How was my thanksgiving, you ask?

Just fine, thank you for asking. Adequate I'd say, really.

Certainly it was a good thanksgiving, but I feel that its good-ness was overshadowed by another, even more spectacular, event.

More spectacular than a holiday where we eat turkey and watch football and give smallpox to the natives? How is that possible?

Well, friends, it's all because of my Thanksgiving Miracle.

As I said, the holiday itself was nothing fascinating (although the amount of pie I managed to consume in a 24-hour period was a little miraculous.)

No, 'twas the next day--a day devoted to trying to forget turkey-carcasses and the practical joke that someone played by sticking mincemeat in a pie when everyone knows that meat is meat and should never, EVER involve pie--when the true miracle revealed itself.

There I was, strolling through the decidedly un-miracle-like aisles at WalMart, when I looked up and saw them. It was immediately clear to me that I was in the presence of something truly divine.

And by "truly divine," I mean "light-up shoes."

My Bundle-Of-Dreaminess-In-A-Size-Six-Package.

They look like this. I shall wear them every day and light up the world with sparkles and people shall say, "There goes Jill in her Miracle-Shoes" and I shall smile and wave and possibly curtsy depending on my mood.

Yeah, with all these miracles, somebody should make me a saint probably.

Things I am thankful for on this lovely Week-After-Thanksgiving:

1) Pet ID Tags

2) Employment Agency

3) Yellow diamond rings

4) Vioxx lawsuits

5) Online colleges

6) Finance Recruitment

7) Auto Insurance

8) Viagra Attorneys

9) Chocolate fountains

Signed,

Jill Twiss (your friendly neighborhood blogstitute)

My comedy career has hit rock-bottom.

Oh, I thought that my comedy career had hit rock-bottom before, but I was clearly mistaken. Who knew that during all those other horrible, horrible shows, I was actually hovering somewhere around rock-middle?

My show last night was different.

Last night, whilst telling a number of charming and splendidly amusing jokes to a vast audience of six, I noticed that two of the audience members were not paying attention to my comedy-esque performance. Instead, they were staring intently at a computer screen that one of the men was holding in front of him.

I really should have known better than to ask what they were watching on said screen. I really, really should have known better. Most people would know better. Anyone with a brain larger than a chocolate-covered raisin would know better.

But I had to know what anyone could POSSIBLY be watching at a comedy club that could be more engrossing than the comedy-like experience going on onstage?

I think you and I both know the answer to that.

Porn.

While I, Jill Twiss, was innocently and sweetly telling jokes onstage, a full ONE-THIRD of my audience was watching people have sex. They were watching porn with a Comedy-of-Jill-Twiss soundtrack.

What does one do at that point? I'm pretty sure that Miss Manners never did a column on "What To Do When One-Third Of Your Audience Is Watching Porn While You Tell Jokes." If she did, I think she would say the appropriate action would be to leave the stage crying and then quietly slit your wrists and bleed diligently. Or, at the very least, end your stand-up comedy career immediately.

Yes yes. Rock bottom, for certain.

Or perhaps this is just karmic payback for the fact that I sometimes watch Comedy Central while having sex.

I feel safer when it rains. Here is my logic:

Step 1: Muggers are lazy.

If they were not lazy, they would be construction workers, or Santa's elves (very hardworking people, you know), or have gotten that accounting degree their Aunt Ruth always wanted them to even though, let's be honest, they can barely spell their own name without a few hints and some flashcards.

Step 2: Lazy people do not go out in the rain.

They stay in where it's warm and dry and watch, "According to Jim" whilst lighting the neighbor's dog on fire and toasting marshmallows.

Step 3: Thusly, I am much less likely to get mugged on a rainy day.

Sigh.... If only my relative safety made up for the yuckiness of wet, squooshy socks.

Rain sucks dirt.

I think if I owned a computer school, I would make the mascot the Ram.

Except that RAM would stand for Random Access Memory.

Kisses,

jill

(Oh, just hit me. I deserve a swift kick in the earlobes for even writing that one. I mean, it's one thing to THINK a joke like that. I can't help it. It's a mental defect I have that forces me to think of terrible jokes. But to actually write it down and expect other people to READ it? That's a sign of a truly serious problem. Just punch me.)

This is a short clip of me doing stand-up comedy.

Unfortunately, it doesn't have any of my favorite jokes. But if someone was kind enough to post it on the internet, I shall be kind enough to watch it four-thousand times and overanalyze myself till I want to throw up.

Yay.

(There are a few not-so-nice words in this clip so avoid playing it at work, elementary schools, or churches.)

TWO THINGS ABOUT ME JUST IN CASE, IN SPITE OF ALL MY POSTS, YOU SOMEHOW THOUGHT THERE WAS A SLIM POSSIBILITY THAT I MIGHT BE A TEENSY BIT SANE:

1) Last night I dreamt that I had to pawn all of my towels to pay my electric bill. For one-dollar each, factually.

2) I awoke this morning to discover that I had made a grocery list in the middle of the night (apparently unrelated to the aforementioned dream). It said:

--Dish soap
--Cereal
--Toilet Paper
--Dish scratchy and wipey things

That's right. Not only do I write grocery lists in my sleep, but I list things like 'dish scratchy and wipey things.'

Sigh....

Somebody should punch me in the head.

The bad news is I now have to take antibiotics for a skin condition.

The good news is according to the internet, those very same antibiotics also treat anthrax and gonorrhea.

Yup, that's right. I can snort all the anthrax and get all the gonorrhea I want.

All I can say is I'm gonna have a VERY exciting weekend.

(I think it's possible that this is the very first time that the words "all the gonorrhea I want" have been put together in a sentence.)

This is me prostituting my blog again. I've been putting it off for a while now, so we'll see if I can get all the sponsors in here in one fell swoop.

Hmmmmm.....

PRINCESS JILL AND THE WORST STORY I'VE EVER WRITTEN
by Jill Twiss

Once upon a time, there was a lovely girl named Princess Jill.

Princess Jill was very poor. That's why people always called her "poor Princess Jill" when they talked about her. That and because sometimes she had raw sewage flooding her castle but that's another story.

One day Princess Jill decided that she didn't want to be poor anymore. Not even a little bit. She wanted to have diamond watches and ruby diamond rings like all of her rich royal friends. Not just diamond watches, but maybe platinum clocks and a solid gold sundial. Yes, that would be nice.

So Princess Jill made a solemn vow to herself. A really big solemn vow that she would keep for realsies. Princess Jill vowed that she would Get Rich or Die Tryin. Princess Jill was always vowing stuff, really. But this time she meant it.

But how to accomplish this great task......

First Princess Jill tried precious metals trading. It didn't, frankly, work out as well as she'd hoped. Quite possibly because she had no idea what it was. Also she assumed you had to HAVE some precious metals in order to trade them. And she was poor and was in possession of no precious metals at all unless you count tin foil which she could possibly, with a few lessons, learn to make into a swan.

Princess Jill was becoming discouraged. Would she never become rich? Would she die tryin?

Luckily, as she pondered these very questions, Princess Jill was visited by a fairy. A fairy named Mortgage Refinancing. Wait, you say, that's a terrible name for a fairy. I know, I know. Let's just say his friends Twinkle and Peaseblossom used to kick his ass every day after school and he'd had more than his share of "fairy wedgies."

In any case Mortgage Refinancing told Princess Jill that he was going to give her the secret to becoming rich so she could afford those emerald clocks she'd always wanted.

"The secret to becoming rich is right in your own backyard. Just click your heels together and say 'There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home.' Then pretend you broke your ankle and hire a good New York personal injury attorney and sue the pants off the shoe manufacturers."

And she did. And Princess Jill lived happily ever after.

THE END.

I know, I know. It's rather a terrible story. But I warned you in the title.

I also must give you one more link. And this is from someone who DIDN'T pay me. My friend Josh just started a splendid website devoted to movies. It makes me laugh and you should go look at it. It's here.

The real end.