If Ms. Pacman was enough of a feminist to refer to herself as "Ms"., why wasn't she feministy enough to hyphenate her last name?

I would happily have spent ALL my quarters on Ms. Pacman-Berkowitz.

Video games aren't for me.

In video games, people are always punching and kicking each other, picking up prostitutes, and stomping on poor defenseless mushrooms.

And that's just in Frogger.

But me? I'm more of a negotiator than a fighter. Where's the video game for ME?

Where's the game where I can push up-up-down-down-left-right-left-right-B-A, and say:

Look, I understand that you're guarding the Princess. But why don't you send your friend Bowser out of the room so we can make a deal. Because, let's be honest, you and I both know that she's probably in another castle.

Then we'd talk about feelings and whether it's because of her difficult relationship with her father and the fact that no one really listens to her that the Princess feels she needs guarding at all.

And THEN we'd stomp on a mushroom.

Heaven.

They're back.

Trendy things always return, you know. In cycles of trendy joy.

First bell bottoms came back. Then it was platform shoes.

And now, apparently, it's the mumps.

People will do ANYTHING to be trendy.

Girl: Ohmygod! I love your mumps!
Large-Cheeked-Girl: Gee, thanks. These are real 1970's mumps, you know.
Girl: Really?
LCG: Yeah, my mom saved HER mumps from when she was a kid. She says she knew they'd come back one day. And now she passed them on to me.
Girl: Wow.

I bet that the people that have the mumps now think they're so cool and innovative. Like they're the first people to ever HAVE the mumps.

Whatever.

Personally, I'm holding out for typhoid.

A shout from the audience:

"Are you a psychic comedian?"

Me:

"No, because then I would have known ahead of time that you'd be a terrible audience and I wouldn't have shown up."

I live in an apartment building and our mailboxes are all in a communal area.

Today, when I opened my mailbox, I had no mail at all.

The woman behind me said, "I guess nobody loves you."

And she smiled.

What a terrible thing to say to a person you hardly know.

So when she opened her mailbox and didn't get any mail, I said, "Your children are retarded and you probably have cancer."

And I smiled.

I wonder if, in an alternate-opposite-universe, there is an alternate-opposite Jill Twiss that frequently, and without warning, turns guys straight.

April is National Poetry Month.

I'm not so good with poetry.

I think that it is a lot like opera in that mostly I don't understand what any one is talking about and often the people doing it are fat.

Or rotund.

I've never used that word before.

I think that, statistically, poets are probably more likely than opera singers to stick their head in the oven, though.

For whatever that's worth.

But as a tribute to National Poetry Month, I shall repost my favorite poems from this blog. An anthology, if you will.

MY POETRY-ESQUE ANTHOLOGY
by Jill "Quite-Unlikely-To-Stick-Her-Head-In-The-Oven" Twiss

Ode To Annoying Girl
There once was a girl
With a curl in the middle of her forehead
And when she was good, she was really...annoying
And when she was bad she was annoying too.
So pretty much she was just annoying all the time
Unless she was gagged.
Which isn't such a bad idea.

Ode to the Potato Man
A potato teaches my class.
I hope that I will pass.
He is a loser.
A big hair woozer.
Such is life.
I feel sorry for his wife.

What The World Would be Like If All Boys Were On Crack
If boys were on crack, they'd be really dumb.
Their thoughts would move slowly or just never come.
They'd refuse to stop and ask for directions
And never listen to anyone's corrections.
If boys were on crack, they'd leave the toilet seat up
And drink from the milk carton without any cup.
They'd be really mean and make girls cry.
They'd do stupid things and we wouldn't know why.
Eventually boys would just push us too far.
If boys were on crack. Oh wait, they already are.

Oh.

That's all I have.

I thought I had more poems, somehow.

Really? Only three? Three poems? In three years of writing, I've managed to come up with THREE poems? And one of them didn't even rhyme.

And in another I invented the word "woozer."

This is depressing. I'm beginning to see why poets stick their heads in ovens.

I guess this isn't really an anthology at all. Maybe a thology. Yes. Jill's poetry thology.

Goodnight.

Overheard at the store today:

"Daddy, you don't have to buy it or anything. But I just want you to know that this is what Mommy has really been wishing for."

The girl was pointing to a blue and silver My Little Pony doll.

Either that girl is really clever, or her mom really isn't.

In either case, I think he should buy the doll.

I auditioned for a commercial yesterday.

When I arrived, they informed me that there would be no script. I would, instead, be improvising a scene in which I was a reporter interviewing the World Champion Cup-Stacker.

The first question I came up with was:

"We've all heard rumors. Can you comment on the allegations of 'juicing' in the Cup-Stacking finals?"

Tee hee.

Though I was terribly proud of my little pun, I do have to wonder.....was this an innovative commercial casting technique, or a genius-like way to get out of hiring a writer for their commercial?

My subway strike story has been published here.

There are only a few minor changes since I posted it on the blog. But if you, you know, wanted to read it again. Well, you can.

Spring forward, bitches!

Er, sorry.

I think I was overtaken with springiness for a moment.

Happy Get-One-Hour-Less-Sleep Day.

There, that's better.