Ms. ZibbyB

ZibbyB, hi!

My name is Mike. I came across your profile and thought I would write you a letter on here. I am also a fan of WXPN. There’s a whole lot of bands and artists that I’ve discovered that other radio stations would never think of playing and that’s why I call them every time they do a fund drive.

I love it when they do a fund drive. Most people make a pledge online, but not me, Zibby. I like to make a phone call because I get such a rush when I hear the phone ring on the radio and people start to clap and praise me. It’s really quite exhilarating!

And they pick up the phone and go, “Thank you for supporting XPN! How much would you like to pledge?”
And I say, “Oh, there won’t be any money today. But I fully support your radio station emotionally.”

This sometimes throws them off-guard so I really have to sell them on this idea. “I don’t say this half-heartedly. I mean I am giving you all of my support; every morsel. In fact, if you would like to announce on the air that I am willing to match any caller’s emotional pledge for the next two hours, we can double the amount—‘’

It’s at that point where they hang up on me, but they do it politely, because they’re nice folks over there at XPN. What bands did you discover and like on there? I’m a Dawes fan myself, as well as the Alabama Shakes.

Have yourself a Funky Friday, Zibby!


—Mike J


Ms. Rockout13

Hello, Ms. Rockout13, I’m Mike2614231. I live in Glenside now, but I used to live in Green Lane. It’s true! I lived there for about 5 years, in a tiny apartment on the corner of 63 and route 29, by the Sunoco gas station. Have you ever been? It’s a nice gas station; they sell ice cream for kids as well as minnows for fishermen. And they also sell pornographic magazines sealed in plastic bags, which… well, look, I just know that they SELL them. That’s all I know about it, honest.


At any rate, the apartment I lived in was an old house from the early 1900’s that was converted into 5 small apartments. Everything was slanted: the floor, the windows, the door frame… Hey, you remember in the movie Beetlejuice when Beetlejuice was going to marry Lydia and he created that crooked door in the wall for that old priest to come out and wed them in marital bliss? My door frame looked like that. When people came over I told them to enter on the right side of the door frame, lest they hit their heads on the short side.

Are the door frames where you dwell crooked as well? I didn’t know if I was living in some kind of architectural oddity or if that’s just the way things are up there. I am sorry to say that I don’t have a single piece of plaid in my whole wardrobe; not a stitch. You probably read that sentence and wondered how I get by, but somehow I do. Somehow.

I am envious of your wide array of photos. I especially like the professional photographer’s shots of you in the felled cornfield. I guess you could say the photographer was…”stalk”ing you? Ha, you’re welcome; feel free to use that and take it as your own, I won’t mind.

Have yourself a wonderful day!


Mike (The guy with the Beetlejuice door frames and puns about corn, which are a-MAIZE-ing!)

The Unappreciated, Aspiring Author Files an Auto Insurance Claim

Describe the time of day and weather at the time of the accident:

The afternoon sunlight burst through my windshield with a Machiavellian magnificence, creating streaks of golden radiance that danced through my careening automobile.

Were you wearing a seatbelt at the time of the accident:

I remember tugging at the seatbelt with great fervor, convincing myself that it was strangling me in an attempt to keep me safe, when actually, ‘twas I endangering the sanctity of the seatbelt with my thoughtless behavior.

In your own words, describe the cause of the accident:

Samantha said I loved the bottle; a bit too much at times. Often, when I would come home late and stinking drunk, she claimed I loved the bottle more than I loved her. Perhaps she was right. But a man in my line of work needs all of the numbing agents he can get his hands on. I remember saying to her one time, “Sam. Babe. Why you going all extreme on me? If you’ve seen some of the things I’ve seen, Toots, well, let me tell ya, you’d think twice about giving me a load of shit.” Ah, Samantha, has it been that long since we last talked? Since we last touched?

Did you sustain any injuries because of the accident:

I remember looking at my shaking hands holding loosely onto the steering wheel. I focused on them as best I could and saw long, deep wrinkles, each one representing a trial or adverse scene in my life, each one more painful than the last. How many of these tests in life have I passed? More importantly, how many have I failed? The air bag had failed to deploy, causing a deep bruise on my forehead. It would heal in time. My pride, however, would not. Hell, I could have used another scar. Just tack on another failure. Oh, Samantha, where are you, babe?

If possible, name the other people involved in the accident:

Samantha and I used to picnic off of highway 341, taking the Gladstone exit and barreling up the hill on Brookview Road. From a distance, we would see our secluded spot; a grand oak tree that stood in front of the entrance to a grove. As a child, my friends and I would venture out there on our Schwinn’s and play Kick the Can until either dusk or when we fell over each other from youthful giddiness and innocence. Samantha and I carved our initials into that same tree years later, where the indentation of my ’93 Saturn’s fender now lays.

Comments welcome! Please leave this form in the break room or make copies and pass them out at random coffee houses or any place where you may find publishers. Thanks!

Insurance Agent’s assessment/comments (office use only):

Claim denied.

Alright, Which One of You Assholes Stole My Jock Jams Volume II CD?

jock jam photo

Ok. Ha ha. Very funny, guys. Very funny. I suppose it is kind of humorous, I guess. Yes, right now I am without my Jock Jams volume II CD. Hardy har har. I see you stifling your laughter, Charles. Did you take it? Huh? Was it you? I’ll bet it was. Charles, you always pull shit like this. Well, if it wasn’t you, who was it? Huh? Which one of you assholes was it?
It couldn’t have simply been misplaced. I refuse to accept that notion, Randy. Come on, guys. It’s not that hard of a CD to miss. It’s got bedazzled jewels on the casing, some glitter, and oh yeah, it’s the greatest cd of all time!

This is volume II, assholes. Volume II of the Jock Jams canon was by far the strongest. The first volume was just a feeler; a reconnaissance mission of what we jocks jam to. After accumulating feedback and knowing our likes and dislikes, ESPN went back to the drawing board and formed the perfect album. By Volume III the fame went to their head and there was no going back. And what about Volume IV, you ask? Please.

You’re jealous that I have it and you don’t. That’s the only reason I can fathom. We were all having a nice time tonight, weren’t we? We got out the Turning Leaf white wine, having a lovely dinner, catching up with friends, their wives and children…but the dinner party really got started when I snuck that CD into the stereo. What were we listening to before that? Dan Fogelberg? More like Dan FAG-elberg! Haha! Am I right? C’mon, Tommy. Up high.

I saw the looks on your faces when you heard the voices of Sports Center announcers Dan Patrick and Chris “The Swami” Berman welcome us “To the Big Show” on track number one. You all had this look on your faces that was like, “Damn! Why didn’t I think to bring my CDs to the party?” Maybe you will next time we get together. Maybe. If you’re smart. But we all brought a little something to the dinner party, didn’t we? Kyle, you and your wife brought that Mediterranean dish with the noodles and shit. Steve, you brought that new version of Trivial Pursuit for us to play after dessert. Lola, you made that lovely table centerpiece that held the salt and pepper. And as for me, well, I brought the fuckin’ intensity!

You do know that this CD is part of my daily routine, right? I listen to it in the car on my way to gym. I put it in my disc-man while I am at the gym, and I turn it way the fuck up when I am in the tanning bed and just totally jock-jam out. Where else can you find an album that contains both Coolio and The Village People? I ask you this even though I know there is only one answer. If you think it is funny to take that kind of joy from me, then fine. Go right ahead. I can lead an empty life. No problem. Some friends you are.

I cannot believe I am this close to completely losing my shit because of some dumbass fuck game of hide and seek! I am fucking pissed!! Give it back! Right fucking now! I swear to fucking Christ I will castrate your fucking asses if I don’t get that CD back! I will single-handedly rip your dicks off and shove them down each other’s throats, and I will make you say that you love it!!


You know what?! Don’t give it back! Because if you give it back to me right now, I will turn that shit up to 11 and it will be the anthem to your own sick destruction!! Fuck this! And fuck all of you!!

Hi. I Live Out by the Airport


Why, hello there. I couldn’t help but notice your fine selection of goods in your grocery basket. I see a lot of Healthy Choice products as well as a copious amount of sugar-free munchies. What is that? Snackwells? I didn’t know they were still around. Crazy!

Watching your weight, are ya? Heavens, I don’t know why! You’re quite striking, if I may say so. If you were to take a gander at my hand-held basket here you would see the exact opposite. Nothing but Steak-Umms and Manwiches in here. I’ll let you in on a little secret: (whispers) I haven’t had a carrot medallion or a leaf of lettuce since the Reagan Administration. What can I say, I guess I just crave canned flesh.

I don’t think we have met, no. I’m sure you would remember. Manwich diet, army fatigue pants, penny loafer shoes, Hawaiian shirt. You see, this isn’t my usual Shop-Rite. I live, uh….further out. Out by the airport, to be exact.

I didn’t want to come out and give you that personal information so early in our encounter. I wanted to develop a good rapport with you first, because when I tell women that I live out by the airport, they get this look on their face—like what you’re doing right now! It’s like an apprehensive sneer. A fear-sneer.

Your fear-sneer looks quite becoming on you. Of course, if I were wearing it, I’d be cu…no, wait. Nevermind.

I don’t know what the stigma is behind the people who live out by the airport. Are we presumed to be insane because of the constant noise pollution of jet engines soaring over our heads and shaking our flimsy habitats like dead leaves on a tree? Or is it because if I were to commit a heinous crime I could easily board a plane to a neutral country before they found your body? Well, there’s no reason to be so concerned with that; I am a very trustworthy guy. In fact, if you come on over, I can make you a Manwich or two as well as show you my wingless butterfly collection. And as a show of trust, I will leave my door wide open, giving you every opportunity to escape.

Oh, jeez. Did I really just say that? Escape? My, what a poor choice of words! Flee. I meant flee.

Hey, you want to hear some airport puns? No, just hold on. It won’t take long. I have places to be as well, but I’m making an effort here. It’s hard to meet women at the airport, ya know. They can be so flighty sometimes. Nyuk nyuk!

So listen…what are your plans for tonight? I was going to pick at some scabs, but I could easily resche…

Hey, don’t get snooty with me, Ms. High and Mighty with your Snackwells! A simple ‘no’ would have been fine, you didn’t have to hurt my feelings. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta jet.

Still nothing, eh? OK. Bye.

Ask Me About My Grandcats!


See that sticker on the bumper of my car? It says, “Ask me about my grandcats!” I applied it to my car with sincerity. Go ahead: Ask me about my grandcats!
Notice how the sticker is an actual sticker and not some fly-by-night magnet that can be applied and taken off on any philosophical whim. No, my sticker is permanent. Ask me about the cats!

I’m sure at first glance you might have presumed that my bumper sticker was a typo, but it’s not. The silhouettes of the numerous cats next to the wording disprove your “misspelling” theory. No, this bumper sticker is the real deal.

If you’re reading this sticker, then you must be behind me, stuck in traffic, trying to pass the time, I suppose. But there are no other stickers to read on the back of my 1986 Chevy Windsor. Why not get out of the car, give a rap on the driver’s side window and heed the words of the sticker? Come on over. I won’t bite!

Here’s a little secret of the cat-trade: it is not too difficult to become a grandparent of cats. They actually reproduce quite rapidly. Why, you could go through three generations of catdom in five years’ time if you don’t mind a little incestuous magic with your cat family. I got the sticker when I first became a cat grandparent over 12 years ago. At this point, to be honest, my sticker should say, “Ask me about my great-great-great-great-great-great-great Grandcats,” but I don’t think my bumper is wide enough to hold such a sustained message! Nyuk Nyuk!

And these aren’t just cats, mind you. They’re grand-cats, and I mean that in every sense of the word. Would you like to hear the reasoning? All you have to do is ask! All somebody has to do is ask!

My latest generation of cats seems to have been born without much motor skills. They tend to limp while they walk in concentric circles, but that only adds to their adorability and cutesy-wutesy ways! Also, their eyes are colorless.

Are you intrigued? Would you like to hear more? Come on over! Before the light turns green! You shan’t regret it! Ask me about the grandcats!

Pullin’ the Pud: That Chick From the Progressive Insurance Commercials, Flo


It’s difficult to go an entire day without coming across a Progressive Insurance advertisement and subsequently, their spokesperson: a chipper young lass by the name of Flo. Television spots, full page magazine ads, website banners, radio…she’s everywhere! And, as a male, I am biologically obligated to mentally have sex with her. How would it go? What would it be like?
Flo is a pretty bland girl. She has no distinctly feminine body structure since she dresses all in white with a smock and she is so damn happy and upbeat, you’d figure the sex would be really encouraging. Even if you prematurely ejaculated she’d probably give you a reassuring pat on the back. But a pre-jac will be most unlikely considering her pansexual features. In fact, all we know about Flo is that she loves the company she works for and everything else would come a distant second in her life. The question must be asked, “How does one get into those starchy white pants of hers? How could I turn her on in my own imagination?”

So, I am in my corner office behind my grand oak desk, sitting in my buttoned leather chair. The office is fully furnished in fine mahogany, stained dark and it smells of old money. On the desk stands a name placard. It reads: Michael Jenkins, President & CEO, Progressive Insurance. I suddenly realize that anyone who is anyone probably already knows that and doesn’t need a name card to identify myself if they are called into my office. I quickly throw the nameplate in the trash. The fireplace has a gentle flame going, but it is raising its intensity, like my lust: smoldering, ready to hiss and pop.

I press the intercom button and tell my receptionist, Janet, to let Flo into my office. (Janet is a wonderful receptionist, but a pretty weak lay, if I’m going to be honest with you.) Flo flows into my office, eyes wide with excitement. She is all smiles as per usual. I tell her to close the door and have a seat. I commend her on her diligence to bring my company up out of the cellar. She accepts the compliments with such modesty, claiming that she just loves saving people money on their insurance. She’s so coy. She’s so…Flo.

To demonstrate her passion on saving people money, she pulls out her price-zapping gun and shoots down any imaginary hidden fees and last minute taxes that the other companies are known for. She starts zapping near my collection of hand-made Pez dispensers and as she works her way over to my 1st edition Vonnegut novels, I put my hands up defensively. “Whoa, Flo! Whoa! Take ‘er easy. Nice shootin,’ but you needn’t that pistol in here.” I motion her to give me the price gun, and when she does hand it over, she also leaves herself open and vulnerable to my seductive ways.

I move out of my chair gracefully and tell her of some exciting new pricing bundles and insurance plans I would like her to represent. Her smile rolls over wide, her hands fisted and shaking with eagerness. Eagerness to sell.

Eagerness to please.

I place myself on the corner of my desk with my left leg dangling in front of Flo, letting her be aware that it is within touching distance.

I mention price bundles, deductibles, auto, home, life, renter’s…her eyes loom large and her mouth salivates like a Pavlovian Dog. I tug at my pant leg and she mimics the action and reaches out to rub my leg. It’s not me, it’s the insurance that’s doing this to her. And for some reason, I am quite ok with that.

The only challenge I can bring myself is to keep the conversation alive and electric. I am going to need to bring my full arsenal of insurance jargon to put this thing to the next level. She soon succumbs to my verbal swooning of interest rates and premium pricing plans and she takes the bait. The bait that is my penis.

As I clear off my desk with one fell swoop of my arm, I have to think about more insurance stuff to whisper into Flo’s ear. It’s going to be a monumental task to be sure: First, to talk insurance for the duration of the sexual encounter and secondly, sustaining an erection while talking about said insurance. I do know what I am going to save for the climax though. I am going to shout, “Full Medical! Full Medical!” Something like that.

Anyway, we proceed to have the most boring, palest sex imaginable, like indulging in a meal of white rice and skim milk.