This article was published this week by our partners in parody over at The Big Jewel.  If you haven’t been to The Big Jewel yet, this blurb will tell you everything you need to know:

“It’s about time there’s a Web portal aimed at large Hasidim like myself. I applaud the launch of TheBigJew.com, and hope it will prosper!”
– Michael Colton, Co-Founder, Modern Humorist

You can check out the site by clicking here, or the link in our blogroll, or the other link at the bottom of this article.

Enjoy.

TO: Tom (My current boss)

I’d like to add you to my professional network on LinkedIn.

– Kent (the guy with the funny ties)

TO: Cheryl (My high school guidance counselor)

I’d like to add you to my professional network of people on LinkedIn who thought I’d be dead by now.

– Kent

TO: Susan (My old boss at JoAnn’s Fabrics)

I’d like to add you to my professional network of past employers on LinkedIn who were unaware that I was spending most of my time at work jousting with curtain rods and fitting myself for capes.

– Kent

TO: Sam Jones

I’d like to add you to my professional network of college graduates on LinkedIn whose future in advertising depends largely on whether or not I have courtside seats at The Garden this Saturday.

– Kent Read the full story

Popularity: 6% [?]

I’ve had a sort of writing dry spell lately. As my legions of TTM fans have likely noticed, I haven’t contributed a whole lot to the site lately. I have a new job, a girlfriend, and the meth empire for which TTM is actually a front. What can I say? Kent and I are entrepreneurs and we saw a lucrative opportunity. I’ll tell you what though, we offer the best customer service and if you O.D. on our product, we give you your money back!

I digress. The point is, I’ve been busy. The content on the site has been mostly driven by Kent and hilarious contributors. I receive a loud voicemail every other day from Kent that is almost entirely comprised of vulgarities and racial epithets that don’t apply to me. I’m sorry buddy, but you just can’t coerce hilarity out of someone. It has to come from inspiration.

And well, I found some inspiration the other day. The following is my commentary on a list from a website called “The Frisky” about what you should teach your sons about women. What kind of website has that kind of ridiculous name? Good question. It’s a site by women, for women. Anytime a woman writes something about how men work, what men think, or generally anything about men, you can almost guarantee that it’s completely wrong. This list is a decent example of that, although I do agree with some of what it says. The rest of it… well… You’ll see. Here it is. The list itself will be in bold, my comments will be in italics. Bon Appetit, gluttons.

Read the full story

Popularity: 17% [?]

Apparently I was supposed to run my selection last night. What would a TTM birthday celebration be if it weren’t kind of half-assed? Exactly. Thanks for validating me. Anyway, this one here is one of my favorites from the Coping Guide series. You know these kinds of people. I know these kinds of people. Hell, you might even be this kind of person. No matter who you are, this bad boy is guaranteed to make you shoot mucus-laden chocolate milk out of your nose and/or your ass. Enjoy.

Isn’t love amazing? It really is. Nothing else like it. Not even drugs. It’s a rare and beautiful thing when you finally meet that special someone. Who knows where cupid struck you both with his arrow? Maybe you had a class together. Maybe you met through a friend. Maybe you met on Myspace. Whatever the medium upon which your personal Romeo and Juliet began (except without the mutual suicide!), I’m sure you’ve experienced just how hard it is to keep that fireball of romance to yourself. Luckily for you, we here at The Talking Mirror are in the self-help business and have come up with a guide just for you and your boo bear.*

Step One: Always Maintain Physical Contact
No matter what happens, never forget this step. Your love will explode into a dust of broken promises and insecurities you never knew you could have. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, whoever you’re with; none of it matters. The rule always applies. You must always be touching each other. It doesn’t have to be normal or even practical. It just has to be. Common examples:

The “arm around the waist even while walking, running, swimming, or sitting.” This is a pretty common choice amongst the love-stricken. Keep your arm around your lover’s waist no matter how inconvenient it may get, even as you try to run up the escalator or go through airport security. If you don’t, they will disappear instantly. Guaranteed. Read the full story

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Begin Inner Monologue:

Mr. Jones and me… ba da dum dum dum da dum… Gawd I love this song. Is the singer Black? He could be from South America I guess… Like Puerto Rico maybe. Is that South America? Whatever, they all speak Spanish. His dreads are intense. I wish I had dreads. Man that would be so bad-A. I wonder if his dreads are what gives him that beautiful, chocolate pudding voice. Like Iron Man’s suit or something.

Man, this guy behind me is really following me close. I’d better step on my brakes to show him that I’d like for him to slow down. There you go buddy, see? Chill out. We’re all gonna get there eventually. Dang, he’s back up in my trunk again. What’s his problem? Speed limit is 45, I’m going 40! That’s plenty fast. Does he know what an accident at 40 miles per hour would do to your body? It would turn into a bloody violent mess. I guess he didn’t pay attention to those videos they showed us in driver’s ed. What was that called? Faces of death? No matter, that’s not gonna be me, bucko.

Alright, time to teach him a lesson. Just gonna ease down to 35 here to send a message to Mr. Speed Racer back there. Yeah, you noticed that didn’t you? Well I don’t respond well to tailgating. Now you see who the boss is, don’t you? Maybe next time you’ll appreciate 40 miles per hour when you have it. You don’t know what you got till it’s gone… Paved with some dice, with a foot on Marky’s cot. That’s a Counting Crows song too, right? Yeah it is. Marky’s cot… I wonder if he’s talking about Marky Mark Wahlberg. Read the full story

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So there you are, innocently battering pedestrians with a bus in Grand Theft Auto when you hear that dreaded, menacing sound; a warning of sorts, it’s the closest thing to a rattlesnake’s “chchchchchch” that mankind has yet evolved. The hair on your arms stands on end, your body tenses, your butt cheeks clench, and your palms begin to sweat. You feel your toes begin to push down on the ground slightly, ready to run (instinctively you opt for the “flight” over the “fight” because you’re a pansy). You try to ignore it, but it just gets louder and louder, unwilling to bear your charade of ignorance. Finally, the sound reaches a volume and tone that elicits your response, a reflex aimed at self-preservation.

“Schnuckums!? Are you listening to me?”

“Uh…” You say, your voice waivering. “Yeah babe, I hear you.”

“Are you ready?” the predator bellows, baiting the prey.

“Ready for what… beautiful?” You reply, hoping that somehow the interrogative will provide you an escape while tossing in the compliment at the end to ease the delivery, like the flavoring those bastards put in NyQuil.

“Don’t even try that crap on me. Get off your ass. We’re going shopping.” The snare tightens around your feet. You’ve been caught. Resistance is now futile.

Now that you’ve been reduced to the status of indentured servant, there are a few things you must remember in order to survive. The full moon that is a monthly sale has turned your once kind, sweet girlfriend into a vicious, bloodthirsty monster. A wereshopper, if you will. Like a lycanthrope, but much more subtle in its preferred murderous methods.  You’re about to venture into a dark, dangerous place. Stick with me, and you’ll be stronger, more courageous, and not single when it’s over. Welcome to the jungle.

Read the full story

Popularity: 17% [?]

Hey what up sons! Chad, just here kickin it and doing some stupid homework for this Gen Ed class I have to take. It’s so, so lame. BRB I gotta shotgun a Natty before I start, hopefully it’ll get me through.

Alright, alright. I gotta “analyze” a poem. What the hell does that mean? I’m not an analyst, I’m a Phi Theta Kappa, bitch! Arggg… Whatevs man, let’s just get this done so I can go watch Anchorman with my frat brothers.

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME
by Robert Herrick

Virgins huh? Alright, alright. I like where your head is at Robbie.

GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying :
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

I guess this guy plants flowers or something to get virgins to like him. So I guess he’s saying, like, you better get that flower to that virgin chick before it dies or she’s gonna get with some other dude with a flower that is all alive or whatever. Good call with the flowers Robster, I’m gonna use that. Read the full story

Popularity: 6% [?]

Saturday night in early June in Southern California, guess what I did?  If you guessed: attended an impromptu Miley Cyrus concert, rode around Sunset Boulevard in a limo, and danced in an over-sized Taco Bell that’s been converted into a night club, you would be wrong.  That was Friday night.  On Saturday, I was sitting at home watching a mini marathon of Bravo’s “The Real Housewives of New Jersey” and losing faith in the future of mankind.

As has been well documented on this site, I am a big fan of trash reality television (Girls Next Door and Shot at Love w/ Tila Tequila being my two favorites).  Trash reality helps us all feel better about ourselves by presenting us with “real” people who, though rich, are less intelligent than the average iPod shuffle (2nd generation or newer).  They are the cable television equivalent of laughing when an old person falls down, and heaven knows we need that kind of humor now more than ever, what with the economy and all.

What I am not a fan of, however, are reality shows that document the utterly uninteresting, thoroughly commonplace lives of people who happen to be wealthy.  I am of course referring to The Hills and all their spin-offs.  I don’t give a damn about the inter-gender drama going on in the local high school cafeteria .  Should I care about the same drama just because it’s happening in Beverly Hills?  This same “gawk at the rich” format afflicts “The Real Housewives of New Jersey.”  They spend hours talking about who’s cheating on whom, who’s been a bitch to whom, and who bought what with what credit card.  There is, however, one notable and disturbing difference.  The protagonists are moms.  Which means they have kids.  Which means they are not only making a circus of their own lives, they are also erasing any hope their children might have of staying out of rehab. Read the full story

Popularity: 30% [?]

Look at her sitting there, just popping her Bubblicious Gum (probably pink lemonade flavor, her favorite and mine), coyly twirling her fingers through her hair, while she waits to board her flight to Omaha. No wedding band.  About my age.  Definitely within the acceptable range (+/- 8 years). I’m loving that Baylor hoodie. Green does wonders for her skin tone. Isn’t Baylor almost a Christian school? Wait.  What’s this? Gooo! She’s reading Velvet Elvis! Jackpot. She likes Rob Bell. I like Jesus. Rob Bell likes Jesus. Nice. I wonder what she’s going to Omaha for (probably to break up with her deadbeat boyfriend). I wonder if she sees me standing here pretending to read the departure monitors (probably). I wonder if she wants me to keep her company (probably not). Why ruin a perfectly good relationship by actually meeting, right?

So tell me, how would you best classify the male protagonist in the previous scene?  A social misfit? A sad, lonely little man?  A creepy, potentially dangerous predator?  Wrong, wrong, and mostly wrong. He is nothing more than an overly-imaginative Everyman engaging in a bit of harmless people watching. Read the full story

Popularity: 6% [?]