A brief quiz: A young Croatian man is gleefully masturbating whilst choking himself with a scarf. His unsuspecting mother walks in just before he, ahem, finishes. Does he:

a) Scream, blush, and prepare for the most awkward Thanksgiving dinner conversation ever;

b) Explain his position by informing her that while his neck was very cold indeed, his penis was, in fact, quite warm and thus needed to be exposed. What seemed to be masturbation was clearly just a complex method of temperature regulation.

c) Kill her.

Clearly the answer is "c" or I would not be writing this. Haven't you MET me?

Now I realize that, much like the Holocaust or any Carlos Mencia joke, murder is something that we're not supposed to laugh at. But murders that happen because someone walked in on a twenty-two year old man, errrr, doing his taxes? This feels way less "angry murder" than it does "scene from 'American Pie.'"

So laugh away. Also, for the love of God, LOCK THE DOOR.

Oh dear. It's weird to feel that you owe a bunch of people that you've never met an explanation but, well, here we are.

Well, here I am at least. You might be somewhere else. In fact, now that I think about it, you are definitely somewhere else. If you were here, I probably would have washed my hair today so as to continue the long-held misconception that I have "nice hair." We can't let the internets as a whole figure out that I have average hair.

Oh wait. Unless by "nice," you mean "kind to animals and babies." In which case I totally have nice hair.

So yes. Here I am. In the uncomfortable predicament of having not written in this blog for months and months. You feel that you are owed some sort of an explanation and you might be correct. Yes.

I shall give the explanation in numbered form. That way at the end, I will feel as though I have accomplished something.

1) I had a very very icky patch of sadness because, I think, boys like to make people cry. I can't think of any other explanation as to why they would do some of the terrible things they do otherwise. (Note to people who are going to be pissy about this: I did NOT say that girls do not make people cry. I said that boys do. That is all.) I did not want to write during said sadness-patch, because who wants to read blogs that say "I am saddy sad" over and over and over?

"No one" is the answer to that question.

2) I joined Twitter. Sigh.... I then promptly forgot how to say things that take more than 140 characters.

3) I got the amazing opportunity to submit a writing packet to The Late Show With David Letterman. (Insert joke about interesting timing for a woman to be applying to Letterman here.) That took up about every ounce of funny I had for a few months.

4) I turned into a unicorn and they can't type. Or, rather, it takes FOREVER for them (I mean us) to type with their (our) horns. Twitter is a good medium for unicorns.

5) I got a couple of paid writing jobs. Small ones, not big ones. I just haven't learned how to manage time or balance things. Do other people know how to do this? Could you send me any email detailing how it works, please?

6) I think that might be all the things.

Am I back? I am not sure. But I remain amazed and impressed and honored that any of you even noticed that I wrote and have the faintest idea who I am. I shall try not to take advantage of that fact.

Yes.

FACT 1: Everybody has a sex tape nowadays. If you are a celebrity and you do not yet have a sex tape, you are clearly either a nun or Bob Barker. Maybe both, in which case I anticipate the best revival ever of “The Sound of Music.”

FACT 2: Even with the current influx, the entertainment media is still expected to report on each and every aforementioned sex tape.

FACT 3: America is in a recession. The media cannot afford to pay entertainment writers for the hours necessary to write about every sex tape. They can barely afford to pay for Larry King's plastic surgery.

Thus to save the media both time and money, I have created the following sex-tape news template:

BREAKING NEWS:

In a shocking turn of events, [INSERT NEWS ORGANIZATION] has uncovered the news that [INSERT NAME OF B-LIST CELEBRITY] has made a secret sex tape. According to our sources, the tape depicts her and her [BOYFRIEND/NEIGHBOR/VEGETABLE] in numerous compromising positions. The alarming part about this particular sex tape is her [HYPOCRISY/BODY HAIR/INSISTENCE ON REFERRING TO HER BREASTS AS "THE OLSEN TWINS"]. This news is expected to have great repercussions for her, particularly in relation to her career as a [BEAUTY QUEEN/ASTRONAUT/GOVERNOR OF ALASKA].

Feel free to use the above template the next time [HEIDI MONTAG/ JUDGE JUDY/ELMO] forgets to turn off the camera.

(The following is a cover letter I wrote in response to an ad for "Comedy Writer (female)---full time position includes benefits." Sadly by the time I wrote the cover letter, the ad had been removed. So someone else will be getting these benefits.)

Dear Potential 401(k) Providers--

I might be just what you're looking for. Not only am I a comedy writer, but I am also a girl. With menstruation and everything. How could this not work out?

As requested, I do have professional comedy writing experience in a variety of genres. In addition to writing for my own stand-up comedy career, I currently write political comedy for The Melting Pot Project, and formerly wrote comedic college admission videos for The U. I was even requested by the Oxygen Network to write a sitcom pilot, which I did. They chose not to read it, however, because they had just purchased a show for cats. FOR cats.

I am not making that up.

In lieu of the 10 jokes about the financial crisis that you requested, I'm linking to two comedic articles I've recently published about the financial crisis (now would be the time to write "terrible at following directions" on my evaluation.) You can read them here and here. However, if you'd rather read straight out set-up/punchline jokes, I've attached several below this cover letter. You can see other samples of my writing here, here, and here.

Best of luck with your work. I hope to get a chance to work with you in the future. But if this doesn't work out, I know where you can purchase a pretty cheap show for cats.

Jill Twiss

I would be cast in a national tour of a Broadway musical right now if I were taller. Oh, and blonder. And older. Also, if I were an entirely different person.

I mean, I'm pretty sure that's what they were saying.

They thought I was good. Very VERY good, they said. But I was me and they wanted not-me. They wanted tall-blonde-old-Jill-Twiss who is, frankly, not Jill Twiss at all.

Even if I stretch and eat oatmeal.

(NOTE: I do not, in fact, eat oatmeal. Unless you count cookies. I mean, *I* definitely count them as oatmeal. Even chocolate chip cookies should count, really, just for the fact that they could have oatmeal in them. They have oatmeal potential. And Oreos. Because I feel relatively certain that the "O" in "Oreo" stands for Oatmeal. The more I think about it, with all the oatmeal I'm clearly eating every day, I'm pretty sure they should just give me a Quaker hat and stick me on the box.)

Anyway, my point is that if you happen to be the writer or director of a Broadway musical that needs a not-tall-not-blonde-not-old-Jill-Twiss, could you call me?

'Cause I know a girl that's PERFECT for the part.

I learned from Katy Newton that "jumping jacks" are called "star jumps" in the U.K.

I think I shall start my own brand of English-English dictionaries.

It's been coming for a while, friends: Here's the post where you figure out that I don't know anything about computery or internety things. Added, of course, to the long list of OTHER things that I don't know, like "how to make soup" or "the square root of my nose."

You see, in my world, people talk about bloggy things all the time and I nod enthusiastically and smile appreciatively and have no idea what they're talking about. This happens fairly regularly. Thus when, for the first time EVER, I've been "tagged" for something, I feel certain that I'm going to botch it up. Here's what it says to do:

"Go into your photo archive, pick the 4th folder in the archive, select the 4th picture in the folder, and write about it."

First issue: I don't even know what a photo archive is. I know what a photo is. I know what an archive is. I'm gonna guess that a photo archive is the folder that says "Pictures" on my computer. If it's not then you should stop reading now, because you're going to be very disappointed in me.

Second issue: Assuming I guessed right on the photo archive thing, then there are no folders IN my picture folder. None. How can I pick the fourth when there are zero? It's a bit like trying to pick the fourth smartest woman on The Bachelor.

So yes. No idea if it was the right plan or not, but I just picked the fourth photo. I will understand if this blog entry explodes right this minutey-minute and someone knocks on my door and punches me in the face.

It's not the easiest picture in the world to explain, I'm afraid. The animal is a penguin. That's easy enough.

It was a gift. From a boy (a good one.) He and I are inexplicably obsessed with adopting a penguin together. Thus he sent me a penguin. Toy, of course. Practice just in case we ever managed to get a real penguin.

Which is why both of us were so shocked when the toy penguin began writing letters and trying to convince us to buy him a slip-and-slide. His allergy to krill was also a surprise, but a pleasant one in that they do not seem to sell it at Sam's Club and I wasn't sure where to try next.

So yes. That's the picture. Not the fourth one in the fourth folder. But a picture, nevertheless. I do hope I have fulfilled my duty, Greenmantle.

Now I'm off to penguin-proof my apartment.

My friend Suzy is putting on a show next weekend. It is in St. Paul, Minnesota. Or Minneapolis, Minnesota depending on what the kids are calling it nowadays.

Now I know that most of you don't LIVE in St. MinneaPaulis (as I just decided I shall call it from now till eternity or Thursday.) But some of you might very well live there. In fact, I *know* some of you live there because my sitemeter blog location button tells me that you do.

Unless, of course, the person reading my blog that is from St. Paul *is* my friend that is putting on the show. In which case, damnit.

But just in case, I give you this information about the show (for those of you who do NOT live in St. MinneaPaulis, I give you a link to the cast of said show acting out the theme to "The Facts of Life." It's a win-win.):

"The sequel to the sold-out hit show Unexpected Songs, DreamBoys features five talented men singing Broadway songs made famous by the bawdy women of the boards. Popular Twin Cities stage personalities Doug Anderson, Tim Kuehl, Bart Shane Ruf, C. Ryan Shipley, and Paul Whittemore bring a little something extra to timeless classics, diva favorites, and rare gems of the theater.

The show is set in a theater lobby moments before an audition, where each man steadies his nerves and wonders…what if I could audition for Eliza instead of Henry Higgins?

Featuring songs from such hit shows as Wicked, Thoroughly Modern Millie, Little Shop of Horrors, A Chorus Line, and contemporary classics The Wild Party, The Last Five Years, and Light in the Piazza. Expect powerful belting, thoughtful ballads, and a generous dose of gender-bending fun.

Running February 6-22 at the Lowry Lab Theater in downtown St. Paul. For more info, visit www.blueumbrellaproductions.net

Reservations: Call 651-646-2943 or email dreamboys2009@yahoo.com"

Dear Floor-Fixers,

I was surprised when the office at my apartment building announced that you were coming to fix my boiling hot floors. I was also concerned when the words "several days," "jackhammering concrete in your kitchen," and "don't worry, we'll put boards over the holes so you can walk" were mentioned.

But, let's be honest, here are things I was most concerned with:

1) The fact that this horrible concrete-jack-hammer extravaganza was to start at 8:30 in the a.m. For me, 8:30 a.m. is like Bigfoot: I know that there are rumors of its existence and many people actually claim to have seen it, but I'm still skeptical. And since I am no rancher or maker-of-donuts, I see no reason to find out.

2) The fact that you need to tear up my floor implies that you need to be able to find my floor. And THAT means that there will have to be cleaning involved.

Cleaning?

AND 8:30 a.m.-ing?

Seriously Floor-Fixers, didn't they hold a Geneva convention about this at some point? I'm relatively sure that I voted for Barack Obama because he was AGAINST this sort of thing.

So thanks, pals, for creating a Guantanamo-Of-The-Soul in my apartment.

Kisses,

Jill

It seems that I, in a case of horrible misspeaking, told my audience last night that I think 8 year olds are "hot."

Which I don't.

On the other hand, if they WERE, that would be an awesome hit show for Fox.

"Are You Hotter Than a Third Grader?"