And that was pretty hypocritical considering I previously wrote a list of 5 Ways Lists Are Too Reductive.  But I think you’ll understand once you read my Stump Speech.  That or you’ll be more confused than ever.

Grapes of Wrath!

So, you’ve just come home from a marathon Bright Eyes concert to discover your dog’s possible attempted suicide.  That’s what we’ll call it for now, at least.  Sure, sure, you don’t remember leaving any snacks in your backpack and it just somehow ended up on the floor.  And you just happened to decide to attend an interminably long emo-rock concert on this particular night—because people just love Bright Eyes live.  His trendy pubescent voice makes the perfect alibi—not that you need one.

Now, let’s take a gander at that riddle of a Ziploc baggie.  You know, the one lying on the floor over there, giving us a Sphinxian wink.  There are still raisins left inside, but the two and a half entry holes raise a lot of questions.  Did she eat one raisin? Two? Forty-five? Who knows? You don’t know! I don’t know! And she’s not talking!

Based on a true story

Oh, I’m sorry, is that light getting a little hot for you?  Why are you sweating?  Your dog’s not sweating.  She’s just smiling away, happy as a clam.  That is, if that clam had potentially ingested poisonous foodstuffs.

So what’s your next move, hotshot?  You’d like to call the vet would you?  Well, it’s 12:45 in the a.m. Exactly how late does your vet usually stay open?  Is your vet inside a piano bar?  Does your vet operate a bodega? Is it some kind of private vet for Mafioso pets that get shot up during drug deals gone awry and can’t risk going to the ER because they ask too many questions? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

No, it’s fine.  I totally believe you love your dog and this wasn’t at all premeditated.  That’s why you’re Googling “can raisins kill dogs?” right now, instead of moving forward with the contingency plan any good pet owner would already have in place.  Meanwhile, your dog sits there like a fucking canine Mona Lisa. No, don’t look at the dog—she’s not going to tell you what to do.

What’s that?  There’s a poison control number for dogs?  You don’t say.  Okay wise guy, maybe you’ll just give them a ring.  Sure, the dog looks fine—hey pal, I’m not the one you have to convince.  I sure hope that Bright Eyes was worth it.

There’s a sixty-dollar donation to speak to a vet?  Let’s just call that your carelessness tariff.  Besides this will go a long way in building a case for your innocence.  Oh, I know you weren’t thinking about that, but maybe, just maybe, you should be.

Pardon? They’ve advised you to induce vomiting by mixing hydrogen peroxide with peanut butter?  No, I trust you.  It totally makes sense that they would tell you to pour some more poison down her gullet.  You don’t have any on hand?   And your peanut butter was just recalled today due to salmonella?  Why don’t you just throw her in front of a truck!  It’s pretty convenient that out of two life-saving household staples you don’t have one and the other is contaminated. That’s okay; these aren’t precious minutes or anything—just run to the store.

That was fast—almost too fast.  Well, she certainly seems to be enjoying this concoction.  She looks like she’s having the time of her life, really.  Speaking of life, how much is that insurance policy you took out on her?

Uh oh, she still hasn’t vomited. What’s up now, Einstein? What do you think Bright Eyes would do? No, I’m sure you’re doing the right thing by waiting this long to call back pet poison control.  It’s only your dog’s life hanging in the balance, Pet Hitler!  Look at her just wagging her tail happily. She has no idea of the stakes! The stakes!!

Who said anything about murder? I just said this must be killing you.  It was a wise choice to bring her to the emergency vet.  A couple thousand dollars later and it turns out there was no harm done at all.  But you can never be too safe with this type of thing.  No matter that when she purged there they didn’t find any raisins.

Wait a minute, no raisins? Did she just bite holes in the bag? What’s going on here? Is the dog mind fucking you? Who is narrative voiceover you’ve been hearing in your head this whole time, anyway? Did the dog Inception your brain?!  Nah, couldn’t have been her, she’s been at a Bright Eyes concert this whole time.

In Hawaii, they call it "chicken skin".

My life is an all-day nightmare thanks to you, R.L.  I wish you would just say cheese and die. How can one brother steal from another brother?  Is there monster blood flowing through your veins?

It took me eight years to create that beautiful, gelatinous, lovingly embossed font for my greeting card line.  Sure, I mean, that didn’t take off—though I maintain my mother’s day card was a masterpiece.  That was chocolate, not blood, it was dripping! But no, Hallmark didn’t want to hear it.  Regardless, the rigorous standards of the greeting card industry are no excuse for your betrayal.

You sat by waiting for your opportunity, lurking in the shadows like some kind of headless ghost. Then you struck, stealing my original font and—with it—my dreams.  I was going to be the kind of greeting card manufacturer kids dream of being!  But you foiled my plans like an egg monster from mars. To make matter worse, you continue to use my distinctive similes and turn of phrase for your book titles. Get your own calling card, shithead.

The worst thing is I could have prevented it.  I regret that night I asked you to mail my precious typeface to the copyright office every day.  It will forever be the night of the living dummy, and the dummy was me, R.L.! The dummy was me.

Why did you do it?  What did you have to prove?  Our parents already loved you best—they didn’t even bother to think of a different middle name for me.  I’ve always lived in your shadow. And now I live in your basement!

But I’ve learned from my mistakes.  I will live under neither your thumb nor your second den any longer! You can’t scare me, even if my best friend is invisible. I’ll get my revenge like a lone wolf in werewolf skin.

You’re getting too careless and over-producing, becoming the blob that ate everything. (That is, if everything is the market-share of children’s horror fiction novels.)   For God’s sake R.L., show some restraint; human beings need limits! Who do you think you are, Tyler Perry?

You’re in deep trouble because you’ve underestimated me.  Now, I have you just where I want you: distracted and lulled into the false sense of security that comes with writing the best-selling children’s fiction series of all time. I’m going to choke the fecundity right out of your mouth like vampire breath.  I will deliver a shocker on Shock Street right to your groin!

R.L., I’m tired of your shit.  You’re going to spend a night with me in the tower of terror.  And in my tower, the elevator is out of service. You’ll have to take the stairs. And it’s like fourteen flights.  And I turned the heat up really high before you came—and the sink water’s very sulfuric. Are you terrified yet?

Well, you should be, because I am your evil twin and I’ve got full moon fever.  So soak up your last few days of the lush life, because I’m coming for you.  Be careful what you wish for… Also, any notes you could provide on the font I used on the cover of this card would be greatly appreciated.

How come offices in England are always so much sleeker? Bridget Jones?

Hey there, whatcha working on? Expense reports? Oh, really they’re due in an hour? Well, I should let you get back to work, I just needed my third cup of coffee—it is 8 a.m., right? You know me, Java Jenny, needs her caffeine fix from the ol’ bean juice. Guilty!

Whew, well this morning was a doozey. Saffron and Gabriel would just not get out of bed!   And this is just a never-ending battle with these two; I’ve already gotten four notices about Gabriel’s tardiness.  Of course, he doesn’t care; Mr. Man thinks he can just charm his way out of any situation with that killer smile and those baseball biceps.  And I tell him, that’s not gonna work on the SATs, buddy!  So, he tells me he’s not going to college, because a bachelor’s degree is just an invoice for $100,000 of debt.  I mean whaddya say to that, right?  He’s such a free bird; sometimes I think maybe he just gets it.

But still they have to go to school, right?  The last thing I need is to have some truancy officers busting into my laundry room like CSI and dragging me away in shackles, while his highness keeps yelling from the bathroom: “do I have any clean undershirts?” I swear, if that man ever learned how to fold a hand towel and PUT IT AWAY, I would probably drop dead right there—on the linoleum floor that he’s been promising to replace for about a hundred years.  And then when the newspaper came the photographer would catch me in all my glory, face down in the laundry basket.  The headline would say “Woman dies in hamper while son earns fifth tardy!” I’m such a hoot!

Oh before I forget, you’ll love this one, Diamond Dancer stole a sugar cookie that Saffron left out on the table yesterday.  That dog was so wired, she started running all around my kitchen and knocked over my entire tray of pesto lasagna.  And of course, Bob’s whole family was coming over in about twenty minutes, and I hadn’t even vacuumed!  So I just picked it up off the floor and put it on the platter—and they ate it!  That’s the funny part.  But I’m like that, you know, I really am. It really is the inmates running the asylum most days.   And I’m the biggest nutcase of all, but I guess that’s what makes me, me.

I should let you get back to work though, and stop boring you with my wacky life!  I swear we should be a sitcom.  Of course, most of this stuff is even too crazy for T.V. Last week, I could not get Saffron out of the shower for anything—so I flushed the toilet on her! But that’s just me; I guess I’ll never be PTA president now, right? Oh boy, sometimes I honestly wonder what the neighbors think.  I mean we haven’t even taken down our Christmas decorations from last year.  And it’s October!  And we’re Jewish!

Bob says we should just leave all our decorations up all year ‘round because that’s the only way we’ll ever get them up on time.  See what I put up with?  This is why I need my ladies’ nights out with the girls—we’re so bad. It’s like I always say though: what happens at Applebee’s stays at Applebee’s!  Last time, it was Debbie’s birthday, so we each drank an extra Wild berry Margarita.  And I stabbed a busboy in the neck with a butter knife.  We’re such screwballs!  I think I’m fun-loving in that ageless kind of way.

Well, like you’ve been saying, you have a ton of work to do—so long story long—I had to get the kids out of bed this morning and Bob was, of course, nowhere to be found.  He’s been taking the 6:30 train these days, so he’s out early.  And that’s the way I like it, keep that man out of my hair as much as possible, right? I’m so happily married, yet so untamable.  Ack!

So, I’m calling and calling the kids to breakfast.  They both have alarm clocks mind you, and the cell phones in the bed—don’t even get me started on that. Finally, I went into their rooms, because this is just the ongoing saga. Gabriel will just sit up like he’s awake until I go back downstairs—then he’s out again.  He can sleep through anything, even gunfire. When I try to wake up Saffron she just shrieks like a banshee—another one who’s not a morning person. Wonder where she gets it, right?

Well, I had to leave for work, and their bus was coming in about thirty seconds—so I just set the house on fire.  I literally ignited the second story of my house in flames with several well-place Molotov cocktails.  I’ve had it up to here with the tardiness, and we are not having a repeat of the “sophomore year fiasco”.  Sounds kooky I know, but that’s just me being real, I guess.  But I’ll tell you, I’ve never seen those kids move so quickly in their lives. And they made that bus too.

Well, I’ll let you go, before I keep yammering on with another of my “Linda stories”.  They’re so entertaining, yet a little bit edgy—kind of like Medium.  But really, I’ve got a lot of work to get done today too, and I have to pick up Diamond Dancer from the groomer on my way home.  Also, I have to pitch a tent in the yard before dark—that is if I can find any of our camping equipment in that labyrinth of a garage. Other than that Mrs. Lincoln how’d you like the play, right?

World's Most Unsettling Legumes

1.) Your name: Laura Jayne Martin

2.) Your address:  East Village, NYC

3.) Name of person you want protection from: The Black Eyed Peas

4.) Description of person you want protection from: A frightening musical ensemble from a future where words, not sentences, are punctuated.

Sex:  I think they do it with machines

Height:  Roughly three humps, plus two lovely lady lumps

Weight: Not susceptible to gravity

Race: Cyclon-Lego

Hair Color: Ultra

Eye Color: Double Rainbow

Age: 15 (formed 1995)

5.) Besides you, who needs protection? Earthlings

6.) Stay-Away Order:

I ask the court to order the person musical group listed in #3 to stay at least 100 feet away from the following: My Ears; My Brain; the Laundromat where I do my laundry; New York City; the people listed in #5; all industry standard Hi-Definition television cameras; the World Wide Web; and my dreams.

7.) Describe a recent incident:

a.) On July 30, 2010 The Black Eyed Peas performed in Central Park as part of Good  Morning America’s free summer concert series. This was disturbing as I reside a mere three miles from this venue.

b.) Who was there? Mostly tourists, but also some humans.

c.) What did the person musical group do? They performed unspeakable acts of avant-garde sexy robot cacophony.  Also, they wore utensils and camping equipment.  And undulated.

d.) Did the police come? They were already there, so just think about that.

8.) Describe earlier incidents:

On one single day in 2009, the Black Eyed Peas performed live during a flash mob for Oprah Winfrey’s 24th Season Kickoff Party on Michigan Avenue in Chicago. Then they flew to LA for a taping of The Jimmy Kimmel Show, and then flew to Hong Kong for CSMALPAT 2009 (a fundraiser for male-pattern baldness in computer scientists). Later that SAME night, they performed, via satellite, at halftime for the Canadian Football League championship, and then guest-starred on Glee as holograms.  They ended their 48-hour day, at 8:45 a.m. EST, by playing an exclusive show at a Budget Meeting in the Roosevelt Room of the White House.

On April 21, 2010, The Black Eyed Peas simultaneously performed their song: “Ca’n U BeLieve This Is Re.al.ly @ Song?” for Queen Elizabeth’s 84^th Birthday and the American Idol Gives Back Season 9 Special.

On June 11^th, 2010, The Black Eyed Peas played the Opening Ceremony of the 2010 World Cup in South Africa, the closing of a Kia dealership in Eschborn, Germany and then showed up at my cousin’s baby’s Christening during the anointing with Chrism.

On July 14^th, 2010, The Black Eyed Peas played outside my office building for nine straight hours.  Earlier in the day, two of them sold me coffee, while impersonating Starbucks employees.  While singing “Boom Boom Pow.”

On July 20^th, 2010, The Black Eyed Peas paid the receptionist at my dentists office $2700 dollars to play only their music for my entire two hour visit.  Later, The Black Eyed Peas followed me onto a downtown 6 train, silent, but gyrating.

On August 1^st, 2010, The Black Eyed Peas played fifty-eight different renditions of “Let’s Get it Started” in my bedroom while I attempted to propose to my girlfriend.

Yesterday, The Black Eyed Peas sent me a notarized letter affirming that each individual black eyed pea, plus the group as a whole, is, in fact, a beast when one turns them on.

Saturday 7:58pm, The Black Eyed Peas are currently sitting next to me on the couch as I write this, singing an acoustic version of the entire Elephunk album.

Formal Request

I ask The Black Eyed Peas to cease and desist abusing my senses, perpetually touring, side projects, surprise performances, planned performances, cameos, ruining my life, and rubbing up on me.

Sincerely,

Laura Jayne Martin

Old Peter

I, Peter from the old Folger’s Christmas commercial challenge you, Peter from the new Folger’s Christmas commercial to a deathmatch.  Listen man, I have not been doing so well. Sure, when you last saw me flouncing out of that VW bug Christmas ’86, I was on top of the world.  Life stretched out before me like that gymnast sorority sister who’d given me a ride that morning.  It’s hard to imagine how drastically things have changed since then, but life’s not all cable-knit sweaters and varsity letters, my man.

Throughout the rest of the ‘80s, I developed a caffeine addiction as remarkably robust as the very Folger’s I was drinking.  It was the best of times and it was the worst of times. I have some regrets, sure; one of which being my altercation with a two-faced barista in Santa Monica that led to me hitting rock bottom for the first time.  I also made some bad choices in the ‘90s concerning investments in Freezy Freakies.  Who could have known the market for those gloves wouldn’t last forever? I guess I just got caught up in the après-ski scene.

New Peter

My parents aren’t so jazzed to see me walk in the door at 5:00 a.m. anymore, especially now that I live with them in their unfinished basement.  I mainly get by as an SAT tutor, ever since that jerk at Friendly’s fired me for being an artisan.  Apparently, my understanding of their “create your own meal” slogan turned out to be merely an interpretation.  However, I stand by that interpretation. If a customer wants two Fribbles and a Clamboat, that’s what I’m bringing them, until the day I die, or the Clamboat is discontinued!

Anyway, now that Friendly’s is out of the picture, all I’m left with is the SAT tutoring.  And I’m not even with Kaplan! Sorry my 1440 isn’t good enough for you, Kaplan!  December is the tutoring dry season. You know what else December is? That’s right, the mother-f’ing Christmas season. Let me tell you buddy, the best part of waking up is definitely not seeing your blond delicately-goateed face on my television every fifteen minutes.

This brings me back to my original premise. Peter of the new Folger’s Christmas commercial: I am going to fight you to the death.  You’re destroying the integrity of my original masterpiece with your schlocky second-rate rendition.  You’re the generic cereal to my Cinnamon Toast Crunch.  You’re every Americanized British sitcom, no worse, you’re The Sopranos on A&E.  You must be stopped.  I’m going to break my festive holiday mug over that ridiculous toque if it’s the last thing I do.

I cannot spend one more day watching you return from West Africa to the eerily loving arms of your eager sister.  Why do I get the feeling you took baths together until a borderline inappropriate age? Oh I’m sorry, does that make you mad? Well let’s go buddy! I’m back on the caffeine and ready to battle—Peter on Peter!

You think you can replace me just because we have the same name? Don’t you remember what happened to New Coke? You can’t replace the original formula. Is that reference lost on you because you are basically a newborn? Try this one then, I’m Beyoncé, asshole: friggin’ irreplaceable.

Clear eyes, full benefits

Coach Eric Taylor: There are times in your life when someone will say to you: “you cannot do this”. “You cannot do this”.  Now, you can give up.  Or, you can just lift up the brim of your hat several times, wince, then look them square in the eye, and sharply turn and walk away.  Then, later you do it.  If some gum gets chewed in the process, that’s all the better.

But I’m not going to interview for this job.  I’m a simple man.  I love my family and I love the game of football, but I do respect myself.  The only person I respect more than myself is Mrs. Tammy Taylor.  I mainly think about wistful backyard pickup games, and how to display my respect for my wife Mrs. Ex-Principal Tammy Taylor. That is why I can’t interview for this job.  I could never respect you more than I respect Tammy Taylor.  I respect God as well.  But God doesn’t always have the gumption—and doesn’t ever have the hair—of my wife, Tammy T. Taylor.  If some fate should perfectly unfold so that the only morally righteous thing to do is take this job at Circuit City, than I will.  But mostly out of respect for Tammy Taylor.

Lyla Garrity I’m going to be really busy: getting my degree in physical therapy, running in low-cut Lycra tanks to stay fit, volunteering with Habitat for Humanity, smiling, and being the last woman your boyfriend dated before you.

Tim Riggins: Well, I didn’t have much experience in the field, but it turns out you don’t need a heckuva lot of experience to teach the second grade.  You just need to be taller than everybody else and willing to give yourself a rinse once in a while.  I turn up, most days, try and stay sober enough to let them know I’m the most complicated and poignant man they’ll ever meet.  I prefer to call people by number rather than by name, and luckily they’re all seven.  I call ‘em all seven.

I like the way they balance out my brooding and they like me because I’m always loyal to them.  Except for sleeping with their moms, but that’s just my nature—my Tim-sinct.  My Tim-sinct, located in my hair, is what forces me to make wrong choices for the right reasons.  Each one of those moms needed me in their end zone.  Those second graders will understand someday—it’s bigger than them.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m still loyal to my second graders.  I’ve run the idea by them of getting a ranch together and living large in Texas, forever.  They’re into it.

Brian “Smash” Williams: Professional Athlete/ Product Spokesman/ Rapper/ Actor/ Dancer/Model/ Director/ Producer/ Doula

Buddy Garrity: Cat farm

Matt Saracen: For a while I considered just being the boy in all the Jane Austen novels.

But then I thought: what will I fall back on?  I mean literally.  The sales of my book “Falling Ass-backward into Successful Leadership Positions” have generated a good deal of income for me.   But where do I see myself in five years?

Let’s think about it.  I’m an underdog.  I come from humble beginnings.  I vacillate and I would rather just please everyone.  I’m Southern.  I’m neck ticklish.  My dad served his country bravely in America’s Armed forces.  I can barely string together a coherent sentence.  Where do you think I’m going to be?  Do you think Chancellor Angela Merkel will mind if I call her “Mrs. Coach Chancellor”?

Tyra Collette: Have you seen Evita?  Basically, I’m gonna do that. ‘Cept in thigh-high boots.

Tammy Taylor: I’ve had a few offers from some really nice people at Dove, the Hallmark Channel and Ponds but, I’d rather stay in Texas.  I’m going to focus on being respected and caring enough to let people spread their wings.

Landry Clarke: Part-time lecturer, Full-time Badass

Vince Howard: What do you mean “final season”?

Gracie Bell: I keep a pretty low profile, but I think my colleagues would tell you I’m a go-getter.   I’m willing to travel.  Also, I can’t talk and I can fit into most suitcases.  I’ve made some pretty savvy investments over the past six months, so I’m looking forward to taking a bit of a vacation before I put myself back out there.  I’m just a little sick of the grind.  Plus my molars are coming in—are you kidding? I’m a baby, jackass, I’m going to sit in my crib and do nothing.  Don’t ask me stupid questions.