Benny Jay: Joseph Stiglitz and Morry Frank
This debate over Gary, Indiana’s greatest writer is starting to get nasty.
First our very own Milo claims the title, then Monroe Anderson says it’s his, then Big Mike weighs in, and now everyone wants to know what I think.
Hmm, tough question. Millions of people have lived in Gary over the years. There’s a good chance the greatest writer is neither Milo nor Monroe.
For instance, the great Chicago novelist Nelson Algren once had a lakefront summer home in Gary. He used to take Simone de Beauvoir there for their summer trysts.
So I guess you could say Simone de Beauvoir is Gary’s greatest writers, or at least the greatest who ever passed through town.
Searching for a clue, I turn to Wikipedia. I discover a list of fourteen notable people from Gary, ten of whom are related to Michael Jackson.
Dang, if that’s the best Wikipedia can come up with, that’s pathetic.
Off the top of my head I can think of the great football player Alex Karras, the great song-and-dance Broadway star Chester Gregory, the great baseball player Lyman Bostock, the great actor Karl Malden. Hell, Malden won an Academy Award and everything.
But, back to Gary’s greatest writer….
Here’s a shocker. Paul Samuelson and Joseph Stiglitz — two of the world’s greatest economists — come from Gary. Each won the Nobel Prize for economics.
Paul Samuelson and friend….
Think about that! Two Nobel laureates out of Gary. Who knew?
Now the real question is: Who’s the greatest economist from Gary?
According to his obituary in the New York Times, Samuelson came from “upward mobile Jewish immigrants” who moved to Chicago in 1923 when he was eight.
In other words, they got the hell out of Gary just as soon as they could (not unlike Milo and Monroe, by the way).
On the other hand, Stiglitz stayed in Gary all the way through high school. And – get ready for this — he graduated from Horace Mann! That’s right – Milo’s alma mater.
That rinky-dink little school – which closed a few years back – actually produced a Nobel laureate.
When I discover this, I call Milo. “Got bad news for you,” I tell him. “Not only aren’t you Gary’s greatest writer – you aren’t even the greatest writer from Horace Mann High School….”
“Who’s greater?” he says.
“Stiglitz….”
“Who?”
“Joseph Stiglitz – the Nobel prize-winning economist. He wrote a ton of books, including Making Globalization Work….”
“Oh, yeah, I remember Stiglitz — I went to high school with his sister. Bookish guy. Good with numbers. He should have been a bookie. All the good numbers guys at Horace Mann became bookies.”
“Milo, the man won the Nobel….”
“Fuck, the Nobel. Name me one great Nobel winner who ever placed a bet….”
“Well….”
“Matter of fact, I don’t know if Stiglitz is as good a writer as my old pal Morry….”
“Who?”
“Morry Frank – another kid from Horace Mann. He wrote Every Young Man’s Dream – a novel about a minor league short stop. Then he went off to Hollywood to write for TV. Probably screwing some starlet as we speak….”
“Impressive….”
“Morry comes from a big-time Gary family. His brother, Harry, was a dentist. Their father, Sam Frank, was a kosher butcher. The last time I saw Morry, I was heading off for Vietnam. He told me, `Don’t worry about the Viet Cong, Milo – they’re only this tall.’ And he pointed to his waist.”
“I hope you didn’t take his advice….”
“You have to understand — Morry was a real tough guy. He had Popeye-like arms. He used to walk around with a mouthpiece, just in case he got into a fight.”
“So is Morry Gary’s greatest writer?”
“Fuck it — us Gary boys gotta stick together. If it’s okay with Monroe, Morry and Joe, I’m ready to share the title with all of them. After all, between the four of us, we’ve got a Nobel prize….”
Monroe Anderson: Letter to the Editor
Memo to Big Mike:
Let’s keep this short and sweet because not only am I an important man, but I’m a busy one as well.
So, what’s this garbage about Milo being the greatest writer from Gary, Indiana?
I mean no disrespect to Milo, but he is, after all, an Horace Mann grad; an alumnus of a former Gary High School where they aspired to beat up great writers, not read them. I’m a mighty, mighty Panther — shout out to Roosevelt High, yeah! Mann versus Roosevelt? Forget about it. That’s like comparing Michael Jordan’s golf game to Tiger Woods‘. Like comparing the Back Street Boys to the Jackson Five. Like comparing Tracey Ullman to Halle Berry.
You got it.
Milo does alright for someone who comes from a disadvantaged background, where Santa Claus brought one crayon per child for him and his 18 siblings and they left water and bread crumbs by the space heater for the Jolly Old Elf.
Although he’s never cracked a book in his life, he has still managed to become quite the scrappy little word monger. Milo’s a redaction-ready raconteur second to all. The best pencil sharpener I’ll never need.
But, this isn’t about Milo. It’s all about me. So I’ll get to the point: I am, without question, without doubt, without equal, Gary, Indiana’s greatest writer — living, dead, or yet to be born.
Don’t take my word for it. Let’s let the facts talk the talk while walking the walk.
When the Academy Awards nominating committee was looking to select the best writer from Gary, Indiana who’s never written a screenplay, who do you think they called first, last and in between? Me. Me. Me.
When the Pulitzer Prize committee was mulling over who it should give its first and only Best Gary, Indiana Writer of the Year Award, there was one contender: Yours truly.
When the Swedes were poised to award the Nobel Prize for Gary, Indiana Literature, Milo wasn’t even mentioned. Nor was anybody else from the Steel City. It was quickly and unequivocally becoming known as the Nobel Prize for Monroe Anderson‘s Literature.
What’s that….did I just detect a sneer in the Ethernet? Do you doubt me? Yeah, I can hear you now — Googling here and Googling there, trying to see if any of those distinguished writing honors were ever available or awarded.
Don’t waste your time. I turned them all down. I demanded that they erase all records.
Why? It’s simple. I’m a humble man. Being honored as the greatest suits me about as well as an Elvis Presley gold lame costume or a MJ rhinestone-studded glove.
Why? It’s obvious. I’m a very modest man. Sure, I’m so good a writer that I can quote myself by heart. But it’s nothing I care to brag about.
I’m not like that maniacal Milo, who constantly craves recognition and a pat on the back. Milo knows that the International Men of Letters Society has secretly named Gary, Indiana the Clandestine Cradle of World Culture and has, for once, figured something out without my explaining it to him, like he was a third-grader, first: He who is recognized as the Greatest Writer from Gary, Indiana, shall be recognized as the Greatest Writer in the World.
I’ll have none of it. I’m begging you not to post this memo on The Third City blog. I respectfully ask that you allow me to keep my Greatest Writer status in my dresser drawer — right next to my Great American Novel.
Sincerely, the Muhammad Ali of Gary, Indiana writers,
Monroe Anderson
Big Mike: Milo And I Fight The Power Elite!
The gloves are coming off, dear friends and loyal readers of this rag.
Benny Jay and I started sniping at each other a couple of months ago when he gleefully wrote about letting his snarling pit bull piss all over the neighbors’ lawns. Some poor old lady was kneeling on the sod in front off her house, putting covers on her rose bushes for the winter, and Benny’s beast sprinkled all over her shins.
Benny’s Dog, Daisy.
She protested, naturally, but it made no difference to Benny and his cur. He said, Don’t bother me, Grannie. I have bigger things to worry about than you and your comfort. Can you believe it? It’s all true. I provide the link to Benny’s original post about the incident but somebody, probably some PR flack, advised him to edit that anecdote out. Now the post reads as if Benny is some poor, meek schlub cowed by all the brutes of the world. Hah!
We exchanged our verbal broadsides over his dog’s reign of terror but things seemed to be subsiding. Until now.
Benny’s been buttering up some pal of his named Monroe Anderson, trying to get him to write a thing or two for The Third City. It so happens that both this Anderson chap and our very own Milo Samardzija hail from Gary, Indiana. Well, anybody who’s ever read a word from Milo’s keyboard will recognize that he must be hailed as that city’s greatest writer. Hell, he’s the best thing the entire state of Indiana has ever produced. Hoagie Carmichael? Puh-leeaze! David Letterman, Jimmy Stewart, Michael Jackson and all the rest? Pshaw! They couldn’t hold Milo’s switchblade.
Now Benny and his new BFF are trying to claim the title that is rightfully Milo’s. Here’s where I put my foot down. I’ll state it categorically now and forever: Milo Samardzija is Gary, Indiana’s Greatest Writer.
Period.
But get this: Monroe Anderson, Benny’s hero, had the gall to send me an email claiming he’s Gary’s literary titan. The nerve!
Memo to Big Mike, it began, Let’s keep this short and sweet because not only am I an important man but a busy one as well.
What the…? Does this man know who he’s talking to? I’m the Barn Boss of The Third City! Aspiring writers from all over the Midwest come calling, hat in hand, looking for the break that only I can provide. Some political writer from Chicago pitched some post ideas to me the other day. He began his email Dear Mr. Glab.
The Proper Way To Approach The Barn Boss.
That’s a guy who’s got a little bit of brains. This Monroe fellow? If he hasn’t the good sense to know how to address me, how can I trust him to know anything about, say, Chicago politics or race relations or the roots of the Obama administration?
So Monroe continues. What’s this garbage about Milo being the greatest writer from Gary, Indiana?
The Loved One had to pound me on the back before I stopped gagging over that one.
A few paragraphs later, Monroe gets to the point. [T]his isn’t about Milo, it’s about me…. I am, without question, without doubt, without equal, Gary, Indiana’s greatest writer — living, dead or yet to be born.
This man is a lunatic! And his sponsor, his padrone, Benny Jay, is twice as crazy as he is.
Benny Jay’s Housecoat.
My dear, dear chum Milo Samardzija has written brilliantly about such timeless topics as making easy money, Swedish male enhancement devices, all night poker games and alcohol benders, and countless other philosophical treatises.
What has Monroe Anderson done?
Well, he’s awfully good at patting himself on the back. He closes his screed thusly:
Sincerly,
the Muhammad Ali of Gary, Indiana, writers,
Monroe Anderson.
Man! Look, it’s a world of six billion people. There’s bound to be a crazy or two. This Monroe Anderson character makes Scott Lee Cohen seem highbrow in comparison.
Under normal circumstances, I’d simply click Move to Trash and forget Monroe’s madness. But Benny Jay seems hellbent on bringing him aboard — and at three-times Milo’s salary!
Uh uh. Nope. Nada. Fuhgeddaboutit. Not only am I nixing this hare-brained scheme, I’m contacting my attorneys, Daley, Daley, Madoff & Luca Brasi, at once. I’ll have them pore over the corporate charter of this information colossus to see how I can oust Benny Jay before the end of the week.
Benny Jay: Post-Election Analysis
In the middle of the morning, my mother calls to talk about the elections we had the other day.
“Did you see the paper?” she asks.
“Not yet….”
“They got one candidate with a check next to her name, but the other candidate got more votes….”
“So?”
“So, why would they put the check next to her name if she didn’t get the most votes?”
Good question. I know I’m supposed to know all things political, but this one baffles me. Stalling for time, while I try to concoct a plausible answer — cause, of course, I have to have an answer for everything — I ask: “What paper?”
“Trib….”
“What page?”
“Six….”
I open the Trib to page six. “What race?”
“Judge….”
“Judge? You’re looking at the little-print results for judges?”
“I wanted to see if those judges I voted against won,” she explains. “What — there’s a law against that….”
“Hold on, hold on….”
I scan the page. I find the judges. Sure enough, one judge got more votes but the other judge got the check next to her name. “I dunno, ma — must be a mistake….”
“A mistake?”
“Yeah, the paper made a mistake. Put the check next to the wrong judge’s name…..”
“I never heard of that happening before — have you?”
“No….”
“Huh?”
“No….”
She abruptly changes the subject. “I went to my accountant the other day and he wanted to know if I voted for the Greek guy….”
“You mean, Giannoulias?”
“The guy who’s running for the Water thing….”
“That’s not Giannoulias. He ran for senate. That’s — oh, what’s her name? It starts with S….”
“His name starts with S?”
“No, her’s….”
“What?”
“Her name starts with S. She’s a she, not a he….”
“Who?”
“The Greek lady who ran for Water Reclamation District as opposed to the Greek guy who ran for senate….”
“Did she win?”
“They both won — it was a good day for the Greeks….”
“But the Indian guy lost…..”
“Yeah….
“I liked the Indian guy. What was he running for — assistant governor?”
“No, the Indian guy ran for comptroller. The Jewish guy ran for lieutenant governor….”
“Which Jewish guy?”
“Cohen.…”
“The guy who put a knife to his wife’s neck?”
“His girlfriend’s neck….”
“What?”
“He put a knife to his girlfriend’s neck. He forced his wife to have sex with him….”
“He’s disgraceful….”
“I know….”
“Who voted for him?”
“I don’t know — but somebody did cause he won….”
“Well, at least I didn’t vote for him,” she says. “I voted for Link. The guy you told me to vote for….”
“No, I told you to vote for Turner….”
“Who’s Turner?”
“The guy I told you to vote for….”
“You told me to vote for Link….”
“No, I told you it’s okay to vote for Link, but you should vote for Turner….”
“You mean, I voted for the wrong guy?”
“Yeah….”
“Oh, hell….”
I look at the paper for the results for lieutenant governor. “Don’t worry, ma,” I tell her. “Cohen beat Turner by thousands of votes. So even if you had voted for Turner instead of Link, Cohen still would have won….”
“At least, I didn’t vote for Cohen,” she says.
“No — they can’t blame you for him….”
“I just made a mistake and voted for Link. If the papers can make a mistake with those judges, I can make a mistake too….”
Letter From Milo: Letting the Animals Run the Zoo
Once again, I’m up against a deadline and don’t have anything to write about. So, I’m going to fall back on the lazy columnist’s trick of posting letters from readers. I know I’ve been doing this a lot lately, but I’m going to plead extenuating circumstances. I’m not sure if the abuse of alcohol and drugs, plus an epic sex life, qualifies as extenuating circumstances, but that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. Anyway, here are a few letters from The Third City’s loyal, discerning and genteel readers, followed by my snappy replies.
Letter:
Motherfucker, where’s my money!
Snappy reply:
Oh, shit! Is this Elaine from Elmhurst? Didn’t you get my last email? I told you I’m not sending you any money until the DNA results are confirmed. How did you find me, anyway? Man, I hate Google.
Letter:
Me and the guys here at Burr Oak Cemetery are big fans of your blogging. We thought that the stuff about your recent medical problems was some of your best writing. We especially enjoyed the one you wrote about having your teeth pulled before your heart surgery. It occurred to me that you might be in the market for a dental plate. Here at Burr Oak we have a wide variety of nearly new and gently used dental plates for sale. And they cost a mere fraction of what a brand new dental plate would cost. If you’re interested, call Burr Oak Cemetery and ask for Lennie. We look forward to hearing from you.
Snappy reply:
Damn! I wish you would have contacted me a little earlier. I’ve already been fitted for a dental plate at the Triple A College of Dental Prosthetics & Drywall Academy in Gary, Indiana. But I will mention your offer to several of my toothless friends, who, no doubt, will be deeply appreciative of your kind offer.
Letter:
Hey, bro, this is your brother-in-law, Bill. Your sister has been making my life miserable lately. She’s been accusing me of all sorts of terrible things, including being a drunkard. A couple of days ago she hit me in the head with a frying pan. Good thing I was drunk or it would have hurt like hell. Then, yesterday morning, she bought a subscription to Guns and Ammo and, later that day, she joined Jenny Craig. Plus, I think she’s been sneaking around with the assistant golf pro at the country club. I’m getting a little nervous. What should I do?
Snappy reply:
Dumbass, I warned you when you married her that you were getting in way over your head. My sister is a mean, vengeful, violent, high maintenance bitch. Matter of fact, when I was a young man, still living at home with my family, I had to go to Vietnam just to get away from her and find some piece and quiet. The best advice I can give you is to start defending yourself. Now, I am totally against the abuse of women. The only woman I ever hit was 4th Ward Alice, when we had that savage street fight on Lincoln Avenue back in the ‘70s. I would have whipped her, too if she hadn’t sprayed me with mace and kicked me in the nuts. As I mentioned, I’m against hitting women, but in my sister’s case I might make an exception.
Letter:
I always thought that you were Gary, Indiana’s greatest writer. Now I’m hearing that someone named Monroe Anderson is being touted for that title. There’s been quite a debate on Facebook as to who is actually Gary’s finest scribe. Can you straighten this out for me? I’m confused.
Snappy reply:
Let me set the record straight. Monroe Anderson is a barely literate, no-talent hack. As a writer, he is in the same league as Benny Jay and Big Mike, which is to say they are all bush leaguers. I doubt Monroe is even from Gary. He probably grew up in Muncie or Fort Wayne, or some backwater in southern Indiana. He just says he’s from Gary to improve his social standing. Granted, being Gary’s greatest writer is not the most coveted literary accolade. It’s sort of like being the handsomest of the Three Stooges (although Shemp is, in my opinion, a fine specimen of manhood). Still, the title is all I’ve got and I’m not giving it up without a fight, no matter what they say on Facebook. By the way, what is Facebook?
Big Mike: A One-Handed Vote For Sarah Palin
You know, maybe the Right is, well, right in its condemnation of the liberal race. Take us — Benny Jay, Milo and me. You won’t find three bigger liberals. Not a one of us owns a gun and each of us looks upon his spouse as an equal (although that’s a horrible thing to say about Milo’s wife.)
I bring this up because, as Benny Jay revealed yesterday, this fruit of our labors for the last year and a half, this Third City racket, is worth a grand total of $18. So says one of Benny’s personal gang of Svengalis who guide him through the trecherous waters of computers and the Internet.
We’ve clacked our fingertips to the bone putting out a new post every single day since the fall of 2008. Our keyboards are as worn down as the marble steps in Union Station. We’ve stretched so far to find grist for this literary mill that, once, Benny wrote a post about watching his dog chase a fly. (Come to think of it, that might have been the highlight of the poor sap’s summer.)
Union Station’s Worn Out Marble Steps
Anyway, had we been true patriots, good right wing conservatives, and proud Americans rather than the nit-picky, untrue-to-our-color liberals we are, this thing would be worth millions. See, we’re soft. We don’t want to hurt anybody. We want to understand others. We ‘re not out to cut the other guy’s throat. Hell, we even have pals who are — dare I say it? — brown.
You can’t run a successful business thinking like that. How do I know this? Well, I’ve been following the Tea Party Nation bunch, currently holding their first convention down in Nashville.
These Tea Partiers must be successful businessmen. The cost to get into their bash this weekend was $549 a ticket plus a $9.95 registration fee. We liberals, if we have a spare $558.95 in our tattered pockets, would likely spend it on fixing the car, the roof, or our aching backs. That is when we’re not giving it all away to the National Forced Abortion League. I confess, I wrote a check for $10 to Americans for Pedophiles last Wednesday. Milo called and told me, gleefully, he’d just joined a group called Rape the Daughters of Churchgoers. He said it cost him twenty five bucks but he’ll have to pay extra to attend the July weinie roast.
Who has an extra half a thou laying around these days? I’ll tell you who — big successful businessmen, that’s who. When Sarah Palin climbed the stage last night to give the keynote address, she wowed the crowd (that is, all those who hadn’t dashed out of the auditorium to masturbate over her in the men’s washroom — they’re patriots, too!) She said President Obama (a brown man) allowed the underwear bomber (another brown man, of course) to get on that flight from Amsterdam to Detroit Christmas day.
Umar Farouk Abdul Mutallab Wouldn’t Have Gotten
Into the Gaylord Opryland This Weekend.
Sure enough, I checked the security guard schedule at Airport Schiphol for December 25th and there it was, in black and white — natch — the would-be terrorist got on his plane during Obama’s shift.
Palin’s a fine businesswoman. She’s parlayed her natural anti-intellectualism, the shakiest of commands of the English language, blithe ignorance of foreign affairs and the cutest little wink into a multi-million-dollar career as an author and public speaker.
Tom Tancredo, whose web site extols his efforts “to protect our borders, the language of our country’s founders and to save our shared American culture,” spoke the night before Palin. He told it like it is. The people who voted for Obama, he thundered, don’t even know how to spell the word vote. Right again! Benny, Milo and I voted for the world’s most dangerous human being in the 2008 election. Just to see how spot-on Tancredo’s assessment of our spelling capabilities is, I went back through all our 450-plus posts and found no fewer than 63 spelling errors.
What do you expect from liberals? And Tancredo would know, he was once a teacher. Hah! Talk about liberal careers. He wisely ditched that gig and became a Congressman. His net worth, as reported during the 2008 presidential campaign, was between $530,000 and $1.1 million. He amassed that on a salary that has averaged a little over $150,000 a year since he went to Washington in 1998. He’s either a penny-pincher or a cracker-jack businessman — probably both. That’s why he spoke Friday night at the Tea Party Nation love fest.
Whoever climbed to the dais to speak at the convention this weekend was greeted by a waving sea of American flags. I’ll bet the view to the eye of each speaker was nothing but a kaleidoscope of red, white and blue. Not a hint of brown in sight. Ugh! — such a dirty color.
Red, White & Blue — Not A Brown Person Or A Jew!
Palin said that Barack Husein Obama goes around the world “apologizing for America.” That’s what liberals do. That’s the way we think here at The Third City. That’s why our silly little website is worth eighteen lousy dollars.
Palin also resorted to the right’s least thought-provoking talking point — lower taxes. What else? You’d hate to confuse anybody by actually talking about issues. The Middle East? The environment? Terrorism? Economic stimulus? Phew, that’s all confusing stuff. When you want good, successful businessmen to vote for you, it doesn’t matter what all else you have to say as long as you say you’re against taxes. As for us, The Third City guys, we figure paying our taxes gets us things like fire departments, consumer protection, food and drug standards, roads to drive on, public libraries, cops to call when we get conked over the head, air traffic controllers, Social Security, polling places, and countless other perks. Someone’s gotta pay for all those things.
Of course, that’s the way liberals think, the dopes. And, we’re the biggest of the dopey liberals.
Had we taken pride in a nation that gobbles up more than 40 percent of the world’s natural resources, that has steadfastly refused to believe those charlatans who call themselves scientists when they claim humans (read: Americans) are adversely affecting the planet’s climate, that had to be dragged kicking and screaming into a voting rights act, that clung to Jim Crow like a baby to its mother’s tit, that sank trillions into a phony housing bubble, that trusted every guy in a pin-striped suit who told us how to invest our money, that pooh-poohs the notions of Charles Darwin, and that thinks ghosts walk among us and angels protect us, we’d be rolling in dough right now.
We’d be in Nashville this weekend, waiting at the head of the line to get to the men’s room so we could masturbate furiously over Sarah Palin.
Look At Those Issues!
Two-Headed Boy: The Who And The Why?
Business seems to be booming at The Clothing Store. All gripes aside about my purgatory of plaid, we steamrolled through the holiday season with record numbers and are on a hot streak ever since.
Just like in good sports clichés, team chemistry is the key to success. That’s the same in a department store, and my managers have called in a few “team meetings” to improve camaraderie. The first was a meeting titled “Let’s get Commercial!”
The opening exercise was passing around a roll of toilet paper and plucking off a few leaves, telling a personal fun fact for each square. Then we were broken into teams, challenged to be the fastest group to re-organize their section of the store. I could hardly get a word in as my veteran teammates flew on autopilot. A rookie’s word gets no respect.
Additional bonding came as a pizza party this past Sunday night at an arcade. I felt it might be nice to socialize with my coworkers, but it was like a group of high school cliques. Before I knew it, I was alone playing skee-ball by myself. It wasn’t mandatory, but the only football going on was the Pro Bowl so I decided to attend.
It won’t happen this weekend – can’t miss Super Sunday. There’s something for everyone in the marathon Super Bowl telecast – football, commercials involving dancing bears, talking babies and beer, beer, beer. Sometimes all three at once!
Thanks to YouTube, I now have pretty good impressions of Colts and Saint fans.
If I had to pick a side, I’d probably geaux with New Orleans – the prospect of that Dread locked “Shoe” guy crying himself to sleep in his mom’s basement is way too enticing.
I have no illusion about the halftime show. MTV produced a slew of pyro-and-boy-band-heavy extravaganzas at the turn of the millennium. But Justin and Janet had their “wardrobe malfunction” and the NFL relieved MTV of its duties and they’ve been playing it safe ever since.
Prince was an unlikely choice, considering the standard parade of classic-rock fare, but he paid off. They went though the Stones and the Boss but this year’s choice – The Who – is a total step backwards. The most captivating parts of The Who — Keith Moon and John Entwistle — are long gone, replaced by Zak Starkey, Ringo’s son, on drums, and an ever rotating cast of characters on bass.
I’ve seen recent “Who” performances where the camera only shows the part of the stage occupied by Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend, almost ignoring the fact that rock’s most dynamic rhythm section is now gone. The Big Show shouldn’t be given to a cover band. I go by the “half rule.” If you only have half your original members, might as well call it a day.
Time to pump in some new blood and show that the show isn’t just a boy’s club. My vote is for Beyonce, who proved at her recent Grammy performance that she can rock with the best of them.
You’re probably left asking, what fun fact did I say with toilet paper in hand at The Clothing Store?
“I am Two-Headed Boy and you are all the subject of a subversive social experiment on TheThirdCity.com!”
Well, I was thinking that. I actually told an anecdote about how I have an inherent fear of stickers because an overzealous grocery store clerk put one on my forehead while I was just a tot. My low profile is vital — and thankfully still intact.
by Two-Headed Boy
Guest Blogger:
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Pull My Finger. Written by Milo. Read by Andy Orscheln, Lorenzo Toia, Joel Reitsma, Nels, Laura Korn and introducing Benny Jay as Rolando. Produced by King Conundrum.
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A wholly owned subsidiary of The Third City.
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