In the spring of 2008, one of Mr. Jones’ friends voiced a simple irony: Being good at your job doesn’t mean you like it. Mentally we are underemployed. Unfortunately, we are restrained by the reality of needing a paycheck. Nothing like getting a fine liberal arts education and not using it to any real effect.
Thanks to the Internet we’ve found a way to be irreverent to a world wide audience. Which is better than muttering to ourselves as we belly up to the bar and goof on our fellow human beings. In the fine tradition of Alexander Hamilton– no I’m not equating this blog to the Federalist papers, but he did use a pseudonym as do we. Hamilton and others outlined the philosophy and motivation for the US Constitution; obviously nothing that weighty is going on here. This is cocktail conversation and odd anecdotes, in short we’re just making sarcastic comment on the “cavalcade of entertainment” that is our world.
Described as a man of fair intellect, Mr. Jones has always seen himself as something of a half-assed Renaissance man. Mr. Jones has a near photographic memory which allows him to converse on a wide range of subjects that are of very little interest to him. The things that do interest him (film, football, comic books, market volatility to name a few) all require a mild level of obsessive compulsive behavior. This site is attempt to organize his random thoughts. The late great George Carlin said it best, “These are the thoughts that kept me out of the really good schools.” Mr. Jones resides in Southern California and enjoys contributing to the decline of Western Civilization as a television executive.
It is unknown exactly where or when Holly Comesoftly was born. What is known is that she was, in fact, born. Not much can be said of the formative years either. The earliest accounts of her involve massive amounts of marijuana and the Georgia State Police. By the mid 1990s she had bedded most of the men from the UK, New Zealand, and Scandinavia and was very sore and dehydrated. Not enough can be said about her massive perfect breasts or that sweet, sweet ass except that Ron Jeremy once proclaimed, “nice boobies.” Holly loves to exercise regularly and can tie a cherry stem with her tongue.
She is a gracious hostess and has the numbers of all restaurants that deliver within 10 miles on speed-dial. She has been known to indulge in the odd cocktail but only if it’s within arms reach or at least in a nearby room. Unfortunately, Holly has had a health scare and was recently tested for a possible panty allergy. She’ll be going commando until the test results are final. Holly is tireless in her charity work and has spent countless hours telling people where and how to shove things. Is she the next Oprah or merely a beguiling saint with a flawless rack? Ms. Comesoftly resides in Texas.
Upon being asked to join this august group of freethinkers, Mr. Pius’ response was simple: “S&*^$! How the hell am I supposed to follow up on Holly’s bio?” Nevertheless, he foolishly agreed to try.
Born to amateur historians with an unusual fixation on The Five Good Emperors. Mr. Pius doesn’t like beer, having been raised on tequila from an early age. Mr. Pius is a Mexican, not a Mexi-can’t, but his swarthy good looks have led him to be mistaken for all manner of nationalities during his undercover escapades across Europe, Latin America, and Parts Unknown. Mr. Pius is a legend in his own mind, and will tell you to your face that “his style is de bomb digi bom di deng di deng diggi-diggy.” Mr. Pius really has lost on Jeopardy, baby. Mr. Pius’ passions include movies, sports, new music, reality TV, romantic dinners, long walks on the beach, honesty instead of game-playing and–wait, that turned into a different bio. Mr. Pius lives in Los Angeles, where he regularly blasts Anthrax while practicing law.
Gunnar “Gunny” Gunderson
Gunnar “Gunny” Gunderson is the last surviving member of the King’s Riflebeards (originally the Riflers but this led to confusion in IRS and Mother-In-Law circles). Created to secure the frontier with a strict shoot-first, shoot-again policy, the Riflebeards were eventually enlisted to clear out the Gnome Kingdom of the sudden onslaught of radiactive knuckle-draggers who couldn’t speak well enough to order a pint, and couldn’t grow anything more than muttonchops. Stouthearted Gunny, made his way to the Inn on the borders of the Gnomish territory to await his comrades-at-beards, sure that, like he, they would soon answer the call (and to drink a few pints–after all, one’s heart does not stout itself). It will never be known whether the call was even heard over the sounds of enthusiastic dwarvish whooping and cheering as his fellow Riflebeards all perished attempting to get their Going Down? achievement by jumping off the great dam on the frontier.
Hoping to rediscover himself, until the next big thing came along, Gunny took up work as a Handybeard, doing the usual sorts of things: breaking in doors when keys were missing, setting dry things on fire, and helping trolls maintain proper bloodflow. Gunny does not like new things, though he’s been known to stop for something shiny. He also believes that popular culture and popular opinion are akin to a cow’s notion of the weather, and dreams one day of building the shut-up machine to end all shut-up machines. He tries to share the good stuff, and keep the bad stuff to himself, but will be the first to admit he’s only dwarvish.