited for the guys to clear the property.

“I wish to express my gratitude for your assistance,” said Jike sarcastically.

“If anyone on this planet has an appropriate comeback for drunk medical students in a jerky eating contest, I would imagine it’s you,” replied Carolyn.

“Perhaps I’m losing my touch,” said Jike. He pondered for a moment and shrugged. “One cannot bedevil oneself with such concerns…time to mop.” Jike walked back to a small closet and rolled out a yellow plastic mop bucket and pushed it next to the bathroom door.

“I’ve been hanging out here with you forever and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you mop once,” said Carolyn.

“It’s more of an exercise in mental conditioning than mopping really,” replied Jike.

“You don’t actually mop, do you?” asked Carolyn.

“Negative, my dear convenience store companion,” said Jike.

“Let me guess, you coat the bucket and mop with a little bit of water right before Clarence comes in in the morning?”

“That is affirmative,” said Jike.

“He becometh poor that dealeth with a slack hand: but the hand of the diligent maketh rich,” said Carolyn.

“I don’t ever recall professing a desire to be rich,” replied Jike. “Besides, faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen.”

“I don’t think that’s what they meant,” replied Carolyn.

“I beg to differ,” said Jike. “Clarence himself accepted this identical explanation last week.”

“You’re terrible,” laughed Carolyn. “Even for a Universalist.”

Jike and Carolyn perked their ears toward a commotion in Clarence’s parking lot. A high-pitched laugh projected over what sounded like the constant low grumble of men’s voices. Carolyn sat up and jumped to her feet. The freezer squeaked as the shift in weight caused it to jerk forward. Carolyn walked to the glass door and looked out.

“Holy cow, Jike. It’s those guys. They’re doing the jerky contest in the parking lot!” exclaimed Carolyn. Jike pushed himself to his feet and shuffled toward the door.

“I cannot truthfully say that this turn of events was unexpected,” said Jike calmly. “I suppose I’ll convoke the authorities.” As Jike reached toward the handle, the drunk reappeared, running from the side of the building and blasting his entire body through the door.

Jike spun around in a futile effort to remain on his feet. Carolyn could only watch as the drunk sprinted past and Jike jumbled awkwardly to the ground. The drunk was still running as he grabbed the knob and attempted to push with his shoulder. His hand spun around the stationary hardware as he slammed into the locked door and dropped to the floor. Both men struggled to stand.

“You need a key,” said Jike.

“Jerky doesn’t wanna be inside of me!” yelled the man as he crawled to the plastic yellow container. Carolyn shut her eyes and plugged her ears hard with her index fingers. The drunk ferociously cleared the evening’s digestive history into Clarence’s mop bucket.

“You need a key,” Jike repeated in defeat as he watched the drunk hurl for what seemed like an eternity. When it seemed as though it was over, Carolyn unplugged her ears and extended her hand to Jike. He accepted her hand, stood up and headed toward the phone.

The drunk stood synchronically, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and staggered to the door.

“Sorry man. Jerky was a bitch. I’ll clean it up in the morning,” said the kid as he stumbled into the parking lot. Jike abandoned the phone and followed him outside. The wheels of a black muscle car chirped as the car entered the roadway heading east. Jike squinted in an effort to make out the alphanumeric pattern on the license plate. He exhaled in frustration as he realized they were illegible from such a distance. Jike exhaled again when he spied the pile of wrappers scattered amongst unopened meat sleeves. He struggled to breathe as he bent over, picked up the empty wrappers and deposited them into the trash containers that stood less than six feet away. Jike walked back into Clarence’s.

“Did ya get ‘em?” asked Carolyn excitedly. Jike did not answer. He walked behind the counter, grabbed a plastic bag and headed back outside.

“You need a key,” Jike said to himself as he struggled to bend over and pick up the unopened product. He estimated that they had only eaten about ten bucks worth of product. Jike opened a stick of “spicy teriyaki” and thought as he chewed. He decided that this might not be such a horrible turn of events. Jike could return the product to the shelf, show the receipt to Clarence and clear his debt completely. Now he had to do something about the booze, bile and masticated jerky that was fermenting in Clarence’s mop bucket.

“He paid with a credit card,” said Carolyn as Jike shuffled inside. “Look at the receipt.” Jike returned to his seat behind the counter and hit the “no sale” button. The register’s drawer shot open and Jike snatched up the pile of credit card receipts that had amassed throughout his shift.

“His name is Tabor Johnston,” said Jike, “although I am not particularly interested in justice.”

“You should be,” replied Carolyn. “It’s starting to smell like puke and beer in here.” Jike walked around the counter again and made his way toward the bucket. He looked away and held his breath as he grabbed the handle of the wringer and quickly rolled it toward the door. Jike pulled the door open and rolled the bucket into the parking lot. He bowled it hard toward the dumpster and headed back into the store before its final resting place was decided.

“You’re just going to leave it there?” asked Carolyn.

“By the grace of God, Clarence’s pail will become unsullied without my travail,” answered Jike.

“You’re asking God to clean out the mop bucket full of a drunk pre-med student’s jerky vomit?” asked Carolyn. At that moment a clap of thunder descended upon Melville…

Caveat: I can’t do footnotes here so I have substituted parentheses. Sue me.

I just finished reading Bill The Sports Guy Simmons’ “The Book of Basketball” and I have two things to say:

1) I absolutley devoured it, loved it, and will probably read it again so I can pick up the parts that I missed when I was a bit sloshed.

2) I am wicked pissed.

I grew up in the Boston area but I was never really a basketball fan, so I never became a Celtics fan. I was a one sport dude – the NFL.

In 1984, at the tender age of 25, I moved to LA (LA in the mid-80′s, 25, and single. Let’s just say that fun was had and brain cells were killed). A good buddy of mine from college had also moved there and he was a basketball junkie. So I started paying attention to the NBA while we were out for after-work beers, and I just simply got hooked on the Lakers (Showtime), and by association (no pun intended) the NBA in general.

Those were the days. For a sporting event, you just could not beat the Lakers vs. the Celtics (or, really, the Lakers vs. anyone and the Celtics vs. anyone). And here’s the thing. At the time, the true Lakers fans did not hate the Celtics (except for Danny Ainge). We wanted to beat the crap out of them, but only because we respected them. Beating the Celtics was validation that you truly had a good team.

But the Pistons? We H-A-T-E-D them. Everyone did. Including people who did not even follow the NBA. I think there were extraterrestrials that hated them.

So anyway, Bill The Sports Guy Simmons writes this seven thousand page book and never once gives credit to the ’89 Lakers and the Magic/Byron backcourt. By 1989, Magic and Byron were in the ESP zone (get it?). They could pretty much do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. That does not make Byron Scott a Pyramid guy, but it does make him the perfect complementary guard for the Magic/Lakers backcourt.

To irritate Bill The Sports Guy Simmons, I will now give statistics to prove my point.

Regular season? Whoops, not so good here. But you gotta give Magic and Byron credit for dragging Kareem around for his final year. And the Lakers were cruising off of two championships, so they knew what it takes to get the championship. Cruise in the regular season, go full out for the playoffs. (They did just this, but I have to mention that one of the few things that irritate me about Magic is his “Winnin’ Time” slogan attempt. I mean, he tried, but it just didn’t work.)

Playoffs? Since 1984, there are only two teams that have gone undefeated in the Conference First Round, the Conference Semis, and the Conference Finals. The 2001 Lakers and the 1989 Lakers. The 2001 Lakers got props in Bill The Sports Guy’s book. The 1989 Lakers? No mention. Here are the pre-Finals records for Bill The Sports Guy Simmon’s Elite Ten (post-1983):

The ’91 Bulls: 11-1

The ’97 Bulls: 11-2

The ’01 Lakers: see above

The ’89 Pistons: 11-2 (Lost two games to the Bulls before MJ knew how to win. Two games. Yeah, what a juggernaut.)

The ’87 Lakers: 11-1

The ’96 Bulls: 11-1

The ’86 Celtics: 11-1 (Oh, the vaunted ’86 Celtics lost a game? To the Hawks? In the Conference Semis? Gimme a break.)

It just goes to show how hard it is to win 11 games in a row during the NBA playoffs. But the 1989 Lakers did it. And then, just before the ’89 Finals, Magic and Byron got hamstring injuries and could not play. Guess what happened after that. No Three-Peat. (By the way, I threw in the Three-Peat reference just to irritate Bill The Sports Guy Simmons.)

Outside of the stats, you just had to be there. We knew the Lakers were going to win. It was a given. A lock. Like knowing that the latest episode of “24″ is going to end in a cliffhanger.

And then our backcourt got a hammy. Fuck the ’89 Pistons. Fuck Isiah and Rodman. And and extra-double-Fuck Bill Laimbeer.

Bill Simmons, you are the Bill Walton of NBA writing. Truly gifted (style, substance) but fatally flawed (Laker hatred). And stop sucking up to Isiah. With Magic and Byron healthy, the ’89 Pistons would have gone down in 4.