My eight-year-old twin nephews asked me if it was alright for Flat Stanley to visit me. For those of you who don’t know who Flat Stanley is, Flat Stanley is a children’s book character who was flattened by a bulletin board which made him paper thin. Being paper thin, Flat Stanley has the the ability to travel around the world in an envelope and experience the various exotic locales. After his “visit” is through, Flat Stanley is mailed back to the sender, along with a series of photographs illustrating his adventure.

For my assignment I was given a blank Flat Stanley template and I had to illustrate my own interpretation of Flat Stanley and photograph him around scenic Cedar Falls. I decided I couldn’t simply do a straight forward assignment, so, nine facial expressions, two changes of clothes (all penciled, inked, and digitally colored), and three days of work later… here is my fun with Flat Stanley.

Can you believe it’s been two years? I like to think that quite a lot has changed in this modest blog since I published my first entry, “Music of the 1980’s: Lest We Forget” on Friday, January 7th 2011. I went back and re-read it. It’s fairly tame compared to the entries I write today, and reads like an Andy Rooney monologue (except for the Nazi and rape jokes). Little known fact: I nearly had a panic attack after I published my first entry while I sat at the desk of my old job that I had come to despise. After working up the will to direct all my Facebook “friends” to my budding blog site, I rushed off to the restroom to wash my trembling hands. I don’t know why. I guess I felt the need to immediately abandon the thing that just caused me great anxiety. So I stepped away from the computer and washed my hands.

Nowadays I could care less, and that has made all the difference.

BY: Noah Regan

Beginning with that innocent entry the blog has gone through a few evolutions. When I began this blog I didn’t really know exactly what I’d be writing about each week. One thing I did know for certain is that I wanted to stay away from topical issues so that the essays would have a longer shelf life, and not read like a Bush-era Doonesbury comic. Though, for a while I did open my entries with mock news stories à la Weekend Update. Here are a couple of my favorites…

  • A woman in Saudi Arabian was detained last Saturday after she was spotted driving a car—breaking the rigid Islamic country’s ban on women drivers. It’s said that she was easily recognized as a female driver because of all the stupid shit she hung from her rearview mirror.
  • Osama bin Laden’s personal stash of pornography was discovered during the Navy Seal raid two weeks ago. Titles include Debbie Does Dubai and Girls Gone Wild: Persian Gulf Spring Break. It’s similar to the American version except this one features wet burqa contests and women flashing their noses and mouths. Also, instead of throwing beads men throw stones at the women for disobeying the teachings of Muhammad.
  • Rumor has it bin Laden rarely got the chance to view the pornography because the odds of all six wives leaving the house at the same time to get their nails done is very very low.

Eventually, after seeing that few people cared to visit my blog, I did more Cracked style articles that were heavy on pictures and had a countdown number in the title. Those articles were more of a time commitment that was ultimately for naught, but I did enjoy creating captions for the pictures. Here are some of my favorites…

"Women here refer to me as King Leer."

Comics led me to believe that breasts had a similar density and feel of a Stretch Armstrong doll.

"Listen Chris Hanson, I expected the girl to be a virgin, not this margarita. Make me another"

And sprinkled throughout my weekly entries were my Whiskey Affinity’s, which were random thoughts I had while usually drinking, you guessed it, cat urine. No, whiskey. Here are some of my favorites that I feel you didn’t find funny enough the first time.

  • I’d like to open a funeral parlor next to a strip club, except my neon sign in the shape of an arrow will say “Dead Clothed Girls.”
  • I’ve learned to only ask my cat rhetorical questions.
  • The least sexy thought imaginable: Infants with breathing tubes in their noses.
  • Have you ever noticed when a scene transitions to black while playing video games you see a brief reflection of a guy sitting by himself on a Saturday night?
  • I wish to make a sultry saxophone album for people to play while they make love. The album will be titled “Butt Sax”.
  • Have you ever had a morning where you waffled between making a pot of coffee or opening a can a of beer? The decision you make will greatly affect the rest of your day.

Currently, the blog seems to have devolved into me griping about people I don’t like in society, and telling embarrassing stories from my youth. Where will the blog be in two years? Who knows? It could become a host for Cambodian snuff films. I don’t care. We’ll see where the future takes me.

A few things in society have changed in the past two years. When did everyone (and I mean EVERYONE!) start wearing sweatpants around in public. What’s going on here people? At what point did our society collectively say “F@#k it”? When did people start treating everyday like a sick day?

You know who doesn’t wear sweatpants? China. And that’s why they’re kicking our ass.

After two years I’ve come to the realization that I have a poisoned mentality. Here’s where my head space is at: you know the internet acronym “FTW”? For the longest time I thought that it stood for F#@K the world. I truly did. I didn’t even think twice about it. It wasn’t until seeing it misused the umpteenth time that I realized that I was the one who was wrong and that FTW actually stood for “For the win”. Do you find that as disconcerting as I do? I see three innocent letters in a row and my mind tells the world to go eff itself. It’s akin to looking at Rorschach charts and seeing burning churches and dead babies.

Speaking of babies, I find it strange to see on Facebook that everyone from my past has children. Having a child is the ultimate form of narcissism in my opinion. Keep in mind I’m not saying that people shouldn’t have a child, obviously. I’m just saying that it isn’t for me. I’m the antithesis of a narcissist. I’m more of the “self-loathing” breed who constantly undermines and degrades himself. I can hardly tolerate hanging out with myself. I certainly couldn’t imagine hanging out with a miniature version of me who occasionally pisses himself. If I had a smaller, weaker version of me constantly in close proximity I’d be absolutely vile to it. I’d say things like:

  • “Jeans shorts and an Elmo shirt? You look like an idiot.”
  • “Having trouble with your math homework? Good luck…shits impossible.”
  • “Son, I had a severe stutter also when I was your age. School’s gonna be hell. D-D-Deal with it!”
  • “I realize you’re only ten, but I can’t help but notice that your hairline looks a bit thin in the front. Just sayin’.”
  • “You hit your first home run? I’m proud of ya son! You enjoy this moment. I was about to teach you about sarcasm, but it can wait ’till tomorrow.”
  • “How ‘bout you go back to bed. The world doesn’t need you today.”

What else has happened in two years? Despite what I just previously wrote I do like children (just nothing that would be spawned from my seed) and I wrote and illustrated a children’s book. Expect to see my next book, Strange Tales of Wendell Worth: The Babysitter sometime in 2013.

“How much worth is a Brian Bosworth if a Bosworth can net worth?” That got one “like” on Facebook. Pearls before swine.

Let’s see here…two year anniversary, website retrospect, chumps wearing sweatpants, Cambodian snuff film, I’ll project my personal contempt onto my child, kid’s book, Brian Bosworth…

Yep. That’s all I wanted to cover. Thanks for visiting, loyal reader. And thanks for giving me an excuse to pound out a thousand words each week.

Editor’s note: (Yes! You the discerning reader can see that my year-end “Best of Monkey” is clearly me (once again) recycling a previous entry because I live a mundane life that leaves little to comment about. But I’m not recycling just any entry. This happens to be the entry that has received the greatest acclaim (as well as the greatest condemnation) from you, the loyal reader. So please enjoy the story that began my degradation trip. I’ll be back next week to celebrate the two year anniversary of monkeysgonetoheaven, in which I’ll thank the three fans who visit my site weekly over these two arduous years, as well as voodoo-curse those who don’t.)

With the London Olympics in full swing and seeing world-class athletes competing for the gold, I’m reminded of the Presidential Fitness Awards of my past. I always hated when this mandatory competition would arrive at the end of the school year. Apparently in the public school fitness curriculum, the goal of receiving a National—or the ever more coveted Presidential—patch was the culmination of nine months of parachute playing and square dance lessons.

That's me...second from the left.


BY: Noah Regan

I’m the first to admit that I lack a certain athletic prowess. I don’t have much for upper-body strength and I spent my entire grade-school career not being able to perform a single pull-up. When it would come to my turn at the pull-up bar, I’d ham it up by making overt groans and kicking my skinny legs like a frog in an attempt to mask my physical short-comings. I’d get a few laughs and then would be instructed to get in the bent-arm-hang line across the gym where I had to stand in line with the girls. To make matters worse, I couldn’t successfully do the bent-arm-hang either—and this time it was in front of my female peers.

Sit-ups weren’t too bad, but I recall one year I held the feet of one of my classmates as he managed to fart with each upward exertion. With my hands pinning his feet and my head trapped at ground zero, I lifted my nose as far from his cannon of a colon that had the rhythmic timing of a methane-powered metronome. After a handful of blasts to the face, I released his feet to cover my nose, and he went rolling backwards while expelling the last of his fumes. Now twenty-some-odd years later I wish I would have uttered, “Hey David, their called sit-ups, not shit-ups!” That would’ve been classic. If I had time-traveling capabilities I would correct my past by going back to that day and delivering that line in lieu of killing Hitler—yes, it’s that important to me.

You will receive one slice from the giant brick of Velveeta for every sit-up.

The real embarrassment would come from the fitness award ceremony. I would dread the day. My entire class would congregate in the gym as our P.E. teacher read off the names of the National Fitness recipients (red patch). I would sit there amongst my friends and attempt to diminish the significance of the achievement by saying, “This is so stupid, don’t you think? This is such a waste of time.” My friends would agree and then eventually abandon me to receive their patch when their name was called. The audience at the ceremony would eventually dwindle down to a handful of kids because everyone that was once a part of the audience was now standing at the front of the gym looking at the few that didn’t achieve this (in my opinion) insurmountable feat. I would be briefly comforted when I’d glance around at the few (but not proud) ill-accomplished classmates that were sparsely seated Indian-style on the parquet floor and see a cool kid that was still relegated amongst us losers. I’d think, “Hey, Justin didn’t earn a patch either.” My solace wouldn’t last long because Justin’s name would inevitably be called last for not only receiving the more prestigious Presidential Fitness award, but achieving this distinction several years in a row.

By the end of the ceremony there would only be me and a handful of students left e.g. the hyper-obese girl, the marginally skinnier but still pretty fat girl, me, and the wheelchair girl with severe retardation.

A slight tangent: remember the person in your class with a severe mental disability? I’m not talking about the kid with Down’s syndrome or run-of-the-mill retardation. No, I’m referring to the person who is severely retarded and is confined to a wheelchair. Every class has one (and suspiciously only one). The one my age didn’t go to class full time, and, now that I think of it, I’m not even positive if this girl was even in my class. She’d just appear random times throughout the day.

This story is about yours truly at my most deplorable moment in my life. God willing, I’ll eventually sink even deeper. But for now, this occasion ranks as my lowest and still makes me cringe when I think about it.

I was probably in fifth grade or so, and was eating my lunch in the cafeteria. Back then, you didn’t choose a specific seat at a table. You had to walk in single formation and sit at the next available seat. Essentially, whoever you stood next to in the lunch line sat next to you at the lunch table. By luck of the draw, the first two long tables filled up and I had to sit at the end of the next table. I didn’t think anything of it until a girl with a severe mental disorder was wheeled up to the end of the table I was seated at. Her hot lunch was delivered to her and her handler (or whatever) who then walked away and left her be. So there I was sitting at the end of the table, crowded by this girl who didn’t so much eat her food as she much more aptly drooled on it and smashed it between her fingers. I was aggravated by her table manners and found it difficult to eat (I know I sound like an asshole, but it gets worse).

The girl in question wasn’t what you would call lucid. As far as I knew, she could hardly pronounce a single word, let alone string together an entire sentence. I stared with disdain at her mashed food that sat on her tray as well as on the table surrounding her. It was then I noticed that amongst her culinary carnage was a pristine, chocolate-frosted brownie that sat unscathed in the corner pocket of her tray. She’d hardly eaten anything and I figured that the delectable brownie (which was my favorite school lunch dessert) would go to waste. I even justified stealing this poor girl’s brownie as payment for me having to sit next to her (I know, I know. I’m not a good person inside). Eventually enough people around me left to return their lunch trays and I saw this as a window of opportunity to steal this retarded girl’s brownie.

Say you wouldn’t do the same, and I’ll say you’re a liar!

While her head bobbed and pulled erratically, and her glazed eyes pointed in opposite directions while rolling back in her head, I regrettably reached over and stole a brownie from this severely retarded girl. Like a conniving Copperfield, I snatched it up in one sleight-of-hand motion, placed it on my tray, and returned my instruments of crime back onto my lap.

Success! I peered at her out of the corner of my eyes and saw that she was none the wiser. Feeling good about myself, I reached back onto my tray for the recently acquired brownie so I could enjoy the fruits of my ill-gotten gain.  Just then I noticed the young girls head drift back down to her tray. Then her wobbly, accusatory gaze drifted over to me, who was currently holding her brownie while simultaneously staring back at her with wide, pleading eyes. Suddenly, this girl who ostensibly couldn’t speak a word over two syllables screamed with all her might, “My brownie! He took my brownie!” I froze with the brownie mere millimeters from my open mouth. I knew it was over. I had to think fast. I considered getting rid of the damning evidence by shoving it quickly into my mouth. “Brownie! Brownie! He took my brownie!” She warbled once more while pointing her gnarled fingers at me. Instead of sinking even lower by shoving the brownie into my mouth, I placed it back onto her tray just as quickly as I had swiped it. I then tried to pacify her with a frantic, high-pitched whisper, “There it is! Shhh! Your brownie’s right there. Look!” She promptly relented and I stared red-faced at my empty tray while the classmates that were sitting next to me returned to their seats. No one said anything, either because they didn’t see what happened, or (more likely) they didn’t want to dignify what happened by confronting despicable me. I don’t even know if she ate her precious brownie since my shameful eyes stayed glued to the floor.

What was I talking about? Oh yea, physical fitness…or something. I got a little side-tracked. Oh well. Until next week, keep your eye on the prize and your hand on the proverbial brownie.

I like to think of myself as being unapproachable—that I walk around society with a perpetual scowl that says stay away. But apparently that isn’t the case because earlier this week while I was entering Hy-Vee I was stopped by a bell ringer just outside the entrance. Just a side note: are the bell ringers people who are working off community service hours? Because I can hardly believe that there are that many altruistic, young black men. Just wondering. Back to the story: I always shove money into the red kettles. It’s not that I care about the poor or needy, it’s because I feel guilty not fulfilling this petty obligation, and I also don’t want the bell ringers to feel like their time spent out in the blistery cold and wind was all for naught, so I try do my part.

BY: Noah Regan

On this uneventful day as I was pushing my money through the cross-shaped slot in the top of the bucket, the bell ringer (a white male in his late-forties with a large mustache) said, “Sir, I’m wondering if you could answer a holiday question for me.” I said sure. He then went on this long-winded preface that sounded stilted and rehearsed that seemed to be leading up to a lame joke. I hate it when people do that thing where they begin relating a story to you and its midway through that you realize this person isn’t telling you a story that happened to them but are instead telling you a joke and you have to stand there like a gullible schmuck nodding your head because it would be inappropriate to cross your arms and say, “Bullshit!!! When were you a traveling salesman staying in an adjacent bedroom from a farmer’s attractive daughter?” Thankfully, the “personal story joke” is becoming a bygone thing and you’ll rarely witness anyone under the age of sixty-five try to pull off.

Well this gentleman finally gets to the set-up and says “What is the difference between a Christmas tree and a wife?” I, being the begrudging second banana said, “I dunno.” Then, with an undeserved clever smirk, the man said, “Only one looks good with the lights on.” I forced a polite smile and perfunctory laugh at his Playboy party joke from 1974, but before I could escape he segued right into his next joke while I stood bent over next to this diminutive Jackie Mason wannabe as people walked past us and into the store where I so desperately wanted to be. The gentleman then says, “You look like a married man, what are the three words no woman wants to hear while making love.” I thought, is this peculiar bell ringer seriously telling me a dirty joke outside of a grocery store? With a plastered grin between my dimples, and my left hand hovering just above my bent knee—anticipating a good slap—I responded, “I dunno.” Then once again—with all too much satisfaction—he laid the disappointing punch line on me. “Honey, I’m home!” With my remaining scraps of patience, I shook loose one last polite chuckle and then seized my opportunity to ditch the guy. While cradling my split sides with one hand, I heartily smacked the man on the shoulder of his army jacket with the other and said, “Ha! You have a good Christmas, mister.”

I know the man was merely trying to break up the monotony of collecting people’s money while simultaneously trying to spread a bit of mirth, but the one thing I took away from the exchange is that I had to remember to exit through the other entrance when I left.

I’m not the type of person who approaches strangers, yet I had to do exactly that last Saturday while I had my first ever book signing for my children’s book Strange Tales of Wendell Worth at a Decorah bookstore. Saying that it was a book signing is a bit grandiose I admit. No, this was more like a no name dude sitting by the entrance of a bookstore leering at the shoppers. Ultimately it was a good experience for me. It was something fresh and novel that got me out of my self-imposed shell. Though, I didn’t know what to think during the first twenty minutes of my two hour appearance. I just sat there twiddling my thumbs. It felt like that scene in This is Spinal Tap when Spinal Tap was at a record signing that no one showed up for.

So there I was, a guy who refuses to approach people who give away free samples at a grocery store, ironically sitting behind a table selling his book. It took a bit of time but I eventually loosened up and began to simply chat with people as they entered, all the while keeping my book relegated to an afterthought so I wouldn’t feel like a salesman. Though I did feel like an alien. I interact with strangers so little anymore that I had to remind myself how make small talk with people, or at the very least, approximate human discourse. I did my damnedest to be polite, entertaining and as charming as possible, but as I spoke to people I simultaneously had a weird inclination to repeatedly scream the F-word for no reason other than it would be an inappropriate thing to do. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a bit rusty when it comes to superficial small talk.

The signing went fine, I sold a book (actually two books, but the other book wasn’t mine). I didn’t bring a pen because I thought it would be presumptuous. So when a little girl by the name of Madelyn wanted a copy of my book personalized to her and her friend Katrina, I had to borrow a pen from the front counter. It was while I was personalizing this little girl’s book I realized that I had no clue what to write. I got as far as their names and then drew a complete blank as I glanced up at this little girl who was staring at me with innocent, wide eyes. I could only think about what an unfortunate name Katrina was. I wondered if this girl’s friend was born before or after the hurricane. I figured this little girl to be five or six and I wondered how long ago hurricane Katrina was. I thought if she was born before Katrina that would be really sour luck. She might as well be named Sickle-cell or Darfur.

After realizing that I had absolutely nothing to write, I hastily scribbled the first sentiments to cross my mind that didn’t mention disease or genocide and quickly pushed the book across the table into her tiny, awaiting hands. I don’t remember exactly what I wrote. I only hope it wasn’t the F-word scrawled repeatedly in red ink like a belligerent drunk scratching on the wall of a bathroom stall with a pocket knife.

We’re sitting at one week away from when we can all feel superior to an extinct (Central? South? I’m going to go with Central American) native tribe who prophesized December 21st as being the end of the world. Does anyone even use a Mayan calendar?

“…so that’s why I propose we bump-up the luncheon with the Bates account to this Wednesday since, you know, the world is coming to an end and all.”

December 21, 2012, is the day when a calendar that no one knew or cared about three years ago comes to an end and the earth, the sun and the galactic center of the Milky Way come into exact alignment which will change the gravity of our quaint, little planet and send us spinning off our axis. Sounds pretty heavy, right? Say, if you want to look smart in front of your friends just relay this information that I learned from celebrity astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson (paraphrased), “What people don’t tell you is that the earth, the sun and the center of our galaxy come into perfect alignment EVERY year on the twenty-first of December. It’s no more special than your birthday.”

Feel free to school all those credulous individuals in your life. The only problem is that you can’t drop this info on anyone because no one that you know actually believes that the world is going to end on December 21st. Yes! Think about it. Who do you personally know who actually believes that nonsense?

BY: Noah Regan

So why do we care about some ancient prophecy from hundreds of years ago? It’s because we’re bored. We have no real problems so we have to invent them. It’s the reason we like thrilling movies. Do you think people in Syria lined up to see The Expendables 2? Of course not. All they had to do was look out their window. Do you think people in Darfur had an itching to see Saw V? Doubtful. They live in a house of horrors every day.

I think we humans have to feel some rush in our mundane lives to remind us that we’re still breathing. And if we don’t have any real excitement in our lives we must produce it artificially by trumping nonsense even though everyone knows better.

Though, the thought of the world ending does raise the question of what a person would do with their remaining hours. One thing’s for sure, I wouldn’t meet with my family and friends to share memories of the lives we led and the joys we shared. No, that would be far too painful. If I did that it would only remind me of the things I cherished that would soon be coming to an end. I would instead immerse myself in a marathon of Real Housewives or Keeping up with the Kardashians so that I would be reminded of the most petty and deplorable aspects of human kind. That way I’ll be much more accepting of the end. I could convince myself that I never really was fond of this earth after all, and I’d bid it good riddance.

It’s like if I were about to lose my hearing. Instead of listening to something beautiful like The Pachelbel Canon or Moonlight Sonata, I would instead have a dentist drill whining beside my left ear, a frat boy breaking wind directly into my right, all while a child screams directly into my face. Buzz, fart, scream, and then silence for the rest of my days. That way if I ever missed being able to hear I’d think back to the excruciating last five seconds that I could hear. I’d be foolish to do it any other way.

So hypothetically let’s say one week from now the earth begins to lurch and it becomes painfully obvious that the Mayans were right and we will soon be pulled off our axis and into the sun. Here are some of the other things I’d do…

  • Watch the first two season’s of Homeland to see what everyone is talking about.
  • Finally let my crush know how I feel about her. Wait, wait, I’d best play it cool. I’ll stare at my phone and wait for her to text me.
  • Get my driver’s license renewed.
  • Drink SOOOO much whiskey!
  • Play a real life version of Grand Theft Auto while whiskey-drunk.
  • Gamble in a tuxedo.
  • Update my resume.
  • Pick up breakfast from McDonald’s Drive Thru while still dressed in my pajamas!
  • Try heroin.
  • Play Russian roulette with a supermodel.
  • Ask my friends if they think Marco Rubio stands a chance in 2016.
  • Light a cigar with a $100 bill. (That always looked so cool.)
  • Light a bum on fire with a $100 bill. (Best not to ask why.)
  • Take solace in the fact that the world is ending three years before Honey Boo Boo has a child.
  • I’d splurge and order dessert while eating at Applebees. (Just my luck this would be the one time the waitress wouldn’t ask and I wouldn’t bring it up because I’d feel like it would be an imposition.)
  • Decide to grow a beard.
  • Wonder if America feels silly about having a major hang-up about gay marriage and marijuana.
  • Get high and gay married.

See you next week maybe!

I’m not the sort of person who gets excited in regard to Christmas. For the most part I find it to be an overly-commercialized, obnoxious, hackneyed holiday. Though, I wasn’t always the sardonic husk of a human that you read before you. I was at one time an idealistic, towheaded youngster who greatly looked forward to Santa’s annual Christmas Eve visit to my parent’s quaint family farm.

Thinking back, I now realize that parents go through quite a bit of work to fool their gullible kids so that they can feel intellectually superior to them. For instance, as a child, how was I not to believe that Santa visited me when there would be a single bite taken from a Christmas cookie (a bit wasteful if you ask me, but whatever), a sip of milk, and a bite out of a carrot from Rudolf, etc. If memory serves I think one year my mother actually knocked snow off of her boots by the back door. She was practically as clever as the guy who tossed on fake feet and left Bigfoot tracks in Montana.

BY: Noah Regan

If I were a parent I wouldn’t stop there. I would be pulling my eager kids around the living room saying, “Look, look at the couch indentation, kids! Santa sat down on our couch. Let’s see what he was watching on the television. Look at that! Santa likes Spike TV. Hmm, I guess I thought better of him. Whoa! What’s that smell? I think Santa used our bathroom. Sheesh, the man’s disgusting… didn’t even bother to flush, kids. Wait, oh God, where’s Grandma’s silverware? Oh no! My Rolex! Santa took Daddy’s Rolex! Wait, shush…do you hear the ceiling creak? Santa’s still in the house!”

Everyone remembers when they had their world turned upside down by being informed there was no Santa. For me it was Christmas Eve 1990. I was at the tender age of eight and giddy about Santa’s arrival. I made the mistake of sharing my excitement with my sister Claire who is two years older than me. As I was mid-gush about the visit from Old Saint Nick, she said to me, “You know there’s no Santa, right? It’s Mom and Dad.”

I was stupefied. I hadn’t even considered the notion that Santa didn’t exist. And I felt a bit silly because she delivered the information to me in such an offhanded, flippant way. By the way, how was eight-year-old me supposed to answer the question, you know there’s no Santa, right?

“Ugh yea, of course I do! I’m just really messed up on brandy-nog.”

Regardless, the revelation managed to douse my great expectations and sent my mind reeling. I felt like the interrogation detective in The Usual Suspects—my head spinning, my eyes darting around the room looking at figurines of Santa Claus and Rudolf. My brain putting the pieces of the puzzle together, like the ruse that involved all us kids being herded down to the barn on Christmas Eve to help Dad with chores while Mom conveniently hung back to finish baking bread or cinnamon rolls. It all added up. I felt cheapened. They played me like a hobo’s harmonica.

To be fair I was eight years old (one month from nine). No kid should be double digits and still believe in Santa. In hindsight my sister did me a favor by dropping some knowledge on me. Though, I think she could have exercised a bit of tact and waited a day or two after Christmas to break the news. It’s akin to an atheist telling a grieving family member at a funeral, “You know there’s no God right? Click Like a light switch, it’s over. Say, don’t cry. Take comfort in the fact that one day you’ll join your child in absolute oblivion…an eternal void of nothingness…am I helping in any way?”

Nobody remembers when they figured out the lies surrounding the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny because nobody cares about the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny. Let’s see, a miniature pixie with a fetish for children’s teeth leaves a quarter under the sleeping child’s pillow in exchange for the tooth to do God knows what with. Was there supposed to be like a fairy castle constructed of kiddy teeth? Yikes. Or, did the tooth fairy simply dissolve all the teeth in large vats of Coca Cola? The entire premise is pretty stupid.

And as for the Easter Bunny, that concept is specious and nonsensical from the very outset. What does a giant, humanoid rabbit who hides painted chicken eggs have to do with the resurrection of a Christian martyr? It’s as if the notion of the Easter Bunny was pulled from John Lennon’s acid-induced opus “I Am the Walrus”.

I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.

I am the bunny, goo goo g’joob.

It’s a wonder why there aren’t generations of jaded kids walking through life with trust issues since they’ve been spoon-fed lies for the first handful of years of life. But, like many abuse survivors, those kids grow up and reenact the abuse that was done to them by filling their own children’s heads with lies. Perhaps having our belief system shattered at such young age is what makes some of us incredulous as adults. I imagine that Michael Shermer was a kid that LOVED Christmas and was crestfallen after someone pulled the rug from beneath his feet. That is why Mr. Shermer spends his adulthood with a chip on his shoulder, having distain for happier people with deep-rooted faith, while he instead chooses to steep himself in boring evidence and proven facts.

“And that’s why gingers are three times more likely to be abused by a loved one versus a ‘normal’ child.”

So this year why not suspend your disbelief by getting blotto to the point where you actually believe an obese man is going to break into your home and leave you a present with no strings attached. And if by chance a large bearded man actually breaks into your home on Christmas Eve, you’d best keep drinking because you’re not going to want to remember what happens in the morning.

I, Noah Regan, am a lot of things: writer, poet, artist, holocaust denier. But one thing that I’m not is a millionaire. I know! Right? How am I not making bank on a website that receives a dozen hits a week? Well, nonetheless, I have never been all about the Hamiltons, and I don’t believe I ever will be. I just simply don’t want to be poor. Being poor looks like it really sucks.

BY: Noah Regan

A couple weeks ago I was standing behind this kid in his early twenties at a gas station. His appearance was unassuming: short-sheared hair, a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a t-shirt. I walked up behind him in line with my cheap beer in hand, anxious to get in and out. But when I looked just past the kid I saw that this wasn’t going to be a brief visit to the friendly convenience store, for in front of this ordinary kid was a single roll of Scott toilet tissue, a crumpled one dollar bill, two nickels, and what appeared to be forty pennies. I was embarrassed for the kid. I immediately shifted my judgmental gaze to the various cigarette lighters that featured playing cards and skulls. I snuck glances during the excruciatingly long exchange to see the poor cashier making multiple towers of pennies as the kid impatiently stood with one hand draped on the toilet tissue—either to protect it, or conceal it. I still don’t know which. Then, once he got the head-nod and thank you from the cashier, the kid went for the exit with his head held low in shame.

I don’t ever want to be in that kid’s position, buying toilet paper with couch change in front of complete strangers who may blog about it at a future date. Plus, you know he rushed home to use it! You don’t walk to a gas station after sunset to pick up a roll of toilet paper with your last scrapings of cash you have to your name simply to skip back home and display it on your davenport. No, time was of the essence, and for him, dignity had to take a back seat while his immediate needs were met. God forbid I gave him a good old fashioned rib tickle or backwards bear hug while I stood behind him in line.

I don’t want to be that kid. Though, I don’t see myself ever being in those dire of straits. For one, I’m of the sort that thinks longer term. I’m not the kind of guy who lives life a quarter mile at a time (or single roll of toilet paper at a time for that matter). And two, I’m a newspaper subscriber, so I always have an emergency plan B.

I’m assuming that I will always be somewhere in the middle in regards to monetary worth. Though, in light of all of this Powerball hysteria, I began to think about what I would do with a half a billion dollars. Sure, it’s easy to buy the stereotypical mansion, yacht, Bentley, 22-year-old Applebee’s hostess, but I want more than that. Like say for instance, what is the price of human dignity?

A few years ago, I received a solicitous call from an off duty police officer who was raising money for cystic fibrosis, or something. The kindly officer explained to me the various pledge levels. He said that any donation is accepted, but people usually start with a ten dollar pledge. But, for twenty-five dollars he’d yell “yahoo” at the top of my lungs. For a fifty dollar pledge he said that he’d get the other officers at the call center to give a round of applause. And lastly, the piece de resistance, for one-hundred dollars he said that he would do a somersault right now while I listened over the phone. He repeated “I’ll do it! I’ll seriously get out of my chair and do a somersault right now!” It seemed weird to me.

After I pledged the paltry amount that got me a genuine thank you and a badge sticker to display in the rear window of my car, I began to wonder how far I could have taken this all too eager officer if I had mounds and mounds of cash. What if I said, “I’ll give you ten thousand dollars to punch yourself in the face. No holding back either. I want to hear your nose break. What’s that? You’re not into physical pain? Well then, let’s go for emotional. I’ll stay on the line and listen in while you call your mother and tell her that you’ve always found her sexually attractive.”

I realize that the odds of me winning the Powerball half billion were pretty slim, particularly because I didn’t purchase a ticket. My money manager at Goldman Sachs informed me that my chances of winning would have increased exponentially by buying a ticket versus not. But, all that aside I know that if I would have won I would have morphed into Kevin Spacey in Seven.

Here are some of the things I would do with a half a billion dollars.

I would buy all of the wigs from Locks of Love and then casually stroll the halls of St. Jude Children’s Hospital wearing my wigs while coaxing compliments from the young patients.

I would pay Playboy’s 2007 Playmate of the Year, Sara Jean Underwood, 100 million dollars to have lesbian sex with 2012 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit cover girl, Kate Upton, in a secure room with no windows where no one can see them engage in the sensual, soft act that is lesbian coitus. No one! It will happen and no one will be able to witness it, especially me! For 100 million dollars I will trust that they did it, but no one, except Sara and Kate, will know for sure. And part of the agreement is that they can never speak a word about what happened in that room!

I mean, can you imagine? Wow!

After that Schrodiner’s cat display of power, I’d then pay Louie Anderson to have gay sex with Dennis Franz. Only this won’t be behind closed doors, rather it’ll be broadcasted on all four major television networks live from Madison Square Garden.

Can you imagine what that’d look like? You won’t have to because it will be burned into yours and 300 million other retinas.

I’d pull Gary Larson out of retirement for an eccentric reinvention of Family Circus.

I don’t wish to go into gory detail, but Madonna…she wouldn’t exist any longer.

I’d have Bruce Springsteen demoted to Regional Manager.

I’d hire the guy who played Buffalo Bill to be my wingman at a bar.

My bro here’s crazy into moisturizing.

And lastly, with my remaining amount of money I’d hire Rod Stewart to do a shot-for-shot remake of his video Forever Young, only this time I’ll be playing the role of the curly-haired ginger kid.


By: Noah Regan

(Editor’s note. With the holiday season now at hand, enjoy my only piece of writing to be published. Either read it here or on link to bump up the views by six. Enjoy!)


‘Twas the night before Tuesday, when all through the house

A man sits with indifference, clicking a white mouse

Because he is bored, and with nothing to do

He decides to browse Amazon to buy something new

Though he wants not a thing, his needs are fulfilled

He continues to shop, for time must be killed

DVDs and CDs, and Blu-Rays galore

With nothing of interest, he searches for more


Movie upon movie, the titles he did browse

Hoping for that special thing, that thing that’d arouse

The chemical secretion that the brain does emit

When it finds what it wants, so he can buy it


Within the assortment of goods, but one caught his eye

He clicks product details, and proceeds to stand by

Upon the computer screen, with a glitch and a flutter

Came a box-set of movies he could shelve with his clutter


The John Candy Collection he just now desired

Contained classic comedies during youth he admired

Uncle Buck and Summer Rental, Spaceballs and Stripes

The Great Outdoors he remembers was a movie that’s nice


Nothing but Troubles a flick that’s best to forget

But it still deserves a place within the box set

Canadian Bacon John did just before he passed

But most say Wagon’s East, a falsehood that’ll last


March 4th of ’94, the day the world did weep

For that’s when our dear funnyman forever fell asleep

With his mind decided to buy this collection

He clicked list price to see the worth of his affection


Fifty-eight dollars was more than he could spend

He doubted his roommates had money they’d lend

He pictured all the movies perched upon his shelf

And resolved to find a way to satisfy himself


He mined through couch cushions and drawers filled with junk

It was at that moment he realized he was drunk

Monday nights for people who have little to do

Crack the bottle early and one drink becomes two


Then two drinks becomes three, then three turns to four

And the body becomes transfixed on having “just one more”

With a half a bottle gone, and a void to satisfy

Is the reason he searches for things he can buy


Things he doesn’t need, and to be honest, doesn’t want

But he convinces he does, lest urges will taunt

For a cavity that’s trenched within a blank existence

Must be filled with more goods with substantial persistence


With reluctance he retrieves his card from billfold

Already his appetite feels more consoled

He types the card’s numbers with blazing precision

Already in his mind, he regrets the decision


He types the information with each keyboard key smack

Along with expiration date and three-digits on the back

As his eyes grow heavy, midnight the clock did tick

He purchased all the movies with a single mouse click


Beneath the warm covers he finally did crawl

And into a deep sleep he eventually did fall

For he knew a hangover would tomorrow encumber

So rest well he must, drift off to soft slumber


With sweet thoughts of the antics of Cool Runnings in mind

Notions of Jamaican bobsledders was comedy defined

The next morning he awoke with a pain in his head

He reached for the water he kept by his bed


With swigs and sucks and guzzles galore

He downed the whole glass and soon needed more

After drowning his parched core, his immediate needs met

He awoke his computer and turned on the TV set


“Your orders been shipped!” said the email from sender

His heart filled with glee, satisfaction and splendor

He selected Package Tracking from the message that was sent

To learn that Toledo was the journey’s extent


Its delivery date did the message predict

Was the following Tuesday, but he knew the day picked

Wasn’t always the day the package would arrive

Because of variables like how the deliverer drives


Or conditions of the roads or slow cars to pass by

But if events are superb the drop-off date it will defy

For it could come a day sooner than the email foretold

But it was out of his hands, no factor he controlled


Finally the day came that he yearned for so long

His doorbell chime echoed the usual ­ding-dong

Out of his bed he dashes with tremendous passion

His heart skipped a beat, his red cheeks turned ashen


He descended the steps with the speed of a sprinter

And opened the front door that blocked the chill winter

Standing in pajamas he glanced by to see

A deliveryman bounding past an oak tree


Leaping into the brown truck with an exquisite fine skip

Then a quick wave and a honk before he continued his trip

With the box firmly wrapped within his bent arm

He brought it to his chest to protect it from harm


He opened the box to reveal what’s inside

He removed the bubble wrap and tossed it aside

He admired his treasure, the thing he longed for

The product he craved that he couldn’t ignore


From the glossy slipcases to the viewer’s guide books

He thumbed the DVDs and gave pages quick looks

He positioned each case expertly on the shelf

Assessed his great work, content with himself


With his fulfillment fleeting and with nothing to do

He hopped back online to shop for things new

Back he was browsing to satisfy his lust

While his collection sat dormant, only to collect dust

I have a rich tradition of not knowing when to stop drinking, and my parents have a rich tradition of looking the other way. Back in my youthful days I’d have evenings of coming home intoxicated and then consuming two microwaved t-bone steaks in front of my mom in the small hours of the morning while doing my best impression of a sober guy who simply met up with friends for an evening drive. Or, vomiting on my pillow and convincing my parents that I had a stomach bug. I’m sure they knew what I was up to, but luckily they never bothered to broach the subject.

BY: Noah Regan

One night when I was visiting home from college, I decided to sneak some boxed wine that my dad kept in the fridge. I was secretive about it since I knew that my parents wouldn’t approve of underage drinking in their house. So, I waited until they turned in for the evening before filling up a glass. I spent the night sitting by myself in the living room downing glass after glass of red, while keeping my ears open for either of my parents possibly descending the house steps. At the time I didn’t have a lot of experience drinking wine. It wouldn’t be for a few more years that I would realize that you get different affects from drinking wine, beer and whiskey.

For all of my young readers, here is a rundown of how each individual drinks will affect your body.

Beer: After a couple beers on an empty stomach, you’ll get a great burst of energy. You’ll be optimistic and will feel an undeserved sense of self-satisfaction. But after a few more beers all of that will quickly fade and you’ll begin to get sleepy and depressed. You’ll then become nostalgic and will want to listen to bands that you enjoyed in high school. Beer will also shake loose memories that you’ve long forgotten, like stealing a brownie from a retarded girl in a wheelchair.

Whiskey: Whiskey will make some of your most inane thoughts seem pithy and poetic. You’ll feel like the most intelligent man in the room and you won’t hesitate to prove it with pedantic monologues and condescending scoffs. Eventually your mouth won’t be able to keep up with your verbose vocabulary and you’ll begin to stutter like Walt’s son from Breaking Bad as you try to say words like “idiosyncratic”, “in perpetuity” and “omnipotent”. But, not to worry, people around you will have stopped listening after your third glass.

Wine: Wine is an entirely different breed of cat. Wine doesn’t lead to very heady thoughts or anything of merit in my opinion. Wine will only make you dizzy and nauseous. The end.

Back to my wine drinking evening almost a dozen years ago. I decided to spend the night in and figured I’d class up my evening of scanning the movie channels for boobs by drinking a few glasses of the boxed Merlot. Over the course of the night I made multiple trips to the kitchen fridge to replenish my glass, and by the time I realized that I had too much to drink, it was too late. My brother, Abe, came home to discover me drunk on my parent’s sofa. I don’t remember what we talked about. All I remember is that he went to bed and I wasn’t far behind. As I’ve mentioned in a previous article, my brother and I slept in bunk beds far too long into our adulthood. He was twenty-two and I was nineteen, and yet we slept like Arnold and Willis from Diff’rent Strokes when we came home from college.

At a certain point while I was trying to fall asleep on the top bunk, I decided that I needed to drain some of the fermented grapes that collected in my bladder. As I crawled to the edge of the bed and felt for the ladder below me with one foot, I lost my balance and fell to the floor. My mother, awoken by the sound of her youngest child falling onto the bedroom floor, immediately came into the room. She asked what happened, I said, “I guess I fell out of bed.” I assured her that I was alright and quickly climbed back into bed.

Not long after I realized that I still needed to go to the bathroom. I decided to make a second attempt. As I perched myself at the edge of my bed, I felt for the ladder once more, this time with much more care. It didn’t matter. I fell off my bed once again and onto the floor with another loud thud. My mother once again hurried into our room to make sure her drunken baby was alright.

She said to me with great concern, “Are you alright?” I uttered with great disbelief, “I fell out of bed again?!?!” At this point I think she was starting to get suspicious. I assured her that everything was alright and climbed my crippled bones back into bed.

Soon after the second fall I realized not only that I had to urinate, but I also had the bed spins and cold-sweats that usually proceed vomit. Like Christ, I knew I was probably destined for a third fall, but I had to risk it. I couldn’t stay in that bed. As I began to maneuver to the edge of the top bunk, a voice beneath me cut through the stark silence by saying with great aggravation, “Stay in bed you idiot.” I heeded my older brother’s advice, lied back down, and managed to pass out with a full bladder while sleeping on my side to reduce the chance of asphyxiating on my vomit.

The following evening my dad opened the fridge to get a glass of wine and instead of being greeted by a healthy stream Merlot, he instead had his glass hovering below a stalactite-like drip from the box spigot. The family was sitting at the kitchen table as my dad lifted the empty box from the fridge and shook it. “Who drank all my wine?” he inquired. My blood ran cold, I knew I was busted. At that moment, Abe (of legal drinking age) swooped in to my rescue and said, “Oh, I had some wine when I came home last night. I’ll pick you up some more.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. I was off the hook. And yet, I still sold my kin down the river by saying, “Some wine?”

I was the best man at his wedding. Though, I’m not sure why. I guess he found some redeemable qualities in me, even though I’m the sort who would douse him with gasoline as he pulled me from the flames.

By: Noah Regan

So you say that my previous entry on how to secure your future with a woman who’s out of your league not only didn’t work, but you are now facing murder charges? Well, fret not reader. I’m certain that this advice will work. Trust me.

Alright, let’s get this started. Use any or all of these eight tips and you’ll go from a hapless hover-hander, to Harry Hamlin. First tip…

#1: Always Make Eye Contact

Women enjoy eye contact. So whenever you can show off those peepers of yours, do it. Confidence is what it’s all about, so give her a good stare from across a crowded bar, gym, coffee house, or through her bathroom window.

"I can see your heart beat."

#2: Get to Know Her

And what is the best way to get to know a woman? Rummage through her garbage of course! You can find out a lot about a person by what they throw away…

  • Coffee grounds: She likes a good cup of Joe. Why don’t you propose a day-date at the corner coffee house.
  • Used feminine hygiene products: This confirms your assumption that she is, in fact, a woman…so, that’s good.
  • Boxes of Lean Cuisine Dinners: Alright, these tell you a lot. For one, she’s single and lonely—the single entree section of the grocery store is the saddest piece of real estate on the planet, second only to the Holocaust Memorial Museum. Secondly, she’s not a good cook—bit of a red flag, fellas. And thirdly, if she’s eating Lean Cuisine it’s because she thinks her ass is too big. So upon meeting her, try not to mention her big ass. That’s a little something I call tact.

"Let's see, 90 seconds to microwave this, or ten seconds to blow my brains out."

#3: Pretend To Be Gay

This is the classic “wolf in sheep’s clothing” approach. If there’s one thing I learned from the movie I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry is the fact that if you are perceived as a homosexual, women will let their guard down and immediately befriend you. If your bad at lying and you don’t feel that you can convincingly tell a woman that you’re gay there’s an easy fix for that: be gay for a while. That way you won’t have to lie. Spend a weekend trolling Craigslist personals and rest-stop bathrooms—after that mind-bending weekend get tested at your local clinic, down a bottle of mouthwash, and then go in search for the woman you love.

This happens to every gay man all the time.

#4: Introduce Yourself

I know this tip sounds easy, but it’s really not. You can’t just stroll up to a woman and introduce yourself (unless your name is Harry Hamlin). You have to use a pick-up line. Try these on for size:

  • “You from Tennessee? Specifically Knoxville, 813 W. 2nd Ave, Apt. 6?”
  • “Are you an angel? Well, you’re about to become one.”
  • “Is it hot in here or is it just you…no, I take that back. I believe it’s this environment. I’m going to go talk to the manager. Please excuse me.”
  • “My love for you is like diarrhea. I can’t hold it in.”

Women find this man irresistible...just let that fact sink in, guys.

#5: Fake an Illness

Women are natural caretakers and are unable to resist the opportunity to feel sympathy for a sweet guy who’s suffering from a tragic disease. But it’s important that you choose an appropriate illness. You don’t want to choose AIDS, Bubonic plague, Super AIDS, or a mental disease that provokes you to violently attack infants. And definitely don’t fake an aggressive form of herpes that’s airborne and resistant to all known treatments.

"Yep, both ends are the exact same temp."

#6: Get Her Phone Number

Once you’ve spoken with her it’s time to get them digits. Don’t let her write it out for you. Grab a cocktail napkin, press the ball-point of a pen to it, and look up and wait. Why do that? It’s because if you let her write it out, more than likely she’s going to give you a bogus number. But if you’re waiting eagerly, people can’t think fast enough to come up with seven fresh digits when a creep is giving them the stare-down. Chances are the first six numbers will be legitimate; it’s the last digit she’ll change to throw you off her scent. So a few days later when you’re calling her up, and instead of being greeted by your soul mate, you receive a phlegmy hello from an elderly shut-in (Who’s overjoyed to be talking to someone…anyone) just hang up and try the next sequential number. You’ll hear your love’s confused and angered voice on the other line in less than nine tries. I guarantee it.

Even better, don’t write down her number, instead take out your cell phone and wait for her to regrettably utter her digits. Women won’t give you a bogus number if you are typing it into a cell phone because many people will hit send after typing in the number as a sort of “dry-run”. Your potential prey won’t put herself through the embarrassment of standing before you while you dial a random stranger during last call.

555? Not a good start.

#7: Patience is Key

So now you have her number and you can’t wait to use it. It’s important not to look too eager. You don’t want to come off as desperate, it could scare her away. That’s why it’s important to wait a full three days before you start sending her random pictures of your genitals. Make her wait for those unsolicited pics.

"I hope this doesn't count against my minutes."

#8: Persistence Pays Off

Love knows no bounds, not even the 1,000 foot boundary enforced by her restraining order. The only thing women love more than melodrama is playing hard to get. So what if she and her family had to move two towns over and her father constantly insists “She’s only a child!” Age is but a number, and sometimes that number is in the single digits.

Alright, I’ll stop there. I’m beginning to even offend myself. And that’s saying something.

"Listen Chris, I expected the girl to be a virgin, not this margarita. Make me another."

So in conclusion, just follow these simple tips and you will have success. No need in informing me about how it went, I’ll read about your trial in the paper.

Good Luck, Lady Killers!