Now that I've got the go-ahead to give credit where credit is due: The credit for Syrius' Week One entry-- a beautiful entry that rightfully struck everyone at the time as being not only an incredibly touching piece of writing but also shockingly out of line with the srs_ethos-- goes to good friend tpbrcombo. Basically, when Idol kicked off this season, I was a little busy IRL / not quite ready, and had to recruit some temporary outside help to get the ship launched. I couldn't have picked two better dudes to help out.

What did you expect? An "IT WAS ALL A DREAM" ending? Mind, I love those, don't get me wrong.

But instead, I found myself in freefall, taking halfassed bets with myself on who would reach the finish line first: terminal velocity, or the asphalt below.

Turns out that it's true what they say about your life flashing before your eyes in your final moments. It holds true even if you're a ludicrous fictional character, and life as you know it has been entirely made up, and not made up very well, either.

In my mind's eye, I saw the Rev, screaming at me in his office, his cum-stained portrait of Ronald Reagan falling forward helplessly on his desk from the force of his belligerent, bald, wrongheaded anger. I knew he'd have more luck with his next project; he usually did have better luck, for better or worse. Goodbye, Rev. LaRock.

I saw Cherille, smiling at me so gently, so sweetly, as I cupped both cheeks in my once-so-lucky hands. I'd never be so lucky again. Goodbye, my beautiful Cherille.

I saw "inadvisable" rap battles, squandered bait-shop sponsorships, missed but admittedly retarded Vonnegut references, some guy named Curtis who used to be pretty important in the scheme of things but whom I'd totally forgotten about somehow in this crazy, mixed-up world of ours.

---

On the way down, in the midst of this flood of asynchronous memories, I even saw a very disinterested Lindsey Jane sticking her heads out of the fifth floor of the parking garage. She had roughly 17,564,977 heads, but only about 1,900,582 of those heads were actually active in some way (as of this afternoon, anyway). A huge number of those heads couldn't even speak English; go figure. Of course, I only remembered her as having one head, but people change, I guess.

"Linds, I'm about to die. I need some kind of closure here. Where's my fucking baby?" I screamed at her.

"Who knows where the brat is now, but it was never your fucking baby," she screamed back.

"How do you know?"

"You and I never actually had sex. I faked it every time. I was only interested in keeping you as a paid user."

"How did you fake having sex with me?"

"Easy. Combination of insisting we did it under the sheets, and my latex vagina." She held up a Fleshlight. "Totally self-centered and narcissistic assholes like you always fall for the ol' latex vagina trick. You don't notice as long as there's some kind of artificial hole in which to thrash about meaninglessly while you bore the rest of the world to death."

"Oh. OK, then. Catch you later, I guess."

"Later. *lol*. You're dying in five seconds, and I've got terminal cancer."

"Cancer of the what, Linds?"

"Oh, all over. You name it, Syrius, I've got the cancer of it. And what's worse is that there isn't a sensible soul in the world who gives a flying fuck."

She snapped her 1,900,582 pieces of gum simultaneously and walked off.

I continued to fall.

---

I have had a pretty deep connection to / obsession with LJ since I first joined in February, 2003. For me, the "golden years" of LJ were sometime between 2004 and 2006. On any given day in those years, I could have great conversations and waste countless hours hanging out with a hand-selected mix of old college buddies, e-acquaintances, and newer friends who just happened to have LJ accounts.

I made IRL pals through LJ, found apartments and restaurants and great deals through LJ, even pulled down more nookie through LJ than I should probably publicly admit. Those sure were the days, or something.

Meanwhile, I pumped out a ridiculous journal that was pretty creative and multimedia-heavy most days. This was a way of offsetting my quiet real-world demeanor with an online manifestation of my long-repressed and totally insatiable inner comment whore.

At the end of 2006, the activity level on LJ was clearly beginning to wane. Through 2007 and 2008, LJ attrition seemed to accelerate in epic, horrifying fashion. Myspace and Facebook-- sites for which I have never had any use; call me old school-- continued to ravage my old LJ friend base and suck up any possible pool of new LJ acquaintances with which to fill the now-empty space. People I knew who used to post daily went to weekly, biweekly, monthly; people who used to post weekly just fucking disappeared.

A few years ago, I'd bitch and moan loudly about the "death of LJ" if there were only five or six entries on my f-list over a given weekend. These days, I'm lucky if there are even five entries on my f-list for the fortnight.

Now, when "someone" approached me and suggested I should take on LJ Idol via srs_bidness, I thought it was a totally fucking stupid idea. However, when my ongoing tentativeness in Week Two earned me a deservedly pretty half-assed vote, I still got angry as hell. That week, there were dozens of entries that were less well-written and entertaining than mine, goddammit. You LJ Idol assholes were going to pay for your rejection.

One week and 1900 words later (and that was just Week Three), the Rev was born. Voting that week, and the next, began to pick way up; there were even comments on my entry. Apparently, my newfound conviction had been noticed, and it was seemingly a move in the right direction. This was exciting! It was like old LJ all over again!

Unfortunately, it wasn't like old LJ; it was actually something of a fluke, or perhaps just the natural result of a long-running contest with "political" underpinnings like LJ Idol. As the contest dragged on, I found that I had developed a consistent Idol fanbase (for which I was very grateful), but it became harder and harder to reach new readership. Minds had been closed to Syrius' hijinks; whether the problematic hijinks took place in Season Four or Five didn't matter much to me. And remember-- I'm a self-described insatiable comment whore.

I was particularly surprised when the very carefully planned Week Six rap battle entry didn't effectively win Best in Show for the week, and in fact turned in a worse performance in the polls than the entry prior. From that point forward, it just became less and less interesting for me each week, and eventually it reached the point where it didn't seem worth the time to properly finish what I'd started. Increasingly, although it had been fun "just like the old-LJ days" for that brief, addiction-generating interval, Idol just wasn't much fun to write for any more... sort of what's become of LJ itself.

---

As I continued to fall, my cell phone rang. I answered. It was the Rev.

"Hold up, Mr. Bidness. Stop metaphorically falling. Don't call it quits just yet."

I sighed in mid-freefall. "Why not?"

"superhappytime noticed a discrepancy in this week's voting at the very end, and he's right on. Someone pulled six votes from you at the last possible second in the polls. Then you lost the week."

"So?"

"Syrius, you idiot. This is obvious foul play, and I took screenshots all weekend long-- I've got the evidence right here. We can take this up with Gary and keep you in the game. Perhaps you can survive last week's ridiculous entry after all."

"Two things, Rev. One, I was already losing-- and solidly, too-- before those votes disappeared."

"Surely that doesn't matter if there's evidence of such vote-foolery going on, Syrius. I know a few things about fucking up elections, and this smells like a fucked-up election for certain."

"Well, see, the other thing, Rev, is that those retracted votes actually belonged to me."

"What?"

"Here's the deal, Rev: I set up a handful of sockpuppets for the occasion; they were holding some votes for me until the end of the poll. On the extremely off chance that Idol voters wouldn't kill me outright in response to that last entry, I wanted to be able to ensure my 'democratic' demise. As it turned out, of course, I didn't need the held votes, because hardly anybody actually voted for me anyway. Those LJ Idol readers, y'see, they're quite an astute bunch. Well, either that, or they're a bunch of fucking prudes."

A disbelieving pause followed. "I know you, Syrius, you don't even shill out from your f-list for legit votes. And now, you expect me to believe that you resorted to sockpuppets... in order to make sure you lost?"

"All true, Rev."

"You could have just dropped out, Syrius, for crissake."

"Sure, I could have. But that wouldn't have been so interesting, now, would it, Rev?"

"I suppose not."

"And, besides, I like thrashing about meaninglessly in artificial holes."

"Well, hell, Syrius, that's obvious to anyone. I mean, you're an LJ Idol entrant, ain't ye?"

"You're a frighteningly smart man, Rev. Well, listen, buddy, gotta go. Pavement's here."

"Se--"




splat

---

Hey, have you checked out ljhaikuidol yet? It's pretty cool.

---

Gather round ol' Syrius, sweet little children. Gather round and let me tell you a story, a very famous and scary story, about the elders of the strange and faraway forest of Elljayidyll...

...Now, you there, how old are you? Only three, you say? Well, you'd better gather extra special close to ol' Syrius. Wouldn't want you to miss any of the action.

We all seated comfortably, children? Good! Let's begin our story of this strange and faraway place.

It was a dark, dark night in the forest. Not a star could be seen in the sky for all the trees. And as happened most every Friday night, in a clearing in this dark, dark forest, spydielives was bent over a log, naked as a jaybird, oiled up all over, allowing herself to be thoroughly "exorcised" with a very special kind of magic wand. "He must... unh... he must be stopped. This cannot continue."

spydielives' breasts shimmied ever-so-rhythmically and oh-so-hypnotically as kathrynrose, wearing the Hard Pink Wand of Reckoning about her waist, plunged the wand into Spydie's haunted cavity over and over, in and out, deeper and deeper, the better with which to work its special blend of dishwasher-safe latex magic.

"Yes, spydielives," said kathyrnrose, sweat profusely pouring from her brow, wearing nothing but a strangely somber smile, her own excitement inescapably mounting as the Hard Pink Wand of Reckoning also helped to massage a very special, very magical button.

"The one they call Syrius Bidness," kathyrnrose continued between prolonged and guttural groans, "is a major threat to the lifestyle of the elders. And we must do everything in our power to ensure that this needless threat is removed from play."

"But he has become so impossibly powerful, performing as many as five or six positions up from the bottom of his tribe each and every week! How can we possibly stop the likes of him?" moaned the once-mighty technophile, now strapped helplessly to a log on his stomach as lilmissmagic71 lightly but relentlessly flicked her tongue ever so playfully over and around his exposed, eager man-hole.

"Uhll infuhhhltrate nnf infffestigate," offered lilmissmagic71 helpfully between impossibly teasing rim-strokes, bucking against the "magic" of her own right hand as she did so. "Uhh commen' reguhlahly nn hsss Elljay. He hathhh cmm tuh truss meh."

"No, this is simply not sufficient," rm piped in, before grabbing monkeysugarmama by the hair, pushing her onto her knees. "We must end this Syrius Bidness now... swiftly, and invisibly. He-- ahhh-- insults and mocks us without remorse. He-- ohhhhhh-- challenges the lesser of us to-- unnnnnh--- rap battles, who is to say who will-- oh! oh, oh!-- be next?"

"Silence!" brightflashes unbound technophile, only to re-bind him to the log on his back, slather him with excessive quantities of Astro-glide, and proceed to slide herself, poop-chute first, down onto his hard pink magic wand (although it was markedly smaller than the version in kathyrnrose's possession). "This Bidness is no threat to us. We have the power to stop his kind, and have done so before." She continued to stuff her backside full of half-flaccid but delicious techno-magic. "We need only to-- ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh, unh unhhhhhhhh-- oppress his voter base for one week... perhaps, ohGODohgodohgod, perhaps we might call clauderainsrm and see if he is willing to exchange... exchange..."

"Exchange what, brightflashes?" The whole circle grew impatient.

"Oh, you guys know damn well that I just can't think straight when I've got a cock up in me. rm, slap my ass a few times to straighten me out, would you?"

"Yes, ma'am." The spankings commenced as the uniquely earthy smell of LJ-addict coupling continued to fill the night air.

"Thank you. Now, if we get Gary down here, and we can offer him a little bit of involvement in tonight's festivities, perhaps... perhaps he'd be willing to adjust the polls slightly..."

---

At this point, a pair of hands grabbed my laptop.

"Bidness, just what in the hell are you doing? 'Sexual Healing' was last week's topic, and this... this... honestly, are you just trying to get yourself killed?"

"Rev, the way I see it, all my favorite stories do involve fucking, and a lot of it. And on killing myself... yeah, well, so what? So what if I am?"

"Is that why you're up here on top of this nine-story parking garage?"

"Well, maybe. Mostly, I think I came up for the peace and quiet. How did you find me here anyway?"

"Listen, my boy... you don't successfully steal two presidential elections without having a hell of a national surveillance network."

The Rev sat down next to me and lit a smoke. He alt-tabbed through a few other files I had sitting open on the machine. "Look, what is this shit, Syrius? 'Dear LJ Idol: I can't think of anything to write on this week's topic, and I'm out of time this week, so I guess I'll just post a long entry complaining that I can't think of anything to write about this week's topic'?"

"That was a much earlier draft, Rev. I started typing that up about two minutes after Gary announced the topic, but I figured I could do a bit better."

"Syrius, not only is the concept of you with nothing to say a completely ludicrous concept in and of itself, you know full well that posting the whining-about-the-topic-and-time entry is the most surefire method there is to get yourself knocked out of Idol... the most surefire method, that is, next to naming all of the power players as part of an orgiastic quasi-pagan cabal..."

"Ah, but there's a more surefire method yet, Rev. Alt-tab a time or two more."

"'Dear LJ Idol: I've just got to share my very favorite story of all time with you... scroll uh...' OH, DEAR FUCKING GOD, SYRIUS." Rev turned away sharply from the laptop; for a moment I thought he might actually throw it down.

"Something the matter, Rev?"

"Syrius, is that a full-screen picture of you, naked, shoving various parts of a nativity set up your ass?"

"Something like that, Rev. I decided I would try to tell my readership the most inspirational tale of all, the original Biblical Christmas story. Only it's been told a lot, so to freshen the story up a bit, I decided I would tell the story in the style of Goatse."

"Jesus Christ, do the pictures have to be so... detailed?"

"Absolutely, Rev. If you were to try to tell the Christmas story with your pried-open, gaping anus in anything less than full-screen resolution, the LJ Idol readership would feel cheated of the timeless splendor of the tale."

"Syrius, why? Why are you trying to get yourself Idol-killed? Wasn't it you, mere weeks ago, saying how you were in this for the long haul, you were confident you could win the damn thing?"

I stood up and climbed onto the edge of the garage. "I'll think I'll fully answer that question, Rev," I said, "right after I see if I can do a nine-turn cannonball right onto the roof of that Corolla down there."

The Rev grabbed, unsuccessfully, for my ankles.

I leapt.

...to be continued, possibly

OK, so I'll level with you. I was going to take my bye this week because the Rev, who you may recall promised to rejoin the campaign in Week 10 if I managed to survive Week 9, has disappeared without a trace. There are rumors floating around that he's just off "servicing" Rick Wagoner while he's in town, but one way or the other, he's not picking up his cell.

So, contextually, with ~12 hours to go before the deadline and still no Rev in sight, it seemed like taking a bye was a really good idea. However, I can't be sure that I'll be able to find him by next week, by which time stakes will be still higher. So even though I don't have anything particularly "vain" to discuss, I think it's probably best to save my bye, press on this week, and hope for the best.

To that end, I offer you... hrm... let's see what's lying around... ah, yes, a document that I helped author this summer. This never got completed. It was intended to be the FAQ section of the website for my new signature fashion venture, Srs.Jeans. We were gonna leverage my name, make some pretty sweet designer jeans, handbags, and t-shirts, and make a killing doing so.

Two problems arose which spelled the premature end of the once-seemingly-lucrative Srs.Jeans. One, I realized I didn't know how to design jeans, handbags or t-shirts, nor did I know anyone else who did. Two, the bank that was providing us our VC closed its doors. Actually, from what I hear, the bank's assets were entirely foreclosed upon by another bank. Yes, these are truly tough times.

Enjoy, I guess. And even if not, it goes without saying that you should vote for me anyway. LJ Idol needs me. Like the Big Three, I'm too big to be allowed to disappear.

---

Q: What is Srs.Jeans?

Srs.Jeans is the new fashion venture from srs_bidness, who you most likely know from his rise to worldwide fame in Livejournal's LJ Idol competition in Season 4. Having completed his obligations there, S. Bidness now focuses his unwavering eye for style on young women 16-24 everywhere he sees them. Srs.Jeans offers exclusive clothing and accessories to those who are totally unafraid to go under the razor and become the bleeding edge, if not the traumatic cerebral hemorrhage, of fashion.

Q: Who is srs_bidness, really?

An enigma, a force of nature, perhaps the most notoriously virtuosic lover in the universe (ladies only; no bipoly pagan chicks, please). His anonymity is a source of power that enables him to do more in a single week than most human beings achieve in a lifetime, theoretically, when he should someday choose to do so, which according to him is "comin' up just about any time now." He is a charitable man who works in his community and contributes a large percentage of his personal income every year to struggling fast food restaurants in surprisingly convenient locations. Having his name emblazoned across your ass, in 8-inch-high letters, will make you feel a little warm and fuzzy every time you slap on a pair of Srs.Jeans.

Q: I thought I heard a rumor that srs_bidness was so-and-so. Is this true?

For an enigmatic force of nature, any press is good press, but please remember: believing stuff you read on the Internet, particularly embedded in some yahoo's halfassed Youtube video, is always a sketchy business at best.

Q: Fair labor practices are important to me. Are your products made in a sweatshop?

Fair labor practices are important to us, too. All of our products are made in sweatshops with practically nonexistent pay and totally unimaginable conditions. That's what's most fair to us! So when you buy a Srs.Jeans product, you can rest easy with your purchase, knowing that S. Bidness still has a roof over his head, over his bedroom, where you'll find 2000-thread-count sheets on a rotating heart-shaped bed, a chocolate fondue fountain, and a veritable buffet of fruits which he hand-feeds to any woman lucky enough to enter through the door and take off all of her clothing, Srs.Jeans-manufactured or otherwise.

Q: When can I expected to take delivery of the Srs.Jeans I just ordered and paid for in full?

We are hoping to begin production sometime. Thanks for your order and your patience.

Q: Why are your prices so high?

S. Bidness personally prays over and subsequently spits on every box of clothing that shows up on the docks from our Asian sweatshops. This kind of individualized attention to detail is unheard of in today's mass-manufactured market. Besides, if you think $82.99 is too much money to pay for a pair of socks, you should see how much my chiropractor charges me... especially whenever I ask her for a rub and tug.

Q: If my Srs.Jeans do not fit, can I return them?

As you know, Srs.Jeans only come in one size for the sheer exclusivity. If these jeans fit you, congratulations, you are obviously an attractive woman. Other customers may find themselves unable to fit into their Srs.Jeans out of the box, but they still cannot bring themselves to part with such a fashionable article of clothing. Even if they did want to return the jeans, at this time, we are unfortunately unable to offer refunds to fatties as a point of ethics. Luckily for our customers, we have partnered up with another new venture, Srs.Suction. Customers who have purchased Srs.Jeans can receive up to a 5% discount on liposculpture from Srs.Suction to help them fit into their new Srs.Jeans.

Q: I don't have a Srs.Seller in my area. Do you ship Srs.Jeans products internationally?

We will ship anywhere in the world... for the right price... except for Oklahoma. This policy is a fairly standard one for any company in the cutthroat business of high fashion. As is commonly known, when any Oklahoma native dons a company's product for the first time, its reputation as a "fashionable" product is obviously and permanently finished. We apologize to our appallingly subhuman Oklahoman friends for any inconvenience.

As tends to happen every November or so, it's Thanksgiving season, and time for us to cough up a rote list of things we pretend to be thankful for... y'know, things like our thankless jobs... nagging, frigid spouses... vampiric children. But rather than bore you with 2,500 words or so of strangely-located mid-season end credits (I'll just wait for the Oscar), I'd like to simply and very sincerely state at this time that I'm most thankful in life for one thing: my hand. The Internet would be far, far too lonely a place without it.

I'm also grateful for suckas who, based upon an examination of week-to-week voting records, quite obviously "invited" their entire F-list in to vote for them in the previous week in an effort to save their own ass from elimination, thus opening them up as totally fair game for Declaration of Rap Battle.

But perhaps a more in-depth examination of that particular gratitude will have to wait for another time. To celebrate Thanksgiving 2k8, here's my deeply artistic rendering of one of my two hands (truly, I am blessed!). I know you might have a hard time seeing it, because-- get this-- I've disguised it as a photorealistic depiction of an anthropomorphic turkey.



Once the shock and awe wears off, please feel free to fill the comments of this post with foolish attempts at similarly photorealistic depictions of Thanksgiving-related objects, as sketched around the silhouetted framework of your favorite body part.

Don't forget the reason for the season. I know I haven't.

oh shiiii! I almost forgot to give a shoutout to my new community, ljhaikuidol, where we've already got two seventeen contestants signed up for our first round of all haiku, all the time. Do you have what it takes for a no-holds-barred haiku throwdown? You'd better come and join us before Season One begins!

---

"What do you mean, 'not this week,' Rev? This is exactly what I pay you for. This is your job."

"Syrius, we're now nine weeks into the contest, at the point where certain trends are readily perceptible. Have you looked closely at your week-to-week polling figures so far?"

"Sure, Rev." I pulled out the spreadsheet.

"Notice any trends overall?"


"Well, in what might have been referred ca. 1997 to as an inverse Chumbawamba effect, it seems that I go up, then I go down again."

"Let me explain something to you, Syrius. The weeks in which you were up, Syrius, the weeks in which you almost looked you like might win your tribe and all that, were in fact the weeks in which I was actively working on your campaign. The weeks in which you were down in the statistical dumps of utter mediocrity-- getting your ass beaten soundly by rerun entries two seasons running, offering incredibly compelling diaper-change advice-- were weeks in which you consciously chose to keep me out of said campaign."

"What can I say? It just felt right at the time, Rev. But I'm sorry. You've been right all along. You got paid regardless, and I hope you know it wasn't meant as a slight. And clearly, at this point, I'm gonna need your help to stay in the race. The voters have spoken recently. This campaign is in need of some pretty serious reform, or maybe just some old-fashioned poll tomfoolery... and I can't think of a man more qualified to turn a campaign around or steal an election than you."

"Mr. Bidness, with all due respect, I think you still have a lesson to learn. Yes, you did pay me an awful lot of money for doing nothing, and who's going to complain about that? But you have ignored my professional advice at your own peril on more than one occasion. What's far worse, when you cut me out of the campaign two weeks ago, you effectively publicly insulted and humiliated me. I'd be a fool to readily ignore such a slight."

"That, or you just want to take another week's paid vacation for the fuck of it," I spat.

"Oh, that's... that's just it. I'll rejoin your campaign in Week 10... if you actually make it out alive. Survive another round of voting, and then we'll make some serious changes for Syrius Bidness. But as for this week... well, you'll have to sweat this one out entirely on your own."

"You're such an ass, Rev."

"Oh, and Syrius?"

"What?"

"I'd advise you not to start any 'rap battles' this week."

---

"Well, there's nothing else for it, [insert your name here]," I said to you. "I really didn't have anything prepared to discuss this week, and I was sort of counting on the Rev to give me some direction. So... well, [insert your name here], you'll have to be my campaign manager this week."

Me?, you said with mock bewilderment. But, Syrius, I'm... I'm totally unprepared for this job.

"Oh, listen to you, [insert your name here]," I playfully chuckled. "Not five seconds into the job and you're already making cheap, godawful, painfully obvious links into the assigned topic. See? You're gonna just be great."

Ugh. Shit. Does this gig at least pay something?

"Well, I do pay the Rev pretty handsomely; he's a professional, and he's in demand. Unfortunately, there's not much left in the campaign fund, since I had to pay the Rev's fee in advance for the whole season. But I tell you what... if you can help me out this week on the pro bono tip..."

Pro-Bono? Sorry, man, not gonna happen. That guy is a total tool, and U2 has totally sucked since at least The Joshua Tree.

"Oh, you! You've got a wit as sharp as a scimitar."

Don't think for a minute that I'm doing this for free, ass. And don't start talking about "scimitars" and shit either. It makes you sound like some kinda RPG-addicted, parents'-basement-dwelling, total cosplay furry schlong.

"While that doesn't exactly describe me, per se, before you say much more publicly, I feel I should remind you-- as my amateur stand-in campaign manager-- that this is LJ Idol. Refer to cosplay wankers, furries, bi-poly pagan chicks, etc. in the pejorative sense, and you're coming dangerously close to permanently alienating large segments of the voting audience."

Right. I'm sorry, Syrius. I guess I've been kind of hard up for witchy furtang since the last DruidYiffCon myself. Well, so long as you're paying something, I guess it's time to get to work, prepared or not.

"Alright, [insert your name here]. Let's get started right away on this problem of shrinking voter share. What do you think the main problem is? Is it the sheer length of my entries? The contempt in which I may sometimes appear to hold my competition and/or the contest itself? Or is it something else entirely?"



In your capacity as temporary campaign manager, prepared to make important decisions, you click on the link that best describes your response to Syrius' italicized question immediately above:

Yes, it seems the consistently ridiculous length of your entries may be a problem, Syrius.

Well, Mr. Bidness, it's been pointed out more than once that your snark is worse than your write.

It's something else, Syrius. Something you probably haven't even thought of at this point. Let me tell you what it is.

This is where you vote for me if you know what's good for you.

Also, I will shortly be pimping my brand new community, LJ Haiku Idol, in various places... might as well get started here. No, it's not a joke. The syllabically constrained excitement begins in just a few weeks. Think you're, uh, writer enough to write on given topics in all haiku, all the time? Well, have a look, and then sign up for some serious 5-7-5 smackdown.

~Last week, on srs_bidness:~ "I'm the one who knows how to run a fucking campaign, and I'm sick and tired of you fucking it up for yourself... for both of us." [Syrius looks forebodingly into the distance as a dollycam rotates around him in slow motion] "Listen, Rev... I don't think I'll be needing your services this week." [The Rev slams down telephone headset, picks up and throws entire phone set through office window] "I don't know, Beaky McGee... now I'm losing every last bit of hope I had." "Puh-too-weet. Puh-too... puh-too-weet?" [steamy teaser scene of Syrius making sweet love to an ecstatic Beaky McGee; waist-up only] "The whole thing's been a bit... meta so far, hasn't it?" [head-on crash between two small Chinese mopeds at speeds exceeding 15mph; massive fiery explosion shown from multiple angles] "Zommm-BEH, zommm-beeEHH, -beeEH, -beeeeEH, motherfucker!" [Syrius tied to chair with gun pointed at his head; an eye-catching figure donning an extremely expensive power suit barely visible at edge of frame; conspicuous tattoo on gun-wielding hand reads WASILLA4LIFE] "Mr. Bidness, I know this may come as a great surprise, but you... [dramatic shot of a slackjawed Syrius with cell phone in hand] "...you are a father." [orchestral climax; fade to black; roll credits]

Looking in the bag, I saw only a double cheeseburger.

I glared at him. He blankly stared back.

"Kid... is this your idea of a joke?"

"...Sir? This is what you ordered."

"No, son, I ordered a #3 combo meal. Now, I've had thrice as many sex partners as you've had birthdays, and one thing I can tell you is that in the fast food industry, things described as 'combo meals' come with fries and a drink. I don't know how you missed that little detail as part of your being-an-American-in-the-21st-century training video. Maybe you had that My Chemical Romance record turned up a bit too loud on your iPhone at that time."

"Sir?" He was beginning to sniffle. "This is what I rung you up for."

I thrust the receipt in his face. "This is what you rang me up for. Do you see where it says COMBO MEAL?"

"...Yes." He was trembling. I proceeded to grab his shoulders and turn him round toward the menu above him.

"Now, my son, do you see, quite clearly on that menu, where it says COMBO MEALS INCLUDE FRIES AND 16 OZ DRINK? Say 'yes,' or I will force you to stand here facing the menu until you do see it. I don't care if we have to call in an optometrist and/or your kindergarten teacher first."

"...yyyyYes."

"Now, please do not misunderstand me, Junior. This isn't really my style. I'm not some fucked-up police-academy dropout who now spends his days taking out his insecurities and lifelong sexual inadequacies on unsuspecting fast food employees. However, I paid for fries and a drink. So it's very, very simple: You are going to give me said fries and said drink, right fucking now, or I am going to speak to your manager, and when I finish five minutes from now, you will no longer have a job. Do you comprehend?"

Thirty seconds later, after I'd watched him carefully to make sure he didn't piss into the fry box, he handed both fries and drink over to me with the tearful quickness. "You didn't have to go and bring MCR into it, asshole."

"Whatever. ...OK, sorry about all that. Hard to find good help these days. Now, what were you saying?"

As I walked away from the counter, the disembodied voice in my Bluetooth earpiece cleared its throat in perceptibly annoyed fashion. "Couldn't that have, like, waited?"

"Not really, man. I was hungry. Listen, I'm sorry, I haven't got all day; this burger's getting cold already. So, now, what were you saying?"

"Mr. Bidness, I was saying that you are a father."

"Right... genuinely shocking news, that. So tell me, who's the baby mama?"

"...And the mother of the child," continued the voice, "is someone in this room."

"Let's be clear, my mysterious, unnamed friend with mysterious, unnamed motivations. Now, since you are on the phone, I know you can't see the lobby of this mysterious, unnamed fast food joint I'm dining in. So, now, when you talk about 'someone in this room', are you talking about whatever room you happen to be sitting in, which I also can't see?"

"No. Of course that is not the room to which I refer."

"I see. So, rather than an actual, physical room, you are really referring-- in an oh-so-clever turn of literary device-- to the nice open space that I ended up with when I apparently decided that ye olde Narrative House needed some changes, called in some of the cheapest fly-by-night contractors operating in my neighborhood, and then had the fourth wall immediately knocked out?"

"Yes, Mr. Bidness. That very room."

"Right. The 'room' that not just you or I, but 'we' are all 'sitting' in. Oh... hold on a second, friend, I've got to retrieve my eyes. They've just rolled back so far that they seem to be stuck to the back of my skull."

---

Looking back, it was actually a pretty happy time in my life. At barest minimum, she was a pretty good lay, whenever the dynamic permitted. And, y'know, I've certainly dated crazier.

She was a sweet girl, mostly. Supportive, frequently complimentary, all that, although I never really knew for sure how sincere she was about any of it.

Sure, most days, our conversations were a bit empty... noticeably forced. And she had a hard time knowing when to shut up. Not that this is a problem that affects me at all, of course.

When I first met her, I thought, "Oh, there is no way in hell this is going to fly." I know she probably thought the same about me. My cynicism, then as now, could power all of rural Indiana if properly harnessed; not one of my most attractive traits, but it appeals to certain women. She was not one of these women. And actually, I'm pretty sure she either didn't get most of my jokes, or she just outright ignored them most of the time.

Meanwhile, she was frequently obnoxiously bubbly and puddle-deep, always strangely lecturing me on one topic or another in an oddly forced fashion, unforgivably punctuating our more casual conversations with "LOL"s, and-- worst of all-- denoting imaginary actions through the use of bookending asterisks. Now, I'm not a guy who would ever hit a woman, but those asterisks sure could make me want to punch her in the face.

We probably should have listened to our early instincts about how this could never work. The inevitable was obvious as sin from our first few dates. You know how it is, though. One too many White Russians, and the next thing you know, the biological imperative has taken precedent. And, whaddayaknow, the physical chemistry was just good enough to make us both put our concerns aside for a while.

Our pillow talk was still totally insufferable, though.

"Wow. That was unreal, Syrius."

"Yeah, I know, babe. I can't believe how good we are together when we make love... how right you feel to me."

"I'm going to warn you, Syrius, our next topic of conversation may cause great discomfort for those who have suffered PTSD relating to childhood lactose intolerance."

"OK, um, well, I've got no problem with milk..."

"Well, it was very hard for me to talk about this trauma of mine. Talking about it certainly brought up a lot of issues for me. But I'm glad I had the chance. Thanks for listening, Syrius. This has been my Week Six entry on ghosts."

"Lindsey, what in the hell are you talking about?"

But despite having these sorts of conversations on a weekly basis, along with a never-ending stream of retarded surveys she was asking me to fill out and "cross-post," whatever the fuck that meant... well, I still found myself inexplicably fond of the girl, and became increasingly attached to her. Unfortunately, as time went on, that growing fondness did not seem to be mutual.

"Syrius, *crosses arms*, I'm never sure about you. Sometimes I think all your ribbing is just because you love me, and your teasing is just part of that love. Other times... I don't know, other times I worry that you might actually hate me deep down. *hangs head, refuses to vote for you, runs away*."

"Ugh, those asterisks... whyyyyy, I oughtta... ugh, never mind. Listen to me, Lindsey Jane. I know we have our differences sometimes. I know we're very different people. And sometimes, I won't lie, sometimes I wish you would just shut the hell up, or at least that we could have natural, unforced, 'topic'-free conversations like normal human beings. But I assure you, I really do care about you, I do. I don't hate you. I only want what's best for you. I am here for you. The more time I spend with you, the more I think... well, I know it probably sounds totally cheesy, but... I think I was meant for you. I was meant to own you... to rule you."

"Rule me, Syrius? Are you kidding me?"

"No, I think you've got it wrong, I just mean, you know... just that I was meant to win you. Take care of you. Show you how it's done. Be your hero... your, uh, idol."

"Syrius, just who the hell do you think you are, coming into my life, telling me 'how it's done', acting like I'm some kind of conquest, telling me that I need an 'idol'? Listen, I was just fine before you came along, asshole, and I'll be just fine after you."

"After me? Lindsey Jane, no, please don't even talk about that, please. I'm sorry. I need you. I need your touch. I think... I think I love you."

"Oh, Syrius, just shut up. You never loved me," she screamed. "You just wanted a good lay, and to kill some time. I can see it so clearly now. You never cared about me, you never understood me at all, Syrius. You never understood me at all. *sobs, throws vase*."

"Uh, *ducks*? Christ. Look, Lindsey, you ought to give me more credit than that. I understand you perfectly well. In fact, I understand you so well that I know that you're just trying to come up with some kind of rant for the 'Week Eight topic' you've been on about, whatever the fuck that is. That's how well I know you. But you're hurting me with this 'topic' right now, Linds.

"...And besides, this entry has already contained one obnoxiously forced rant, see it up there, that totally pointless thing with the fast food employee, the utter nonsense that started this whole false flashback? We're good to go for your 'topic' this week. Please, stop it now, Linds. Don't use me like this. Don't let me go... not like this, please."

"Oh, so now you think I'm just ranting at you to fulfill an entry on a topic? Well, you might be right, Syrius Bidness, but you've sure got a lot to learn about being the idol of Lindsey Jane. *slams door*."

She slammed the door.

---

So in a matter of weeks, it all collapsed. Until then, I thought we had been working so well together. But I had already noticed that she was calling less and less... and then, of course, at this point she suddenly stopped calling altogether. Whenever I tried to call her instead, there was never an answer; she was obviously screening her comments calls.

Although I know I loved her, I soon got over the loss. Not the first romantic setback I've experienced; you get older, these things are easier to keep in perspective. We were hardly soulmates, after all.

But now, to learn that she was the mother of my child... it brought up a lot of feelings.

Just to warn you, dear reader, this might have been a sensitive entry for those of you who have been dumped by a ridiculously extended metaphor in the past, only to learn of your even more ridiculously extended metaphorical paternity. Please don't read any of the preceding paragraphs if you're concerned about that.

Well, gee, I guess this has been my Week Eight entry on the "topic" of personal rants. Thanks for listening, and always remember: cut along the "railroad tracks," not across.

---

Now I says to the voice currently embodied in my Bluetooth face-growth: "I guess there's only one thing for it. I've got to go find her. I've got to help her raise our child."

"Oh, don't bother, Mr. Bidness."

"What? What do you mean?"

"She is... she is dead, Mr. Bidness."

"No! It can't be!"

"Yes, a most tragic tale, I'm afraid. As the Internet's Fourth Reich-- comprised of 4chan, Myspace and Facebook-- encroached upon her dominion, she decided not to fight off the inevitable. Instead, she took an approach of steadfast denial of her now almost total irrelevance. She and her remaining followers then moved into a houseboat and set themselves adrift in the west Pacific, where they could live out the rest of their days putting described actions in asterisks and writing unreadable HP fanfic. Then a Russian submarine that had been sent to finish the job-- the warship SUP!, I believe-- let loose with a single massive and rather pointlessly expensive blast of torpedoes, and... well, the rest is history."

"What happened to our child?"

"Thankfully, the child was given up for adoption before she ever left these shores. It's got to be several years old by now. I mean, your beloved 'Lindsey Jane' has been basically dead as a doornail since at least 2006, far as I'm concerned, so there you go."

"In that case, I've got to go find my child, friend. It won't be next week... but it'll be sometime soon. Maybe. It's, like, important, probably. ...Yeah."

"Well, Mr. Bidness, that sure sounds like a totally satisfying conclusion to me."

"Yes, friend... it certainly does."

"And what a damned fine conclusion it was, too."

"Well, pal, they don't call me a professional for nothing."

"I'll say. Color me impressed with your absolutely fucking amazing conclusion."

"Nothing but the best for LJ Idol, no, sir."

"Well, Mr. Bidness, best of luck, and don't be a stranger, now."

"Sure thing. Ciao."

The burger was delicious.

---

Things in this "competition" can change very quickly, as most recently shown by the highly surprising departure this week of my one-time formidable opponent and recent rap-battle foe. In the event that my time in LJ Idol should ever come to an abrupt end, as does seem at least somewhat likely at some point before the end of the affair, be advised that anyone who may actually / foolishly give a shit may return to my journal on the Friday of the following week for uhhh "closure" of the uhhhhhh "story arc," and a few interesting subsequent revelations.

Warning for the still-gainfully employed: This entry is slightly blue, even for me.

---

---

Of all the coffee shops in this dump, Cloves 'n' Hornrims had been my favorite of late. What they conspicuously lacked in passable coffee and/or free wifi was compensated for via the outdoor seating with an absolutely magical view of the woods behind the shop. It was right in the middle of town, but you'd never know it from the scenery or the silence of the surroundings. Lately, I guess I'd also developed a bit of a crush on the barista who worked the weekday morning shift. Not that she noticed or cared; that's the universal way of the barista, after all. Is there any more elusive sort of woman in the four-figure-annual-income bracket? Bookstore employees, perhaps?

Anyway, this morning, I was sitting out back on the edge of these gorgeous woods with a paper, a coffee and a smoke. Of course, I wasn't really reading the paper. Too much running through my head to make room for any further meaningful data.

My cell rang.

"Syrius Bidness here."

"Mr. Bidness, it's Rev. LaRock. Quite pleased with your standing in the polls this past week?"

"Well, Rev, to be honest, and with all due modesty... when the final numbers came in, I felt I probably should have done a lot better."

"Not to worry, Mr. Bidness. We did some analysis of all of the entries that beat you last week, and we discovered an interesting trend I think you'll want to hear about."

"Oh? What's that, Rev?"

"None of them featured shitty hip-hop songs about LJ Idol."

"Awww, fuck you, Rev."

"I tried to tell you, didn't I, Bidness? 'No hip-hop battles,' I said. 'Hip-hop just doesn't go over with all these women readers in the 30-45 demo,' I said. 'Besides, you sound like Weird Al,' I said. 'Write some shit instead about how your first girlfriend was killed in a freak scrapbooking accident, the very week before you were gonna propose...'"

"Rev, whoa, man. Do you realize you're screaming?"

"'...and that dead almost-fiancee of yours is now a goddamned ghost, no, make that ghost fairy, no... make that ghost faerie, one that constantly whispers bad financial advice to you, and dances about on your receding hairline whenever you put whipped cream on your hot-chocolate-chai-latte while listening to some song or another from Live's Throwing Copper,' I said..."

I had to hold the phone out from my ear at this point. I could practically feel him spitting through it.

"'Make sure you quote some totally irrelevant lyrics at painful length at some tearjerker moment in your entry... that technique always goes over well with these fucking people,' I said..."

"Rev, look, calm down. Stop with the swearing. Man, I think you've got LJ Idol voters all wrong."

---

---

"...Did you fucking listen, Syrius? Did you? Did you ever? Well, I hope you're fucking listening now, you insolent, impotent megalomaniac, because I'm the one who knows how to run a fucking campaign, and I'm sick and tired of you fucking it up for yourself... for both of us."

"Rev, listen, and listen close," I said calmly. "Seriously... Throwing Copper? Man, Live totally sucked in 1994, and they suck even worse now. You know that as well as I do."

"What does it fucking matter? Do you not hear what I have been saying? This is not about me, this is not about you, this is not about you disliking x or y or z, it's about you winning. You want to win? Then you will do what it takes to get the entire voter base off, every minute of every day. You don't stop lickin' and flickin' until they've all creamed their jeans into a sopping, sticky mass-mess from nostalgia or puerile 'identification' or whatever..."

"Rev, really, now. I'm a little offended by such a graphic metaphor. I find it needlessly vulgar and more than a little misogynist."

Rev's tenor had reached such an angry amplitude that he was unable to hear or pause for my remarks. "...It's not about you, asshole. You want those votes? Then your head goes down there and stays down there, no hesitation, no complaining, I don't care if your tastebuds are sanded smooth and your beard eventually has to be shaved off from the smell, do you hear me? And what the hell would you know about music anyway, you delusional little piece of shit? I suppose you'd prefer the fucking Cranberries or something?"

"Listen, Rev... I don't think I will be needing your services this week. I know you're under a lot of stress right now, what with the other election. We'll speak again when you've regained your sanity. I'll talk to you soon."

I promptly closed the flip. The last thing I heard, at arm's length from the earpiece, was the Rev madly shrieking "Zommm-BEH, zommm-beeEHH, -beeEH, -beeeeEH, motherfucker!"

---

---

"Puh-too-weet?" said the moderately-sized meadowlark on my shoulder.

"I don't know, Beaky McGee," I said, sliding the cell phone back into my pocket. "I just don't know. Maybe the Rev's right. Maybe I have the wrong idea being in this silly contest. I probably don't stand a chance. I thought I really had it right this time... I thought I knew how to win the whole thing. But now... well, now I'm losing every last bit of hope I had."

"Puh-too-weet?"

"Well, the whole thing's been a bit... meta so far, hasn't it? Week after week, 1500 words of me and the Rev playing out an LJ-Idol-themed remake of My Dinner with Andre... even I'm getting bored with the Rev... all this associated and carefully crafted multimedia every week that no one bothers with, the lulz be damned... and the only other character of even moderate significance this season has run off and won't come back to me no matter how I beg. How can I possibly be surprised at the downward spiral in votes? How could I possibly expect to maintain reader interest just dragging on like this, week after week?"

"Too-weet. Puh-puh-too-weet."

"Gosh, that's awfully nice of you to say, Beaky. But I don't think everybody feels that way. Obviously, I'm simultaneously saying nothing of real use, and tl;dr'ing them to death... even worse, I'm committing such violence using their very own club."

"Puh-too-weet. Puh-too... puh-too-weet?"

"No, it's just no use, Beaky. Too bloody recursive, self-referential, masturbatory. This kind of thing just don't play in the sticks. The writing's on the wall for me, I'm afraid. At this rate, I probably won't last another week before the backlash hits... for the second year in a row. No, Beaky McGee, my meadowlark friend, I'm afraid it's just hopeless. I'll never be the next LJ Idol. What was I ever thinking? I should just give up now and quit the race while I've still got my dignity."

I hung my head and began to weep quietly.

"Toooooo-weet! Puh-too-weet. Tootootootootoo-tooweet."

"Hrm, what's that, you say?"

"Puh-too-weet. Puh-too-weet."

"Saaaaaay, Beaky McGee, I... I guess I hadn't thought of that."

"Too-weet, too-weet, tootootootoo-weet-weet-weet."

"Wow, Beaky, the more I think about it, the more I think it's... the more I think it's absolutely crazy. But... by golly... it might just be crazy enough to work. Maybe... maybe it's not so hopeless after all!"

"Puh-too-weet."

"Beaky, you may just be a genius! Oh, how can I ever repay you?"

Before Beaky McGee could answer, the cell phone rang again. I picked it up.

"Mr. Bidness? Mr. Syrius Bidness?"

"Speaking."

"I have important news. You may wish to sit down."

"Sitting."

"Mr. Bidness, I know this may come as a great surprise, but you... you are a father."

---

yep, vote here

...Monday, October 27, 12:00pm EST, in unhaunted, ghost-free international waters:

In the tribally-regionalized democratic election for LJ Idol Tribe One Week Five, LiveJournal professional and budding Idol star srs_bidness is consigned to a second-place finish by one vote... and an extremely dubious situation.

---

...Saturday, October 25, 11:03am CST, in the Rev. LaRock's unhaunted, ghost-free chambers:

Rev. LaRock's poor desk was always taking some kind of domestic abuse from me. Today, for some reason, I found myself kicking its modesty panel. I guess I was not in a mood for modesty.

"She can't get away with this, Rev. She just can't. What about integrity? What about the principles of democracy?"

"To be fair, Mr. Bidness, I think you may be blowing this situation a bit out of proportion."

"Ever since the polls opened, she's been 3 votes, 5 votes in the lead over me... and it's all because of THIS. I'm just sick and tired of the ones with massive f-lists getting away with murder in the election year after year, Rev. It's shameless, it's disgusting, it's a blatant insult to the very principles upon which LJ Idol was founded."

"One, Syrius... if may I call you that at this point in our personal relationship, Mr. Bidness?"

"Well, of course, Rev."

"One, Syrius, keeping perspective is so very, very important; please try. This isn't an actual election, it's a completely absurd LiveJournal contest. Every day, I find myself questioning why you are willing to pay me thousands of dollars every week to be involved. Maybe you should occasionally question your priorities as well.

"Two, don't play self-righteously dumb here. You knew, going in, that this contest is almost entirely a game of how many e-Friends one has at the ready. Overcoming your serious friend deficiency and, further, your generally misanthrophic behavior has been the primary focus of my advising team since day one. We even talked about this situation in our very first conversation in Week Three, do you recall?"

"Rev, just because we have both been haunted by this ongoing issue with the contest doesn't mean that we are going to sit here and accept it like a couple of suckers."

"Well, I'm not really sure that we have much of a choice. And besides, Mr. Bidness, you can't claim that this was all due to her formidable f-list power. After all, that weird arm-tilting thing she kept doing in the video was pretty fuckin' dope. Ever since I watched the video from her entry, I can't stop doing it myself. My only wish is that she'd sung Soulja Boy instead."

Rev. LaRock then began to act out his fantasy.


"Right, meh, I guess the arms-tilting thing was alright. But, Rev, you are as cynical and analytical a man as anyone I know. Surely, you of all people can see right through this ploy of hers."

"I guess not, Syrius. Tell me, just what is her sinister 'ploy'?"

"Isn't it obvious? One, by posting herself singing under the clever guise of 'facing a fear,' thusly garnering the attention and sympathy of both the Idol reader base and her own LJ friends, she hoped to upstage and completely overshadow my superior post. Put it another way: With absolutely no justification for such brutish force, she used one of the deadliest weapons of mass destruction in LJ Idol... the You-Go-Girl weapon.

"Two, having already taken a bye in the previous week-- perhaps to escape a community-only vote, or perhaps because she simply had nothing to say-- her video content distracted from the fact that she still had nothing in particular to say in writing in her own post. She managed to replace interesting prose with flashy multimedia... in a writing contest, Rev. And the voters of today are so dumbed-down, so enamored with blinky lights, horrid ringtones, shiny crap and Cloris Leachman, that they are just letting her blatantly get away with it, letting her get away with noise and pretty pictures over written substance..."

"Ahem. A h e m."

"Excuse me, Rev?"

"Sorry, Syrius, I was just clearing my throat."

"Anyway, she took the low road to first place here, explicitly targeting me, because she knew she couldn't take first-in-tribe otherwise. Seriously, how do you compete with that love letter and the posting of the world-famous rarity 'Calculator Girl', posted by the original artist behind this often-cited-never-heard chestnut? Ah, but it's very simple, Rev. Just go post yourself via Youtube, moving your arms in an angular, oddly hypnotic fashion through the duration of a Beatles song, then immediately switch on your personal unthinking botnet to brutally crush your overly-endowed challenger, that's how."

"Yes, well, returning to reality... or whatever passes for it on the Internet, Mr. Bidness... you seem to think you can change all of this somehow-- that you can somehow counter a 500-plus-person friend list and accordingly restore the sanctity of democracy in the West. Of course, I personally helped put an end to democracy with the help of Katherine Harris and the Diebold Corporation nearly a full decade ago. Who knows, perhaps it's finally due for a comeback this week. So what is this miracle you plan to generate single-handedly? What could you possibly plan to do?"

"Well, I reckon I'm gonna do the only thing a right-thinkin', tight-rhymin' American can do, Rev."

Across the desk, the Rev was momentarily speechless.

"...You can't be serious."

"I am, Rev. Deadly serious."

"Mr. Bidness, we have been over this many times already. No one aside from you considers the staging of a 'rap battle' as a viable winning strategy in this campaign."

"Listen, Rev... what could be more patriotic, indeed, more American than responding to a direct, underhanded, undeserved assault on one's own otherwise-certain victory with a declaration of hip-hop war... with the public demand that your foe then get on the mic and show us all what kinda shit she really made of, yo?"

"Please never speak in such a fashion in my office again. You sound like a bigger poser than R. van Winkle in his 'Really, I'm smoking pot and shooting people now, honestly' phase."

"Well, anyway, Rev, that's my plan. I'm publicly declaring war on my foe-- a hip-hop war-- and although she started the conflict, I'm firing the first round of the battle. She may either choose to fight honorably in the traditional retaliatory diss track, or she may surrender."

"You do realize that in reality she doesn't give a damn about you, has no idea she's just been challenged, and will probably 'surrender' in the form of failing to respond to this utter nonsense, don't you?"

"Rev, as discussed above, I have no doubt in my mind that her entry in Week Five was nothing short of a calculated attempt to deprive me, and me specifically, of the first-place victory she knew was both inevitable and deserved. But in the event that she fails to respond to my war challenge, it will be patently obvious to everyone that I am the true and legally recognized victor of Tribe One, Week Five. I will immediately petition clauderainsrm to change the poll results on public record."

"Syrius, you are completely fucking insane. Alright, and if she accepts the challenge and loses in the eyes of the public, what are the terms of the resulting treatise?"

"She must agree to never ask her friends list to vote for her again."

"Mr. Bidness, as your campaign manager, I should advise you that I find this whole thing an extremely poor idea, and I must insist that you not pursue it. Instead, I'm assigning you to write on the assigned topic... a nice, family-friendly posting about ghosts, personal demons... whatever. That kinda thing. You know as well as I do that Idol readers love overwrought blurbs on personal demons. Make up a debiliating knitting addiction or something, you'll knock it right out of the park."

"Nope, too late, Rev. I've already booked the studio time and DJ N-wee, the hottest hip-hop producer in suburban Topeka. This week, one way or another... I know one fool that is goin' down."

"Mr. Bidness, wait... don't go... we really should talk about this more..."

"Peeeeyace out, Rev. LaRock."

---

VOTE FOR ME HERE, YO

"I was so close, Rev. So damned close."

"The analysis of the past two weeks' results bears it out, Mr. Bidness. Round after round, tribe after tribe, the winning formula is very clear. It's just this simple: If you want to win a round, and I mean really want to win, you are going to need a tearjerker in the inimitable yet strangely ubiquitous style of the true LJ Idol winner. You are clearly never going to have a first-place finish with your two-dimensional fictional characters, votemongering lj-user tag-shoutouts, and shitty Real Doll jokes. When in Rome, Mr. Bidness..."

"...Yeah, yeah, I know how this one goes, Rev: When in Rome, tell them about how your ex-wife aborted your child without discussing it with you, cheated on you with your best friend, posted the pics in a Myspace bulletin, then murdered your childhood dog..."

"...And, Mr. Bidness, how you then ended up with 18 months' time in the state pen and a sub-550 credit score."

---

Dear LJ Idol readers: As you all know by now, the assigned topic for this week is "Saying goodbye in a moment of bliss to someone I mistook for someone I should've cared about, but didn't". This is my Week 5 LJ Idol entry on this decidedly assigned and definitely required topic. I hope you will consider voting for my entry! It will mean a lot to my dead dog and baby in heaven.

---

My Beloved Cherille:

I hope this letter makes sense someday... or really, that it makes sense ever. I am not sure how much sense it will make because, to be 100% honest, I am high as a fucking kite right now. You may have left, but damn, I am soooooo fucked UP, girl. How did I just type this paragraph? I have no idea. My hands are covered in Cheeto dust, or Cheeto mud, or whatever Cheeto dust becomes after you drool all over it... just... wow.

Thanks for leaving that shit behind, at least. Makes me care a lot less about being alone on a weeknight, not being able to park my hard pink bus of love in your turgid heated garage.

Aww, baby, I'm sorry. You know how completely unbearable my sexual metaphors become when I'm baked. And I am baked. Damn.

Anyway, listen, when you disappeared in the middle of the night last week, with not so much as a note to say goodbye, I figured there was a good explanation. For a little while I hoped you'd stepped out for a minute but would be bringing back some Taco Bell. When dawn came, I began to worry, but I still figured you'd come back or call to explain what happened. You never did those things.

I've called and I've emailed, and the only thing you've responded to is that text message I sent out asking if you were alive and OK. I guess that's fair... I guess this is all fair. We all get confused sometimes, sweet Cherille. You, my broken, precious, amply-cheeked flower, were always confused most of all. Let's face it, you didn't land that gig with HotAnalCheerleaders.com on the basis of demonstrated problem-solving prowess.

I don't know what you're thinking right now, Cherille. Maybe you've found someone else out there who can make a hot anal cheerleader feel like a princess-- don't ask me how anyone could love you more or treat you better than me. But I figure for whatever deluded reason, you've decided that you're finally done with ol' Daddy Bidness. And I just can't spank you in your rainbow stockings hard or long enough to talk you out of that one, if it's really what you want, my love.

Let me just say this before I set you free: there was a time, long ago, when I was confused about us too... a time when I was confused about just who my beloved Cherille really was...

Whoa, tildes make great wavy flashback-curtains. Baked, I tell you.

~ ~ ~ ~

"...And if you'll step over here, Mr. Bidness, you'll get a tantalizing firsthand look behind the scenes at your proud sponsor, HotAnalCheerleaders.com..."

Wow. I don't know if I'd describe the smell in here as 'tantalizing...'

"Surely, Mr. Bidness, every job does have its issues and inherent compromises. The current Internet roadmap also does not specify the transfer of olfactory information until at least 2024, so until then, let's consider the 'ambience' the product of cost-cutting measures, and part of the cost of doing business..."

Right, right, say no more. I've unclogged enough pink, tight 'n' nubile storm drains in this life to know the pros wear gloves, clothespin their noses, and get the job done. ...Hey, holy shit, who's this?

"This girl? Mr. Bidness, this is one of our most recent talent hires, and one we're very proud to have on board..."

Hrm. That's odd. See, from behind / on her knees like this, I could swear... I could totally swear that's my wife...

"Er, well, if that's true, Mr. Bidness, I do apologize, but we..."

...Nope, never mind. Yeah, it's just the hair from this angle, but her ass is waaaay too nice to be my wife's. Too bad. I figured this would finally be that totally convenient excuse for divorce I've been hoping for, you know what I'm sayin'? Giving me all of her devotion, love and money for all these years and never once complaining about it... it just gets old after a while, you know?

"Yes, ahem, well, allow me to introduce the two of you. Cherille, this is our new sponsor, Mr. Bidness..."

"...Oh, hi, Mr. Bidness! Like, I'm Cherille!"

Charmed, Cherille, I'm sure.

~ ~ ~ ~

And then I looked deeply into your half-vacant eyes and kissed your hand, do you remember that? Looking back, it makes me laugh. What was I thinking? I mean, I had just been watching what you were doing with that hand... hell, with your entire fist. I guess Carlin was right... it never hurts to give the ol' immune system some target practice.

The rest, as they say, is history, my beloved. Of course, our history is still in the making, and you are the one who decides whether this is the final chapter for us. Ever since the Rev brought you back into my life-- at no small expense, I'm sure, I can't imagine who or what he had to pay off to get you free of that place-- I've never had a question about what I want, about who I want in my future.

All these months after losing my sponsorship, I waited, hoped to have you back in my life again. And of course, I could go on and on about how I unraveled completely when it occurred to me that you might actually be gone for good this time, for no reason I can readily understand, for no reason you've even bothered to explain. But I'm an old man, not a whiny little emo specimen. I know that these things don't matter. Either you feel the same about me, Cherille, or you don't. Either you want me or you don't. Nothing I can say about how much I love and miss you will make a damn bit of difference.

But I'm standing here in front of all these people telling you that I'm sure you are the one I want, Cherille. Maybe there was a time when, like you, I wasn't sure. I'm sure now... 150%. I've never been so sure of anything, not since I sent my future-themed goth-synth-pop demo tape to 4AD back in '82.

It was so obvious... I mean, you've heard the tape, right? They would have been idiots not to sign a fucking genius like me.

Sure, for whatever reason, they never got back to me. Perhaps they just couldn't see how many millions of dollars I was going to make them-- the dime-a-dozen story of a once-in-a-lifetime artistic achievement. Or, y'know, maybe the tape just got lost in the mail. I've always thought it was probably the latter.

Well, it's 2008, not 1982, and the postal service is obsolete now. I hope you see this loving and proudly open letter from across the vast expanse of the Internet, Cherille. I hope it finds you well. I hope you are just running scared, just for a moment, from the goodness that is our love. I know it can be scary sometimes... it's impossible for me to look directly at it, to fully comprehend how good we are together.

From the very moment I kissed your stained, pungent, adorable digits and casually displaced my beautiful, adoring, devoted ex-wife from mental recollection forever, I've known that some things in life are just too good, too sweet, too wonderful for mere mortals to truly comprehend.

All I can do, Cherille, is find the strength to say goodbye... all the time hoping that you'll soon give up fighting it too, and come back home to me... home... where you truly belong.

And if you do come home, don't forget to bring along your impossibly sumptuous ass. I'll tap that thang so hard, so deep, you'll think it's something to do with the Patriot Act.

All my love,
srs_bidness

---

This has been my LJ Idol entry for Week 5 on "Saying goodbye in a moment of bliss to someone I mistook for someone I should've cared about, but didn't". Please, please remember to vote for me, mister or missus! Officer Shirley tells me I can't apply for parole or a mortgage until I land first place in an Idol round! Come on! It's not like I punched a woman in the face or something and then totally got off on writing about it! And a bunch of you voted for that sick bastard last week!

---

"Well, Rev?"

"In my opinion, Mr. Bidness... for the intended purpose... really now, it needs more high fructose corn syrup. And you know, some halfway-decent writing might also have helped."

"Oh, come the fuck on, Rev. I mean, I do love the girl as much as one probably-fictional character with no consistent, palpable traits can possibly love another. But how do you expect me to write a real tearjerker with a topic like... like this? Man. I really, really don't know what Gary was thinking. This topic is so fucking stupid."

I heard the Rev, whose British accent had been growing curiously stronger with each passing entry, quaffing deeply of his probably-illicit cigar. He chuckled ominously, as per usual.

"Quite, quite. But then again, Mr. Bidness... when you get right down to it... they're all fucking stupid."

My chosen LJ Idol topic this week will be a combination of the topics from Weeks 1-4: "Saying goodbye in a moment of bliss to someone I mistook for someone I should've cared about, but didn't." I would invite all of you all to join me. Fair warning, though, I'm going to kick your ass.

Gary, should you chance to read this, a suggestion for our forthcoming "surprise:" Ban the letter "E" entirely from our Week 6 entries.

Has anyone else noticed that LJ has started selling banner ads to Scientologists?!

here thar be votin'

“Mr. Bidness, I'm truly sorry if I've awakened you, but I was unable to sleep myself... so I thought I might talk to you about a few pressing matters."

Barely conscious or no, oh man... I would've recognized that totally creepy... scratch that, totally creepily sexy voice anywhere. What the hell was he doing calling me at this godforsaken hour?

“Listen, Dennis..." I whispered hoarsely and hurriedly, desperately hoping to defuse this awkward situation ASAP before my beloved Cherille at my side might be awakened from her deep, hot, anal slumber. “...Don't get me wrong, Dennis, you're a great guy, you were such a great butler for those eight or nine days or so, we had some good times together. I'm sorry it just didn't work out, man. It's kind of ridiculous, y'know, I really couldn't even afford to have a butler anyway, to be honest... and we both knew it even before the first paycheck bounced, I think... I mean, I was living in a shitty 1-bedroom on the south side... the place didn't even have a garbage disposal and the neighbors would sing along with Creed or Evanescence or something all the time through the kitchen wall... I mean, you must have known that this gig was a sham, right?..."

“Mr. Bidness, I... um... no, there's no need to apologize..."

“...And, no, I really shouldn't have had that much to drink that night, y'know, I was in a really weird place with my divorce... and yeah, ok, I was feeling kind of uhhh experimental that last night, sure, but I'm not like that, y'know, I really shouldn't have led you on like that... it got so completely weird after that, that's why I had to, like, fire you as soon as you, uh, finished me off... I kinda, y'know, quite literally 'came to my senses,' you could say... look, uh, really sorry about the uhhhh lack of reciprocation..."

“Erm, that's all well and good, Mr. Bidness... now, if you'll please just let me get a word in edgewise..."

“...Anyway, look, like I said, I'm really sorry, I'm just honestly not gay, not even bi-curious, really... I was just drunk, I'm totally straight... I swear I don't ever fantasize about that night, not anymore... well, um, at least not more than like once every couple of months, man... “

“Mr. Bidness, please, please stop talking now. It is vitally important that we discuss your poll standing right now."

“...I'm sorry, but we haven't talked in two or three years now, I thought you understood... I mean, I definitely thought you understood well enough not to drunk dial me out of nowhere at fucking 3am asking me to pull out my 'standing pole,' for crissake, Dennis. I mean, of all the times... I'm staging my Internet-star comeback and there's a lady in the hizzay. So, like, have a good night, but man, would you please lose my number now? I don't do booty calls."

I urgently reached over to slam the phone back into its resting place. It was then that I heard an aggressively impatient, yet unquestionably professional throat-clearing on the other end of the line.

“Mr. Bidness, this isn't 'Dennis.' It's Rev. LaRock, your recently-hired LJ Idol campaign manager. I am calling about your standing in the polls."

...Whoops. “...Whoops. Um... sorry, Rev." Oh well. I was sure he'd just forget all about this conversation in the morning. I mean, I wasn't gay. I just said so, right? “Please, uh, go on."

“...Yesssssss... well, Mr. Bidness, as you may know, your performance last week was drastically improved. Your popular vote count nearly doubled, and you shot up from a 22nd-place intra-tribe performance in week two of the race to 4th place. Along with a totally arbitrary shuffling of your direct competition, disorienting voters just enough in your favor at a pivotal moment in your campaign, well... it seems that posting an entry far too long for any sane human being to read caused many more voters to just give up and vote for you regardless. So that's the good news."

“Yeah, I'd heard about all this. Seems like it's looking up. So what's the bad news?"

“The shuffling of the race has made impossible for my team and I to track or make sense of the other campaign results in order to plan the next phase of strategy for you..."

“I just knew you were going to be upset about that, Rev."

“Yes, well, I admit I was quite disturbed by this development. For a time I was having a dialogue with a few old friends who could have made clauderainsrm... 'disappear' for his deep transgressions against our campaign last week. But on talking it over at greater length with my team, we decided this wouldn't ultimately benefit your campaign... at least not until we'd had a chance to hack into his LiveJournal account to secretly take charge of affairs ourselves..."*

The Rev cleared his throat and continued. “It's like my daddy used to say to me: 'Really, Li'l Rev, what good does it do to eliminate a bureaucratic issue up on the mountaintop before you can directly replace that issue with, say, the oppressive governance of a shadowy puppet body posing as the real thing, pretending to act in everyone's best interests but really only acting on behalf of yours?'"

“Yep, I know exactly what your daddy meant, Rev. I held exactly the same position once. Didn't file those divorce papers until I'd finally managed to set aside enough for a deposit on a Real Doll."

“Well, Mr. Bidness, I suppose we both digress. As I was saying, the results last week were quite hard to make sense of as part of any larger trend that would help us establish a strategy for victory. The capable and dangerous gypsy_moon went from an even lower-ranking performance than you in your tribe the previous week to a well-deserved landslide victory. rm is no longer a direct threat to you at the moment, but foolonthehill has a similarly sized friend base and achieved quite similar results in the polling...

“...And, Mr. Bidness, you also had some stiff competition from people-- I won't mention any names here-- having the lack of shame, the nerve to write about their first girlfriends and stuff. It's quite hard to compete with this cynical, calculated, sickeningly-cute approach in a race so intensely fueled by estrogen as this one. Perhaps if you were able to post a video of you as a two-year-old child, saying 'Mommy, I done doodied!' to the camera while awkwardly holding a copy of Where the Wild Things Are and a squirmy yet very patient golden-retriever puppy, we might be better equipped to compete."

“Oh, Rev... I do know my mom has video of me beating a golden retriever puppy with a copy of War and Peace. I was about ten years old at the time, though. Would that work?"

“Perhaps, Mr. Bidness, perhaps. A lot can be done in post-production these days... cheap DIY CGI has really changed the whole game. Don't trust a tenth of what you see, Mr. Bidness. The most popular cute-kitten videos on Youtube actually started out as balding men in their mid-30s doing poorly-timed a capella covers of Snow's 'Informer' from their work cubicles.

“...But speaking of outright deception and animal abuse, Mr. Bidness, we've employed a few telemarketing firms in North Carolina to conduct some 'objective political surveys' by phone. This has been a highly effective strategy for many of our past clients, one that's won many hotly contested elections like yours.

“...We're now in the process of getting phone numbers for active LJ Idol participants and voters. Once we have a sufficient number of Idol participants to dial, we'll be calling around with our 'surveys' asking voters if they would, say, still consider voting for the likes of gypsy_moon if they learned that she enjoyed hunting down baby bunnies from her solid-gold-plated personal hovercraft with custom-made, long-throw hydrochloric-acid spray guns."

“Um, gee, Rev... I figure you know your business as well as anybody, but I'd be careful when you go making up stories about a woman hunting down helpless animals from the safety of absurdly expensive aerial transport. It could backfire... you just might find the media calling her 'America's Sweetheart' the following week."

“Mr. Bidness, I assure you that we know exactly what we're doing. And naturally, we're taking a multifaceted approach to ensuring eventual victory for you. Since we don't know whether the polling in the new tribes reflects any kind of a trend at this point, and we aren't sure what kind of entries will play well with the maximum number of voters, we've decided to try a new approach with idol_hans.

“...In his latest entry, our automated-writing-synthesis software H.A.N.S. was given all of last week's entries from all 26 of your racemates in Tribe One. It then wrote a brief entry which strategically combines key elements and phrases from everyone else in your tribe. No matter which competitors your audience voted for last week, they have no choice but to love H.A.N.S.'s entry this week, because, well... it's all of those entries they voted for and then some."

“Right, well, I saw H.A.N.S.'s latest entry, Rev, and with all due respect, it looked like a lot of gibberish to me. Granted, I couldn't stop reading it, maybe because I recognized a lot of the shit it stole or something... but I really couldn't make much sense of it either. Irresistible, but why? Somewhere between Joyce and one of your more entertaining spam subject lines. And what's with that MP3 that went along with the entry? That was... really something."

“Ah yessss... the MP3 reading." Though quiet, the Rev's chuckle was one of the most forwardly evil-sounding things I'd heard from him so far. “Some of your LJ Idol competitors like to add custom MP3 readings of their Idol entries, you may have noticed. Well, in the guise of accessibility, we too have had H.A.N.S. do his own reading of the casserole-entry he penned. But there's a little extra... technology and research that went into that recording... y'know, some things that haven't exactly been publicly published."

“All I know, Rev, is that after I finished listening, my scalp itched horribly, and I desperately wanted to vote... for myself. I kept going back to the poll page like a moth to a flame, trying to click on my own name again and again, even after the poll closed. It was fuggin' horrible, Rev. What the hell are you up to over there, anyway?"

“Mr. Bidness, suffice it to say my team and I are in the business of winning races, at any cost and no questions asked. I would simply advise that in the future, you ignore the goings-on over at idol_hans. From time to time he'll be posting experimental materials that may, or may not, be eventually used in your own unfolding campaign. But I worry that you may be adversely affected by some of the experimental techniques we are using before we have a chance to really understand their effects on voters... on consumers. A smart 'religious leader' never drinks the Kool-Aid from the big bowl out front, if you follow. Now, tell me, Mr. Bidness, when you listened to H.A.N.S.'s MP3 reading, did it itch all over your scalp, or just in the front? That part's critically important. My team needs to know."

“All over, Rev. Horribly. For hours."

“Hrm. Well, sounds like we'll need to do a little more tweaking of the binaural beat rate and masking frequency to ensure maximum subject absorption if you're ever gonna win this thing."

“Great. Can I go back to sleep now, Rev? This entry's already over 2000 words long, for crissake, and there are some nightmares about an oppressive secret-police state awaiting me at the moment."

“Yes. We'll talk more soon, Mr. Bidness. For now, enjoy the company of your lady friend. Enjoy it well. It was very expensive company."

I hung up the phone and contentedly turned back over to spoon anew with my beloved Cherille. I gently cupped her ass. Yes, truly, I'd recognize the shape of that amazing ass anywhere.

Couldn't resist giving it a pat. Funny... she didn't budge or murmur or anything.

Gave it a squeeze. Kinda heavy... cold. A little rubbery... even for Cherille, with those ass implants of hers.

...Yeah, well, the blessing and curse with these Real Dolls is that they really do live up to the name... to the point where a groggy dude can't be blamed for being fooled when his beloved hot anal cheerleader ditches in the middle of the night and drops 120 pounds of latex in her stead. That's one major Real Doll issue, and then there's the the whole “tearing where it really counts" problem. But I've heard that can be solved with the very careful application of common silicone caulk.

* Please note: This asterisk'd paragraph, and its surrounding paragraphs, were written strictly for entertainment purposes / totally limp shock value and are not, in any way, shape or form, to be taken fo'serious by anyone anywhere ever. This campaign does not endorse nor shall it ever sponsor acts of LJ-related murder, terrorism, or illegal obstruction of LJ Idol justice. May democracy, or something vaguely resembling it, prevail. I am srs_bidness, and I endorse this message.

You can vote for me here. By the way, someone completely shuffled the membership of all the tribes between the time I posted this entry-- which is more or less entirely based on the membership / prior-week polling dynamic of my previous tribe-- and the time the polls for this week were set up. Thanks a lot, Gary.


"God-DAMMit, Rev." I punctuated the second syllable, slamming the printout on Rev. LaRock's desk. My "goddammit" was so aggressive, so drawn out in its timing and pitch contour, it would have impressed even Bob Odenkirk. "Tied for 22nd place? How am I ever supposed to win back my hotanalcheerleaders.com sponsorship with numbers like these? Christ, Rev, I'm not even going to make it to week five at this rate." I laid my head down on the huge slab of glossy mahogany veneer and sobbed softly as visions of the week's single-digit percentage returns flashed in my head.

But Rev. LaRock just smirked, adjusted his JC Penney tie, stroked his neck flap gently and disturbingly. "Not to worry, Mr. Bidness. This race is just beginning... and so is our analysis. You got in touch with the right experts for the job, and did so just in time to save your campaign."

I managed to count my blessings and choke back my tears. "Rev, tell me what you know. How bad is it, really? Where did it all go wrong last week?"

"In some senses, Mr. Bidness, it's not nearly as dire as it looks. Of the 33 contestants in your so-called tribe last week, only six received greater than 20% approval from the voting base. And of course, it's difficult to ignore the fact that the winner of the round, rm, is packing no fewer than 565 mutual friends-- the largest friendbase of anyone in your tribe by a nearly 100% margin, and 21 times larger than your own 27-member friend list. If we adjust your polling result accordingly for this rm-friends-list differential, well, congratulations, Mr. Bidness! You've won the round handily, as you have just managed to win votes from 176.4% of last week's voters."

I spat and kicked his desk. "Christ, Rev... it figures. I haven't been around long, but seems in this business, it's never about who you know, is it? It's about how many people you know that are still pathetic enough to still be stuck on LJ in 2008. You know, all the people who are too nerdy or too insatiable in their comment-whore drive to have moved over to Facebook or something by now."

"Actually, Mr. Bidness, while rm's personal voter base is certainly awesome in terms of number, and this factor undoubtedly helped her landslide victory along as per usual, the top results from the first few weeks don't generally bear out such direct correlation of friend-list size to final measurable performance at the polls. baxophobia pulled down second place in tribe last week with only 141 friends, and kathrynrose was right behind her with merely 101 friends to count on. These are both well below the Tribe Five mutual-friend-list average of 184.73 friends, and most of the folks with 200+ friends placed solidly in the middle of the pack. Nearly identical results were seen in the first week of polling, too. So more friends does not necessarily equate to a higher polling rank, at least not at this stage."

"...Well, shit, Rev... your analysis just killed the convenient scapegoat of everyone who's gonna lose in the first ten rounds. So if it's not just a popularity contest this time out, then just what the hell is going on?"

"Mr. Bidness, my analysts believe that a more significant factor in your lackluster performance last week may involve your entry's unfortunate brevity."

"Look, Rev. I know I used to write more in my old entries, but thinking it over, most days, I really do believe less is more. And when I was a kid, my dad taught me something important. He said, 'Srs, once you go pointlessly making up lame fetish porn of any kind, end that fucking entry right away... before anyone's eyes pop out of their sockets from the uncontrollable rolling... and don't ever look back.'"

"Well, your father may have had a point, and in some sorts of races a connection with the adult entertainment industry can actually be more of a boon to poll performance than you might expect. But here's what we do know about last week's results.

"The bottom six entrants in the race-- at least, the bottom six who left their entries up for further analysis, as both gypsy_moon and changed_4good removed their entries following the polling-- these entrants all posted entries having an average length of 435.33 words. You were right in line with that losing word-count number at merely 461 words. The top six entrants in your tribe, on the other hand, averaged 1117.5 words in length with their entries."

My eyes rolled. "Yeah, Rev, I fucking noticed. Talk about an epidemic of tl;dr. Seriously, who the hell in today's troubled economy has the attention span to skim over 1118 words, let alone to actually comprehend or read any of it? You mean to tell me that the readers are just mindlessly voting for the entries that look like the most serious writing, just because they require scroll-wheel cruise control? This competition is nothing like the LJ real world. I once shot and killed a man for putting more than four consecutive paragraphs onto my friends page without an LJ-cut."

"Well, hrm, yes... it's actually true that there is a point of diminishing returns here, Mr. Bidness. The top three entrants averaged only 702.67 words-- still markedly more than the average length down at your losing end of the tribe, but not excessively so. As we move down into fourth, fifth and sixth place-- spydielives, lilmissmagic71, monkeysugarmama-- the word count goes up sharply into the 1000+ word range, with a direct correlation between more words and lower placement.

"It's because of this research," the Rev said cautiously, "that my fellow analysts and I think that there may be a magic length of entry that perfectly fits the expectations of an LJ Idol reader, and causes them to automatically associate the entry with good writing. It's early in the game, but we're starting with the hypothesis that an entry with the maximum chance of receiving votes should be exactly 702 and 2/3rds words in length."

"Wow. That sounds perhaps, um... less than credible scientifically... sort of like this 'intelligent design' thing I heard about a couple years back. So anyway, how are you planning to test out this hypothesis? Are you expecting me to sit there and count out every word I write for the next round?"

"No, Mr. Bidness. We would never use a paying client as a guinea pig. Using last week's top six ranked performances from within Tribe Five, we used our Markov-chaining speechwriting software to analyze the texts. This particular software package, while unable to write prose that can persuade or compel a listener of above-average intelligence, has written some carefully-modeled speeches that have proven very popular with Joe Six-Pack lately. We told the software to fully parse these six winning entries of the round, and then write an entry that has the appeal of all six winning entries through its own study and emulation-- an entry exactly 702 and 2/3rds words in length.

"If our theory is correct," the Rev continued, "then LJ Idol voters should be helplessly drawn to this synthetic-composite entry like a moth to flame. They will comment helplessly, finding meaning and universality in the prose, saying things like, 'This was SUCH a moving entry,' and they won't know why. They will find themselves adding our software to their friends list, as if an invisible force were controlling their hand in front of a touch-screen voting machine made by Diebold. They may even demand that clauderainsrm begin to include idol_hans as a mid-season write-in candidate. If this strategy proves successful enough with the polling base on our independently-operating platform, we can begin to incorporate some of these theories and technologies into a sure-fire winning campaign for you, Mr. Bidness."

"It really sounds like your team has thought of everything, Rev." I really was in awe-- compared to Morty, Rev. LaRock and his think tank seemed like the ultimate in consummate, and consummately sinister, professionals. "Is there anything else I should know going into the third round?"

"Yes, Mr. Bidness." At this, the Rev looked down sheepishly at his pile of bar graphs. "As we have been familiarizing ourselves with the happenings so far, the members of my team have noticed a certain... negativity in your campaign. Now, we also realize that this has been part of your platform from your very first press release in the previous season, and certain kinds of... 'dramatically' negative campaigning are certainly par for the course in the world of LiveJournal."

"Tell me about it," I chuckled. "Only two rounds into this thing and I've already OD'd on reading Darkly Profound Personal Confessions. I swear I haven't hated the world or wanted to off myself this badly since Disintegration dropped in '89. And I was in fucking high school when that happened."

The Rev was not to be derailed. "...However, Mr. Bidness, your unique brand of cynicism has grown more pronounced this season, and we worry this may not be playing well with voters in your key demos. We think something needs to be done to lighten the mood generally in your campaign... perhaps... well, perhaps something needs to be done to you."

Sure, OK, what do I have to lose, I thought. I've always wondered, personally, if an old-fashioned lunch-hour lobotomy might do me some good. The door to the right of the desk opened up, and I cringed, expecting to see perhaps an ex-televangelist with a sterile icepick in hand.

Instead, it was... OMFG, it was Cherille. CHERILLE!

She had always been my favorite Hot Anal Cheerleader®. And now, some time had passed - hell, she might actually be past the age of consent now.

I'm sure that my eyes lit up the entire office. "Rev! How did you know? How did... how did you get this through HAC.com HR? They have strict policies, these exclusivity agreements..."

The Rev smiled and put his hopefully-recently-washed finger to my lips. "Never underestimate the power of Rev. LaRock. You can thank me later. Just enjoy her... and use this energy for your campaign." He flicked his neck flap slightly, leered at Cherille noticeably, and then left us in his office to ourselves.

Cherille beamed at me, did the splits backwards on LaRock's desk, and perkily placed her poms in such a fashion as to direct my attention to the hidden yet willing cavity I'd had the chance to trace so intimately in our too-brief secret moments the previous season. Then she fell backward into my arms.

Our endless love, with all of its giggling and jiggling, had been forbidden back then. Well, just the love was forbidden, of course... the anal sex was sorta unofficially part of the whole endorsement deal.

And as my first "moment of bliss" in... waaaay too many months unfolded deliciously right onto my lap, I couldn't help but be amazed at the Rev's strategic blunder. If I had Cherille, well... what the fuck did I care about getting back to endorsing hotanalcheerleaders.com?

---

See the data behind this entry: http://stashbox.org/255078/LJI-T5-week2.xls. If you don't have Excel, just Google-and-grab OpenOffice already, or you could just try to read the delimited text version.

Don't get me wrong, people, there's a lot to be said for comprehensibility, linearity and following directions. I suppose if I had been better at writing clean, directed essays of the intro-point-one-point-two-point-three-conclusion sort, I might have actually won that Daughters of the American Revolution scholarship, or perhaps even just the year's supply of Count Chocula.

But I'm a complex man, with complex feelings. Honestly, ask me to list the things that I probably should give two shits about, and "Oh, y'know, all of 'em TEE HEE" is actually a valid and honest response. It's not me pulling my best impression of America's favorite vapid Sephora-enamored sow; since it is now almost a full week on from the instant invention of the spin-term "gotcha journalism," that shit is officially old meme as it sits. And besides, you sure as hell aren't going to catch Sean Hannity rubbing one out to looped replays of my response over the bathroom-stall monitors.

But let's start, in fact, with this presidential race. Perhaps we could also mention the supposed financial crisis. Throw in global warming. The state of my 401k. Net neutrality. LJ Idol... or these days, LiveJournal in general. Gainful employment. Your favorite band. Whether my date's ass looks big in those jeans. The hopefully matching set of index finger and thumb that have been sitting, unexplained, in a baggie in my freezer since roughly St. Patrick's Day '06. Or perhaps the story behind said digits, of which I haven't the slightest snatch of detail, aside from the fact that they sure as hell aren't mine.

None of these things are of any real concern to me. And I could list a lot more things I don't care about, if I cared enough, which I don't. Call me an asshole, that's fine. You'd be at least half right.

So since we've established that I care about any number of important things maybe only slightly less than the average contemporary American, let's turn an already highly questionable theme on its head. What's left, then? What does an Internet ex-celebrity of my former stature concern themselves with on a daily basis?

In the interest of brevity and clarity, I'll say just this: my collection of amateur wrist porn.

It's an archival-quality collection. When I pass on, some lucky museum-- I haven't decided just which one yet, but I've narrowed it down to MOMA, the Smithsonian, or maybe the Living Bible Museum in Mansfield, Ohio-- is going to absolutely shit themselves when they see all these lurid wrist depictions.

I'm accepting further additions to the collection in the comments. But I'm afraid I can't offer much compensation. I'm really pretty firm on the whole "amateur" requirement.

My Father was expecting company. He was always one to pride himself on his adherence to the values considered important when he was a young man. He liked to cook, he liked to dress neatly, and he liked to keep a certain order in his surroundings. Tonight he had gone to great lengths to produce an exquisite meal for himself and his guest, which was almost ready. He was dressed opulently and would have been amused to see himself constantly adjusting his jacket, if he'd noticed. The table was prepared, the flowers had been set out, and the drinks were ready on the sideboard.

Sitting in his chair, meticulously double checking each element of his surroundings, my Father's eyes fell upon the clock. He had been patient, and it would be soon. He would often reflect on his curious journey through life and the patience he had to endure to simply move with it. A gregarious man who loved his friends who had long since lost contact with him. A family man who loved his wife and children whom he hadn't seen for years. Happy with his lot, and then moved to another place. The meticulous state of his house was a testament to his ability to completely adapt to any circumstance, and yet he still felt incomplete.

As my Father mused upon his circumstances, there was a shout in the distance. Not startled, he arose and walked into the kitchen.

I shouted in dismay when I walked into the hospital room. I had only been asleep in the common room for a few hours when I was roused by the nurse, who told me my attendance had become urgent.

My Mother had been ill for a number of years and she now lay close to death in front of us. The invasive tubes and equipment, I suppose, denied her a great deal of dignity in her final seconds, but then dignity was the last concern I had at that moment. "Say goodbye, children," I whispered to my family, trying to distract myself from my own feelings of pain, of loss, of anger, of despair, and of emptiness. I had not endured this kind of horror since my Father had died when I was quite young, thirty years earlier, and now I suffered the same horror again as I watched my Mother take her last breath.

There was a knock at the door. My Father allowed himself a half smile. He had waited thirty years for this moment, and everything was ready. He adjusted his jacket, turned on his heel, and went to answer it.

For those of you who weren't following LJ Idol last season and are new to this dangerous little game, I left the contest on the eve of the top 50 in a special, contestants-only vote. My peers decided they had had enough of me, which was a bitter pill to swallow. As an entertainer whose star was beginning to rise, it was a near fatal blow. I went from the walk of stars to skid row over night. I lost all of my sponsorship deals. Do you have any idea how hard it was to give-up my VIP status at hotanalcheerleaders.com? Granted, there are stories worse than mine. One night, I was walking the streets trying to make sense of all of this, when worldofcharlie crawled out of a dumpster and offered me a $5 hand job. I heard spydielives spent some time "resting" in a private facility up north. If I could say one thing to the n00bs coming into the contest this season it would be this: Idol will swallow you whole and then spit you out like a bulimic high school girl giving head with a poor gag reflex and doing ipecac shots with her retainer still in her mouth. This ain't for nancy boys and prima donnas, junior. This shit is real. We go where eagles dare and I ain't no goddamn son of a bitch. You better think about it, baby.

Ah, but this is supposed to be an introduction. So who is srs_bidness? I'm sure some people view this journal as a thorn, even a cancer. Some people think this journal is merely fiction and that humor is an ineffective vehicle. Some people think this journal shits where it eats. Some people don't get it and probably never will. Hopefully you will. After you've read your 50th entry about someone's harrowing experience at the hands of an abuser and "I Will Survive" is playing as a soundtrack in your head on repeat, as it undoubtedly will if it hasn't already in this round of introductions, you can always come here for a good laugh and some quality writing, or at the very least, a run-on-sentence that just barely made its point. I like to think of this journal as the occasional conscience of LJ Idol in a jester's outfit. It's a place where things are absurd, a mirror image of the contest in which it resides.

But this year I have a strict "No BiPolyPaganGeek" policy in effect. It's become so cliché. I'm still down with the blind chicks, though. They really know how to party.

In the months since The Previous Competition ended for me, I have been thoroughly, irreversibly transformed.

At first, my impossible shame and unrelenting sorrow led me back, again and again, to the very first moment I knew. I allowed myself to be shattered over and over. But at some point it could no longer really affect me. After all, how deeply can one quaff from a bottomless chalice of despair?

Not to mention... everything looks endlessly black and blackly endless (oh-so-deliciously sweet or not) when you're trying to finish off that bottle of Prestone 50/50 prediluted. But no matter what the bottle says, you do get your sight back eventually. And I'm living proof.

The final result: I am now leaner, now meaner, perhaps excessively so in both cases... like a Weight Watchers frozen dinner (two points) as personally served to an utterly tone-deaf, morbidly obese individual by a nic-fitting Simon Cowell.

With this transfiguration from mere mortal to an unfeeling and most likely unstoppable force of nature, some might make note of my present machine-like traits and tendencies.

In fact, since the incident, I've had a few passers-by come up to me and say, "Hey, I know you... aren't you that TRS-80 in my parents' basement?" You wouldn't believe how often this actually happens now.

I woke up one morning in June. It was then I realized that I had learned how to stop feeling... how to stop feeling everything... except the smoldering, barely controllable rage, of course.

And just when I thought I couldn't go any lower, Bennigan's went under. I fucking loved me a Monte Cristo.

It was at that point that it all made sense... that the surprisingly obvious course of recourse became surprisingly obvious.

Here we are, folks.

Now, don't get me wrong, since I last rapped at ya, it's not been all about staring directly into the abyss, listening to Gorecki's 3rd (or, at the worst of it, Conor fucking Oberst), aimlessly sucking down pack after pack of Kafka Spirit unfiltereds. I took the time and the breach-of-contract settlement I won from Howie's Tanning Salon and Bait Shop, went and set me up some focus groups. I've got all their notes now.

And, well, between the undeniable power of marketing and my hot, new, PTSD-inspired sociopathic stylings, I guess this all means you can expect a few things to be different this time around. You'll see.

You'll all see.

And when you're all snugly eGathered around me @ the winner's circle, folks, the first round of Prestone's on me.

"So, what did you think?"

Curtis was in his usual Thursday night spot, the beanbag chair in my living room.

"I can't believe you made me watch that instead of Lost. I mean it was funny and all, but, I mean... c'mon! LOST!"

"Yeah, but what did you think about the movie?" I asked again.

"Dude, if I wanted a story full of thous and thees I could've just read the Bible. And it was confusing. They spend the whole movie trying to figure out who they and what they're doing and then they die for no reason." I smiled at Curtis with a hint of compassion that was lost on him. "Did they even figure out which was which?"

"It would seem that Gary Oldman was Rosencrantz and Tim Roth was Guildenstern. But they never really said for sure. It doesn't even really matter, that wasn't the point of the story."

"If you ask me, bro, it was pretty fucking stupid. Everyone knew who they were when they appeared magically out of nowhere. And what was with all the Hamlet shit?"

"Think about it, Curtis. Delve"

Curtis started laughing, then said in a really bad English accent, "When's he going to delve I kept asking myself?" He switched back to his normal accent. "That was pretty funny."

"Seriously, Curtis. Didn't it seem... familiar?"

"Well, dude, it was full of Hamlet, of course it seemed familiar."

I sighed, then decided to use Guildenstern's approach with my Rosencrantz. "Curtis, what's the first thing you remember?"

"Well he was flipping a coin over and over and it kept coming up heads....."

"No Curtis, I mean... what's the first thing you remember. About you."

"Ohhhh, like they did in the movie. Ok, ok... I'll play. Uhhhh, so like, my very first memory? After all the things I forgot?

I smiled again and nodded, trying not to visibly cringe. This was going to be hard.

"Pale sky before dawn, a man standing on his saddle to bang on the shutters... I'm just fuckin' with you. Ummmm...."

Curtis became quiet. The familiar, inexplicable light which filled his face drained as the silence grew. It was gradually replaced with confusion. The silence became uncomfortable but finally he spoke again, haltingly.

"I... I remember meeting you at the hotel in Niagara Falls. This is weird, it's like... like, I've got these vague impressions of high school. Something about a roller rink and a Cutlass Supreme... but... dude, this is freaking me out. Does this happen to everyone that watches this movie?"

"That's why I wanted you to watch this movie with me Curtis. You..." I swallowed hard. "You're kinda like them."

"Bro, have you been dipping into the sauce again? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Curtis, why do you think your first memory is the first time you appeared in my journal and the only thing you remember about your younger life also appeared in my journal?"

Curtis was quiet. He reclined backward in the beanbag chair, pulling his knees into his chest with his arms. He looked at me sadly and with disbelief.

"You mean I'm..."

I cut him off. "No Curtis, don't say it. Don't even think it, because it's not true. You mean a lot to me and to quite a few other people who have gotten to know you. You're just... a different kind of person who existed in a specific place in a specific time, which when you think about it, is no different than anyone else."

"So... like this was my time and my place. Your friend for this LJ Idol bullshit?"

"Well, I did give you the best lines. I made a better straight man."

Curtis was quiet again for what seemed like an eternity. He finally broke it to say, "Is it getting cold in here, bro?"

I nodded at him. "The lights aren't on us any more."

"You know this sucks. It really, really sucks. So like, Howie? Morty? Randi?"

I nodded again.

"How did they take it?"

"Well, Morty and Randi knew from the beginning. Randi took it kind of hard since she never got a chance to really grow before our plug was pulled, but she's okay with it. Howie, well... techincally Howie's been gone for a while."

Curtis sat up in the beanbag chair. "Dude, you had all those other plans. Another Howie commercial, the voodoo dolls, the whole stalker gambit. What a shame." Curtis thought for a moment then added, "Maybe like, I could get my own thing you know? Call it 'Curtis' and get that chick from The Sopranos to play my sister and move to L.A. Or, or... 'Srs Loves Curtis' or, wait, that'd be kinda gay. 'After Srs' maybe?" Curtis chuckled a bit to himself and I grinned, glad to see a little of his spark back. He became solemn again for a moment and looked at me. "I guess this is the way I was meant to be and didn't have much of a choice. I could have never existed at all, I suppose. Of all the people I could've had for a best friend, I'm glad I got to be yours, bro."

I was starting to get a little choked-up, but I managed to get out, "I'm glad I got to be your best friend, too."

"So... like, is this it? The last one?"

I nodded.

"Is this... is this going to hurt?"

I shook my head. "No Curtis, you won't feel a thing."

"Ok, so how do we do this? Do I get any final words?"

"Do you have something you want to say?"

"Not really. I just feel like, you know, there should be a blindfold and a cigarette. And a Tombstone pizza."

"Nope, it just ends when it ends. So.. are you ready?"

"Wait wait wait... can I tell a joke?"

"Sure, Curtis."

"Ok. Back in World War II, I was stationed in a small town in France where I was dating a local opera singer. Nearly all ofthe men were off fighting the Germans so most of the civil offices were filled with nuns from the nearby motherhouse. They were doing the daily clerical tasks of keeping the municipal bureaucracy working. The opera house was closed due to the war, but my girlfriend liked to practice in the evenings after working all day in a factory to support the war effort. An ordinance was in effect, however, which prohibited 'excessive' noise after 7pm. After receiving a couple of fines for practicing her singing, she decided to go to the local courthouse with the intent to bribe a local official. I went with her for moral support and waited on the steps of the courthouse while she went inside. She emerged from the courthouse and let out the most beautiful aria I'd ever heard. I said, 'Is that a nun in your pocket or are you just happy to C me?'"

I groaned. "That was a long way to go for a Mae West pun. You sure you want that to be the last thing people remember you for?"

"Actually, there's one more thing. Roll credits!"


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=emGHTCaz_cE

Life is full of people who try tell you what you are, who you can be, and what you should do. This is especially true when you purposefully stray from the pack or stick the triangular piece in the round hole, just to see what would happen. Someone is always there to remind you that you're doing it wrong, only because you're not doing it the way they would like, not because there's only one way it can be done. It can sometimes be a challenge to stay the course you've set for yourself. When you show your resolve and refuse to back-down, you're written-off as having nothing to offer. I savor these moments, in fact, I frame them and hang them on my wall.



That's not my biggest challenge, though. Oh no, dear reader. That shit's a walk in the park. You know what's a challenge?

Morty called me last week. It seems that Howie was willing to have me back as the official spokesperson, provided I would agree to do a series of television spots for his shop. No big deal... I thought. I gave Morty the go ahead to sign the contract and on Monday I flew to Austin for the recording session. I was thinking there'd be some lame script which I'd fight with the director over and win their hearts with improv takes that would make the final edit.

No one told me I was going to have to sing. With a full band. And a backing group. I'm an entertainer but I'm not a song and dance man, that's for damn sure. So, unless this gets sucked into the void left by lacombe's unexpected exit from LJ Idol - submitted for your amusement:

When Curtis didn't show-up last night to watch Lost I was worried, so I went over to make sure he was okay. I got out of my car in front of his house. The street lights flickered ominously as I made my way up the sidewalk. I rang the bell, but no one answered. The house was dark and quiet.

I stepped off the porch and walked down the driveway along the side of the house. Hot, white light emitted in a burst from one of the basement windows then faded slowly. I could see Curtis through the window in what appeared to be... a white wedding dress and yellow rubber gloves up to the elbow. He was standing over a table draped with a sheet. I tapped on the window and he looked up at me, obviously startled. He pointed toward the ceiling, instructing me to go back to the front door.

I walked back around to the front of the house and waited. Soon a light came-on in the living room and the door opened. It was a wedding gown, and it had been cut down the front with three big buttons sewn to the front, making it look like an overcoat

"You ditch me for a hot date tonight?"

"What time is it?" Curtis asked. "Oh dude, I missed the show didn't I?"

"You didn't miss much. The newbs are still boring, Sayid killed a bitch. So are you going to tell me why you're wearing this dress? Months of mocking are already in order, which I figure can stretch to years with the why."

"I didn't have a lab coat, but mom's old dress was in the attic so it had to do." Curtis showed me inside. "I guess time got away from me. There's only a couple of hours left and Valentine's Day will be over." Curits turned and headed toward the basement door. I followed him, understandably curious. We descended the steps and nothing could've prepared me for what Curtis said next. "I'm building a woman."

"Uhhhh..." I started, not sure how to reply to that.

"I know it sounds," the tone of his voice dropped drastically, "mad," then went back to its normal pitch, "bro. But, I hate not having a girlfriend on Valentine's Day."

"Join the club," I muttered.

"Yeah but, you've got all those Idol groupies, bro. You sat at home alone and watched TV because you're a looooooooser."

"And building a girlfriend in your basement is... healthy? Besides, most of the LJ Idol groupies are, how should I say this? Fucking psycho?"

"I was just fucking with you. Are there really LJ Idol groupies?"

"Sad, but true. Actually, I think one of them is stalking me."

"No shit?! That's awesome. What's her name?" Curtis had led me through the basement during this exchange. We were now standing beside the table with the sheet draped over it. There was something under the sheet, running the length of it. Beside the table was a desk with a computer and some other pieces of electronic equipment. Wires ran haphazardly betweem then and under the sheet. I was lost in thought, looking at the surreal display before me. Curtis asked again, "Dude. What's her name?"

"Ummm, Randi."

"It's a dude?"

"No, Randi with an I," I said absent mindedly. "What do you have under there, Curtis? You haven't been grave robbing again, have you? You remember all the trouble you got into last time, right?"

Curtis chuckled, "No, I'm still on probation from that." Curtis, for a time, had tried picking-up girls at funeral parlors. He'd scan the newspaper for rich people who had died then go to the visitation claiming to be an old friend. He was convinced that openly weeping at the side of the casket would make him seem attractively sensitive and vulnerable. He had been to two different visitations that day. At the second one, he accidentally dropped the phone number he got from a girl at the first one into the casket. Later when he couldn't find it, he took it upon himself to retrieve it. "Don't tell me you wouldn't have done the same thing."

"She was hot," I admitted. "Wasn't she the one who turned you in?"

"Yeah, I had told her a story about how me and her dead uncle had bought matching ties at the mall and that it was hard to see him being buried in it. So when I went back to get the digits, I grabbed his out of the casket while I was there. Thought it'd make a nice touch to the story some day, you know, to wear the 'matching' tie? I wore it to her sorority formal. Who has their ties monogrammed? I thought it was the brand name or something." Curtis picked up the yellow kitchen gloves that were laying on top of the sheet. He snapped them on dramatically.

"If you don't have severed body parts under there Curtis, why the gloves and the, uh, lab coat?"

Curtis looked at me like I was the crazy one. "Dude, there are rules about being a mad scientist. Like, lab coat, rubber gloves... and electricity. I wasn't lucky enough to have a thunderstorm tonight so I took apart the 220 volt socket behind the dryer, spliced one of those heavy duty orange extension cords to it. Then I took the switch out of the breaker box and hard wired the incoming current to that socket.

"That would explain the street lights flickering."

Curtis began laughing, that deep cackle of a mad scientist. "That fucking rules. So, like, is 'Randi with an I' not a babe?"

"Dude, she's like 15."

Curtis looked at me silently, like he was waiting for more. When I didn't say anything he asked, "Yeah, but, is she hot?"

"Curtis, didn't you go to jail for that, too?"

"How the hell was I supposed to know she was only 14. She looked at least 16." Curtis, for a time, had tried picking-up girls at roller-skating rinks. He'd wear his old highschool class ring and skate backwards a lot. Then, during the couples-only songs, he'd stand alone looking sensitive and vulnerable in the blacklight and disco-ball sparkle. I'm not telling the rest of this story and it's a good thing the back seat of his Oldsmobile Cutlass couldn't talk.

"You don't... have a live, willing participant under there do you?" I asked.

"If I had a live, willing participant I wouldn't be building a woman." Curtis grabbed the sheet and ripped it off the table with a flourish. Lying on the table was a collage of images, representing various body parts, pieced together with Scotch tape over the form of a female mannequin. Where the breasts were, Curtis had balanced two large canteloupes and there were wires coming out of them, leading to the hardware on the desk.

I gasped audibly. "Dude, that's... scary, but in an awesome kind of way."

"I know, right? Bro, check it out. I've got Debra Messing's hair taped at the top. You see if you can guess the rest."

I looked over the photos. "Ok, the nose is definitely Elizabeth Montogomery."

"Right on, bro. Could there be any other nose on the perfect woman? I think not."

There was a photo of bikinied breasts over the canteloupes. "Heidi Klum, right?" I asked poiting at them.

"Rock on," Curtis said beaming with pride.

"The knees are Scarlett Johansson, I know them anywhere. Those are aren't her thighs though?"

"Maria Sharapova, dude."

"Holy shit you're brilliant Curtis! And the calves?"

"Jane Russell. She's on the hips, too."

"I'm surprised you didn't put her on the canteloupes. The mouth is... oh shit what's her name? Um... Claire Danes?"

"Yup. I always melt when she does that little frowny-smile thing."

"I notice you have the eyes and cheekbones as a single photo. It looks familiar but I can't place it. Great eyes."

"Imagine a mask over it."

I gazed a little longer. "Dude! Earth Kitt?"

"Meow!" we said in unison.

"You can't see it, but Beyonce's ass is underneath the mannequin."

"Excellent choice. So what's the plan here, Curtis?"

Curtis looked around. "Well, I think everything is ready to go. I was doing a power test when you tapped on the window." He handed me a pair of welder's goggles and began putting on his. "You ready for this, bro?"

I placed the strap over my head and put the dark lenses over my eyes. "Totally," I said and stepped back from the table. Curtis reached for a switch on the desk and flipped it. The hot, white light I had seen from the driveway flashed and filled the basement. A large buzzing sound accompanied it for maybe 10 seconds then there was a loud POP and the light was gone. All the lights and the equipment on the table went out as well. Judging from the darkness of the basement windows, the power was gone from the whole block.

I removed my goggles. The smell of cooking canteloupe was overpowering and small orange flames danced on the table as the pictures curled on the mannequin in the heat. In the light of the fire I walked over to Curtis and patted him on the back of his white wedding dress.

"Well Curtis, tomorrow is another day," I said. "A nice day to..."

Curtis shook his head at me, daring me to finish.

"...STARRRRT AGAAAAAAAAAAAAAIN. YOW!"