I wish that ice-skaters would wear whoopie cushions.

It's a win-win situation.

If they don't fall, they win.

And if they do fall, I laugh and laugh.

On Fox News tonight there was a story about how you can actually get more jail time for stealing a pair of shoes than for being a child molester.

If this is true, I think there will be a lot of arguments like this in court:

"You can see, Your Honor, that it was just a simple misunderstanding. I wasn't planning to steal his shoes. I was just taking them OFF so I could molest him. "

People to call:

1) Top plastic surgeons
2) Monness, Crespi, Hardt & Co.
3) Monness, Crespi, Hardt & Co. NY Businesses
4) San Diego Cars and Trucks
5) Internet Marketing Service

Kisses,

Jill Twiss
(blogstitute to the stars)

If I were a superhero, I think I would be Always-Dresses-Inappropriately-For-The-Weather Girl.

I just watched the Olympics.

If you are a male pairs-skater and you are trying to think of an excellent Valentine's Day gift to give your female pairs-skating counterpart, I have a suggestion:

Stop freakin' dropping her on her face.

That's all.

So I performed at a gun club on Saturday.

A gun club in The-Very-Exact-Center-Of-Nowhere, Pennsylvania.

And next to this Middleofnowhere gun club, there was a tire store. And this tire store had a sign on it that said, "We sell exotic birds."

I think that's good.

'Cause you know when you're having a bad day and you get a flat tire, you can be like, "Damnit, I got a flat tire. But at least now I have an excuse to pick up that pelican I've been wanting."

Oooh, also I didn't get shot.

Several things I hope I don't get for valentine's day:

1) A Los Angeles plastic surgeon
2) A Beverly Hills plastic surgeon
3) New York botox
4) Botox New York (similar, yet somehow different.)
5) New York liposuction
6) Los Angeles cosmetic surgery
7) Used cars in San Diego

p.s. I got paid to put up these links. But I still don't want any of these things for Valentine's Day. I will, however, happily accept gifts of flowers and small cakes and possibly light-up socks.

People are doing an awful lot of protests about cartoons right now.

This involves, of all people, the Danish.

As I understand the issue, one somebody started insulting another somebody's God and pretty soon people were setting stuff on fire.

This is perplexing to me since I don't even believe in God.

Which I guess explains why I get so angry everytime I see a blank cartoon.

Just FYI, I've decided it might be a good idea to write this whole story with a roll of tape balanced on my head. You know, to work on my posture.

The votes have been tallied. Most of you aren't very good decision-makers but, in a very close race, the winning story is:

THAT TIME I MOVED FROM MONTANA TO IDAHO IN A CATTLE TRUCK

The first thing you should know is that in this story, I am seven years old so I'm not the one deciding that moving from Montana to Idaho in a cattle truck is an excellent idea. Even at the age of seven, I knew the idea was freakin' nuts.

The second thing you should know is that sometimes my dad has ideas that are freakin' nuts. Like the time that he decided that we should keep chickens and ducks and rabbits in our back yard even though we didn't live on a farm or have a surrey with a fringe on top or anything and my dog just ate all of the animals except the one duck who drowned in the wading pool. Like that.

Curiously, a lot of my dad's weird ideas involve farm animals.

I think I shall pour myself a glass of wine to drink while I write this story. Not an easy feat, since I have a roll of tape on my head, but I think I can do it. Yes, mission accomplished.

The final thing you should probably know is that my dad works for the government. And sometimes he would get a NEW job with the government and we would have to move. We weren't running from the law or anything, probably.

In any case, the government pays for its employees to move when they get a new job. But, back then, the government would just allocate a certain amount of money for the move and you could spend it however you like. So my father, in a flash-of-brilliance, realized how much money we would SAVE if only we didn't have to pay for that pesky, unnecessary moving van. Particularly when there is a vehicle that is virtually the same as a moving van that one can rent for much cheaper. This would, of course, be a cattle truck. And by "virtually the same," I mean "smells like cow poop."

So into said cattle-truck went all of our furniture and clothing and everything we held precious and dear. Oh, and also our dog. And a kitten we found alongside the road. The kitten's name was Poo Poo (NOTE: never let your seven-year-old name your kitten.) The dog's name was Bosley. Sometimes he ate bees. Both he and my dad were missing some logic-muscles, I think.

Would a stapler work? Do you think I could balance a stapler on my head? Sigh.... No more wine for me.

There is good news, though. In an amazing feat, all of our precious furniture and suchlike did NOT end up smelling like cow poop at all. How is this possible, you ask? Well, luckily shortly before climbing into the cattle truck for his adventurous journey, Bosley decided to say a friendly goodbye to Montana by way of getting sprayed by a skunk.

So the story ends with my parents, a seven-year-old me, Bosley, and a very confused kitten living with skunky furniture for about the next ten years.

THE END

I promise that tonight I'm going to sit down and write a proper post. But I shall let you choose what I write about. Tell me which story you want to hear:

1) The time I moved from Montana to Idaho in a cattle truck.

2) The time I wore roller skates to my college formal.

3) My hair transplants in New Jersey story (technically I have no story about this. It is an excuse to put up a link like the blogstitute I am. But someday I might have a story about a New Jersey hair transplant and the splendid hair restoration surgeon that performed it, and boy will you be glad you voted for my hair transplant New Jersey story then. That's all I have to say about hair transplants right now. Sigh....this is exhausting.)

I just got a MySpace account.

People said I simply must.

So I did.

But I haven't an inkling what to do with it now that I have it.

So here it is.

If you have suggestions as to what one does with a MySpace account, do tell.

Who knew I was so insightful?

When I first started my blog, I wrote this:

Both men and women list a good sense of humor as the top quality they want in a mate. It is interesting to note, however, that, to women, a good sense of humor means "someone that makes me laugh." Whereas to men, a good sense of humor means "someone who laughs at my jokes."

I thought I was making a joke. But apparently somebody did a study.

Do tell me what you think, please.

I met Stephen Sondheim tonight. He even laughed a little bit at one of my jokes.

Am I the only one that finds this TERRIBLY exciting?