Better Scares Come In Pairs

Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat. And while you're at it, give me a great horror movie to watch. That's what Halloween is all about: Gorging on candy and watching a marathon of scary movies all night.

While my supply of candy will never run out, I am starting to get concerned about the scary movie production. There will always be the classic horror films, but I do depend on Hollywood to churn out at least a couple of decent horror flicks a year. That well might be drying up.

This year, only Saw 2 and The Fog remake really stand out as legit horror releases. I have no issue with the Saw movies, but am disappointed with The Fog.

First, before a movie is ever "remade," it should be a decent movie to begin with. At least change it enough to make me want to watch it, like Dawn of the Dead. I'd rather drive to the lakes and watch the fog roll off the water than watch The Fog remake. Maybe The Fog should have been called The Smog, with the setting in Los Angeles instead of the New England coast. Then I may have been willing to give it a second chance.

Maybe all the rehashing is my biggest issue. Why aren't there as many original movies any more? It's all movies about old TV shows or shitty sequels. I think horror movie remakes need to have a little new imagination put into them. Anyone can make an exact copy of an original. If you can't add a little spice to the original to make it different, don't bother. If you still can't think of anything, think outside of the pine box.

Freddy vs. Jason was an imaginative way to resurrect two tired characters (Krueger from A Nightmare on Elm Street and Vorhees from Friday The 13th fame) and inject them with new life.

Hollywood should take that idea and run with it for a while. Here are 10 other big-screen crossover ideas that Hollywood hasn't hooked up yet.

The Children of the Damned vs. Carrie - It starts out innocently as Carrie is offered a babysitting job to watch several albino children. Her mother warns her "They're all going to laugh at you!" but Carrie takes the gig anyway. Things start to go downhill when the little pink-eyed hellions won't put their toys away, brush their teeth or put on their pajamas. She tries calling John Travolta for babysitting tips, but he just babbles bullshit about Scientology, so she makes his car flip over 15 times. The last straw is when the kids lure Carrie into the foyer and dump a bucket of pig's blood on her head. She flips out and burns the house down, roasting all those little assholes to a crisp (if the director prefers a farm setting, just make it Carrie vs. The Children of the Corn).

Poltergeist vs. The Amityville Horror House - The same crooked developer from the Poltergeist movie decides to move the possessed house from New York to the graveyard where the old Poltergeist house stood. A possessed house + poltergiest = big fucking trouble. Then he dupes Craig T. Nelson's family again into buying their dream home. About 90 minutes later, Nelson is yelling "You only moved the headstones!" to the developer while his daughter is scribbling "redrum" and "kcaaaaber'yeht" all over the home's walls.

Misery woman vs. The Invasion of the Body Snatchers aliens - The aliens have one hell of a time snatching Kathy Bates' husky body. They decide to send in their best body snatcher disguised as James Caan, but he loses control of his car on a wintery road. Bates ends up snatching the alien's body from the car and decides to "nurse" him back to health, thinking he is her favorite author. She forces the alien to write a shitty romance novel, then hobbles him with a sledgehammer.

The Creature from the Black Lagoon vs. Jaws - The Creature is slowed down by all the seaweed hanging from him, so he is easily attacked by Jaws, who is still really pissed at Roy Scheider and Richard Dreyfus. Jaws ends up biting off the Creature's left arm in the frenzy. The movie does have a heartwarming ending as the Creature, despite his missing appendage, releases a cologne called Black Lagoon Magic that doubles as shark repellent.

Dracula vs. The Mummy - The Mummy staggers around all stiff and presents no real challenge for The Count. However, when Dracula gets into position for his first bite of a 20,000-year-old Egyptian, he's incredibly disappointed. The Mummy's bandages are dry and crispy, making The Count hope the inside is chewy or creamy. When The Count tries sucking blood out, there's nothing but dusty remnants. It ends up being a total pain in the ass for Dracula, who has to suck powder out of the Mummy, spit it back into a Folgers can and bring it back to his castle. There, he heats up his coffee pot to 98.6 degrees, changes filters and mixes in The Mummy powder. When he finally has a cup of Mummy Mocha blend ready, it tastes more like ancient embalming fluid than blood, causing The Count to drive a wooden stake through his own heart.

Werewolf vs. Cujo - You'd figure this one would end up worse than a pit bull fight. It ends up pretty tame as the creatures walk up to each other and begin to sniff each other's asses to say "hello." They instantly recognize each other as old friends. They end up playing frisbee fetch, chasing cars, pissing and shitting in enemy's lawns, chewing on the bones of old victims, etc. Until the full moon ends. Then the werewolf turns back into a man and Cujo mauls him to death.

Buffalo Bill from The Silence of the Lambs vs. Leatherface from Texas Chainsaw Massacre - At first these two sickos want to kill each other and use each other's skin for new outfits. Until they realize they both share this bond. Next thing you know, they're doing silly little fashion shows for each other mixing and matching skin wardrobes. Then they go shopping for shoes from the collection of their victims. They paint each other's toenails blood red and gossip about all the people they've slaughtered. Later, Leatherface accidentally kills Buffalo Bill in a macabre slumber party pillow fight, but then makes a great new pair of cowboy boots out of him.

Christine vs. The Birds - Christine sees the flock on the highway pecking away at its victims and tries to turn the birds into more roadkill. But the birds fly off at the last moment unharmed. Christine then plays "Freebird" on its radio to try and lure the flock back to the highway. The foul fowl notice how shiny Christine looks after its recent wash and wax, and immediately all get the same idea. The birds shit all over the car, sending Christine off a cliff to its explosive doom.

The Exorcist girl vs. The Omen boy - In this classic clash, the Linda Blair character taunts Damien, saying things like "Your mother sucks cocks in hell." Damien, the Devil's son, knows these accusations are true, but it still pisses him off. They put each other through unspeakable pain, but when she barfs pea soup all over him, they end up falling for each other and spend the rest of the night holding hands and smooching while listening to Damien's Air Supply records.

The Addams Family vs. The Munsters - It all starts when Herman Munster comes home early from work and catches Gomez kissing Lily's arms. When Gomez slips the tongue to Lily's funny bone, the gloves are off! Herman just tears Gomez apart. Then the rest of the families join the melee. Morticia claws Lily to death, Uncle Fester electrocutes Grandpa, Eddie Munster and Pugsley kill each other, Spot eats Cousin It, and Lurch totally hooks up with Marilyn when he gets an extra "hand" down her pants from Thing.

Note: I'll live up to this post's title and deal a second dose of scary movie pairings soon. You didn't think I'd leave out Halloween's Michael Myers, did you?

Thank You, Sir, May I Have Another?

Dean Wormer once said "Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life." Well, trust me, it's a great way to spend a weekend.

I went back to my alma mater, North Dakota State University, in Fargo for Homecoming. The event gives me and my buddies an excuse to act like we did in college one weekend a year.

I think we succeeded. Most of us were fatter than we were in college. We drank for about 10 hours straight on Friday and then another 13 on Saturday, so I think we may have been drunk (I may even still be drunk as I write this entry). And the stupidity goes without saying due to the drinking.

My best friend and college roommate Spam and I made the trip together. I can't 100 percent remember how he got his nickname, but I think it was because he shotgunned a can of lunch meat and then crushed the empty tin on his forehead to impress some girl.

Spam now works at Lex Luther College, where he designs buildings and evil schemes for the Legion of Doom to use against the Superfriends. Unfortunately, all of his time and effort usually gets fucked up by the Wonder Twins and their pet monkey, Gleek. So he was more than happy to get away from that kind of work stress.

My buddy Jeff's wife and family actually evacuate his Fargo home every year for Homecoming weekend to accomodate us. I'm not sure where Jeff's family goes into hiding, but I heard it's a nearby fallout shelter. They wait there for a few days until the beer fart fumes clear and the air quality is determined not to be a health risk.

One thing that never changes: It was great to hang out and throw back countless beers with my fraternity brothers again. It's amazing how telling the same stories we've heard and told hundreds of times are every bit as funny as the first time.

Besides being 1 year older, here are some things I noticed that made N.D.S.U. Homecoming different in 2005 than it was back in my heydey in the late 1980s.

While driving near campus, we saw a few extremely attractive female students. Back in the day, we would have been hooting and hollering out the windows like a cat-calling construction crew. This time, the car was eerily silent, making me realize I wasn't the only one who probably felt like a pedophile Tom Cruise for thinking a girl half my age was hot. I was also able to compose myself enough not to jump on any furniture, or go on Oprah to gush about it.

We stopped by the fraternity house I lived in for 3 years while in college. It just wasn't the same. Mostly because it is "dry" now, meaning no booze of any kind is allowed inside. I tried to reassure a couple of current members that even though I had the choice to be bombed for my entire collegiate career, it could always be worse.

"Hey, at least the university only made you 'dry,'" I told them. "Think if the rules were governed by Arrid or one of the other antiperspirant companies. They'd probably make the house 'Extra Dry' or 'Ultra Dry.' Then you'd really be fucked. They wouldn't even let you have running water in here."

The fraternity used to be wetter than Sea World. Non-alcoholic beverages were not permitted. We constantly had keg parties, and would look for any kind of excuse to drink ("Ooo, we have an intramural hockey game tonight, let's get a keg"). We even stocked beer and cans of Purple Passion in the pop machine to make sure our underage members could drink whenever they wanted. Those antics wouldn't fly these days.

The house currently ranks at the top of the national rankings in fraternity house collective GPA with a 3.75 or something. When I was in the house, we had the collective highest blood alcohol percentage nationally at .239. I was on the Dean Martin list.

Not wanting to depress the current members with stories from our glory years and drive them to drink, we decided to go bar-hopping at all of our favorite old haunts. Jeff gave the current president of the fraternity his library card so we could take a True Merit Bowl (an award we won back in 1988 for overall fraternity excellence despite our drunkeness) out of the house and with us on our bar crawl, as if we were pro hockey players parading the Stanley Cup around. The Bowl became a community drinking pitcher at the local pubs. We found out it holds a pitcher of beer and looks even better with half a lemon wedge on the rim.

We even went to our old favorite strip club. Some guy shoved $5 down my shirt when he saw the size of my man hooters. I told him and some nearby strippers that I was used to such attention being a former Chips Ahoy! dancer (Chippendales plus-size guy).

Later, one of the strippers was making her "sales pitch" to us, bragging that she had once been a figure skater. I told her that I had also been one. She didn't seem convinced that a 300-pound plus dude could be graceful on ice skates.

"You were a figure skater?"

"Yeah, have you ever heard of Sesame Street on Ice?" I asked.

She nodded that she had.

"I was Snuffalupaguss."

She believed me until I told her my career ended when I skated over thin ice, fell through six inches to the cement and broke both of my ankles.

Later, an African American stripper from Des Moines took the stage and had the most disproportionate body any of us had ever seen. Her ass was bigger than a garbage truck, and I think she even made a beeping noise when she backed that booty up. It was like someone had implanted JLo's ass on top of her's. My friend Jimmy commented on how he's the anti-ass man, how it "disgusted" him and he couldn't deal with that.

Being the true friend I am, I immediately sought out the woman with the wonderful caboose and told her how my friend Jimmy just loved her ass. So, $20 later, I had this very nice young lady shaking her shit right in Jimmy's face. I even bribed the DJ to play Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon during the table dance. Buying dances for your friends is really the best way to spend any kind of money in one of these establishments.

OK, so it wasn't quite as Animal House-esque as it once was 15-20 years ago. We didn't sabatoge the Homecoming parade. No one screwed the Dean's wife. No one shot and killed a horse in the Dean's office. We didn't try to pick up Fawn Leibowitz at a local women's dorm.

But we drank a lot of booze and bullshitted until we were blue in the face. We gorged at Taco John's three times - including twice in one day. Two of my 40-something friends went streaking through a private house party when their bet ended in an unexpected draw (which is way funnier than two stupid 20-year-old guys streaking through a party). The bottom line is we were still fat, drunk and stupid, which was probably enough for double secret probation in Dean Wormer's book, or at least put us on an Old School level.

See Ya Later, Alligator

I saw a gruesome story recently from Florida's Everglades about a 13-foot Burmese Python which died after eating a 6-foot American alligator. Talk about indigestion!

The snake apparently swallowed the gator whole, then ruptured, leaving the carcass carnage behind. The Associated Press ran a great shot (shown at right) of the aftermath, where you can clearly see the hind legs and tail of the gator and what's left of the exploded snake.

This story touched me because I've almost been that snake more times than I can count, eating until the brink of bursting open. I've never wrapped my arms around my meal and crushed it until it suffocates, but I have skipped chewing to swallow large items whole several times. I guess I'm as close to a human python or anaconda there is.

Hopefully my wife won't find just my pelvis and legs near the carving station of the Old Country Buffet, making her realize I burst after trying to eat chicken, ribs, turkey, roast beef and pork instead of just picking one of the above.

Now that I've swelled up to 335 pounds, I probably should cut back before I pop. I'm not launching a full-scale battle of the bulge here. I haven't even mentioned the worst four-letter word I know (D-I-E-T). I'm just chewing around with the idea. I need to let it digest a while before starting my bay of pigs invasion.

When that day comes, it will be a huge challenge. I am totally addicted to food, a cheese & crackers whore. I would go to overeater's anonymous, but I don't think I would fit in because I don't hide my binges from anyone. Instead, I am like Bluto from Animal House, snarfing jello for everyone in the cafeteria to see (except I would never waste mashed potatoes by doing the very funny zit-popping impression).

I guess it started out when I was a baby. I was so obsessed with food that I would even fall asleep in it. My sister claims she saved me from drowning in a bowl of oatmeal, strained peas or other delicacies on more than one occasion.

As I got older, the addiction grew worse. When you're 7, yet you eat your Saturday morning monster cereal in a mixing bowl with a ladle or huge serving spoon, you've got a problem. The cereal obsession still lingers to this day, as does my craving for cartoons (the latter is another story for another day).

I got used to living large at the dinner table. My Dad's philosophy was if I put it on my plate, I should be able to eat it.

"Don't let your eyes ever get bigger than your stomach," Dad would preach. "You better eat up whatever you order or put on your plate, or I'll find somewhere else to stick it."

There were never any worries there. My eyes could never rival the size of my belly. I cleaned up my plate every time. Even back then, I was eating that Super Size Me pansy under the table at McDonald's. I was woolfing down a Big Mac, a large fries and a strawberry shake, then a hot cherry pie or McDonaldland cookies for dessert.

All my friends could talk about were Happy Meals. I ordered one and was not happy at all because it seemed more like an appetizer to me than a meal.

"Hey, Mrs. Manager, the Happy Meal didn't live up to its name," I told some lady at a Lynchburg, Virginia, location. "The best prize you could put in that box would be something else to eat, not some stupid toy!"

The manager laughed and gave me a free quarter pounder with cheese. My Dad was embarrassed that I traded in my toy for more food, but on the other hand he was proud of my negotiating skills.

Poor Dad had to pay a majority of my food bill for at least 20 years. Needless to say, he tried to take advantage of buffets to satisfy my appettite. Even if it involved a weekly debate.

He argued often with the manager of a local Chinese Restaurant over my age. The place advertised free buffet meals for kids 12 and under. I was 11 but I looked and ate like I was 17. The manager finally "carded" me, but I told him 11-year-olds don't have IDs.

"He over 12!" the manager yelled at Dad. "I no believe you. He 16 or 17. He foot taller than me and you say he 11?! Bring birth certificate next time or he owe for buffet."

My parents provided the proof the next week. I think Dad might have starved me for a couple of days beforehand so I would really take a dent out of that chow line. The buffet owner was pissed because I cleaned out the fried rice bin twice and he couldn't keep up with my egg roll and wonton consumption. Coincidentally, the next week the kids eat free policy was lowered to age 10.

In college, I ate and drank heavily with a bunch of buddies who shared my love for the food and drink. We went to the all-you-can-eat buffet places just to see how much damage we could do. I even got kicked out of Arby's in Fargo, North Dakota, when I was 19.

"Why are you kicking me out?" I complained. "I haven't even eaten half of what I could eat!"

"You guys are a bunch of pigs," the Arby's manager said. "Don't you feel the slightest bit guilty eating $200 worth of food for $4.99? You are abusing the all-you-can-eat salad bar privilege!"

I guess he was also really pissed that I had actually taken the tubs of potato salad and butterscotch pudding out of the ice bunker and back to my table. I tried telling him I had gotten tired of making trips back and forth to the salad bar and thought just taking the tubs would be easier because I was going to empty them out anyway.

Over 15 years, not much has changed other than my pants size. Oh, and now when I step on the scale, I just bury the needle (much like a speedometer disappears on floored sportscar). I'm a one-man Roman food orgy, minus the barfing afterwards.

My eyes still haven't been bigger than my stomach, but that would be a problem if my eyes ever got as big as medicine balls. Doctors say our stomach should be the size of our fist. My fist is huge, but I know my stomach is at least four times that big.

Maybe I'm not like that snake after all. Maybe I'm more like a cow with four stomachs who likes to bullshit a lot. Then again, I've also heard the term you are what you eat. If we really are what we eat, then I guess I'm not a snake. I'm a sprawling around-the-world buffet.

Viking ship turns into Love Boat

My Minnesota Vikings made waves this week after stories leaked of players cavorting with strippers while attending a wild and drunken sex party aboard pleasure craft on Lake Minnetonka. Brings new meaning to "love boat."

Many Minnesotans are outraged by the alleged lewd acts, and are looking for someone to blame. The problem is, they can't figure out who to point the finger at.

Well, that's easy. Look no further than Julie McCoy, your cruise director. She sets up the events on the ship: Naked shuffleboard on the Sun deck, the rave orgy in the disco on the Riveria deck, kinky photo shoots on the Aloha deck, peeping tom activities on the Observation deck, hardcore fucking on the Lido deck, sucking on the Coral deck, and fisting on the Fiesta deck.

The Minnesota Vikings players were eager to huddle up with the strippers and show them what the following football terms meant off the field: I formation, wishbone, touchdown, nose tackle, tight end, wide receiver, nickel package, sack, fourth and inches, chop block, leg whip, spike the ball, under center, take the snap, illegal blow to the head, roughing the passer, false start, unnecessary roughness, illegal use of the hands, too many men on the field and excessive celebration after scoring.

Witnesses say some Vikings and other guests harassed and/or invited members of the crew to "join the party." It seems like much of the media attention is being focused on the players' alleged involvement in illegal activity such as prostitution, overshadowing the kinkier behind-the-scenes stories told by and about the love boat crew.

Witnesses claim seeing strippers and players engaging in oral sex on dining tables in full view of everyone in the room. Something tells me this is NOT what Captain Stubing meant when he invited them to "dine with him at the Captain's Table." Then again, one witness overheard Stubing tell a stripper "I'm not afraid to go down with the ship, so you shouldn't be afraid to go down on me" and "would you like to see the Captain's log?"

Gopher was the most distraught of the crew. Players and strippers mistook his nickname for his job and they harassed him all night to go fetch things for them. "The players were like 'Hey, Gopher, go get me my helmet and pads... this is going to be some full-contact shit' while the strippers were saying 'Gopher, dear, go get me my titty tassels and my double-headed dildo.'" Later on, exhausted from running all of the on-board errands, he was accosted by a stripper who said "Hey, Gopher, I have a few holes you can crawl into!" After a scandal like this, a political career would be out of the question.

Someone heard Isaac, the bartender, bragging about giving nearly every person on the ship at least three or four cocktails. He also said he gave Cloris Leachman a slow screw and Annette Funicello some sex on the beach. Isaac was briefly arrested until police realized that simply meant he had served people drinks, not violated anyone with his stir stick.

Doc is accused of both helping and hindering. Known for being a ladies man on the ship despite his geeky looks, he was seen prescribing viagra before many of the sex acts, but later offered free inspections for genital warts. "No one's bitching about Isaac and he was serving stiff drinks all night," Doc hic-cupped. "But I serve a few stiffy pills, and people act like it's malpractice!"

Vicki was extremely upset by the events, screaming at players, strippers and other participants to please use birth control. "The last thing this ship needs is another little bastard like me running around," she shrieked before running off to blubber in a lifeboat.

Ace, the ship's photographer, apparently was treated by Doc for tendonitis in his picture-taking finger. He totally wore it out taking more "action shots" than a Hustler magazine employee. After Doc placed Ace's right index finger in a cast, he switched over to a video camera to document the party.

Guest stars aplenty were also on board, including buxom musician April Lopez (shown left telling Captain Stubing how big an offensive lineman's penis was). Lopez jumped overboard because she was only there to sing and say "Cuchi Cuchi," not bang anyone.

One rumor also placed Florence Henderson, Vic Tayback, Arte Johnson, Barbara Billingsley, Scatman Crothers and Randolph Mantooth in a stalled elevator for 2 hours. "One witness indicated it was no accident," one police official said. "Florence may have pushed the emergency stop button so she could show them all the real meaning of Wessonality."

Some people say that big boob coach Mike Tice is to blame and past coaches would not have tolerated or allowed such a party. My hunch is that Bud Grant's stone-faced expression would not have changed, even as an around-the-world nine-way was happening right in front of his steely eyes.

Tice, who I doubt scalped tickets to the love boat sex party, promised to have his team ready to play the Chicago Bears today. The team watched film all week, but it could not be confirmed if it was love boat re-runs or actual game film.

How could you possibly motivate your players to focus on the ballgame after a party like that? It's like expecting college students to be worth a shit and be able to focus on their studies the week after Spring Break. Tice will have to get creative and find some way to motivate the Vikings. Maybe he will take a Knute Rockne angle and tell the team to go out and "win one for the stripper... er, I mean, Gipper."

Canning did preserve me

One year ago today I got canned. And I don't mean pickled and then crammed into a small masonry jar and left on a shelf in the cellar for later enjoyment.

I got fired.

And it wasn't by a classy, respectable guy like Donald Trump. I got fired by a middle man because the jerk who really pulled the trigger didn't have the peanuts to do it himself face-to-face.

The middle man was the operations manager, who tipped me off about three weeks prior to doomsday that my head was on the chopping block simply because the owner of the company "didn't like me." The middle man complimented my performance and gave me raises for my hard work, loyalty and an overall job well done many a time. He scored me a 4 out of 5 in reviews, telling me "5 is Jesus walking on water." So I wasn't God, but I was the next-best thing. In the end, none of it mattered.

I could probably write a book as thick as War and Peace on how shitty the owner - "Greg" - treated the employees who made his company money and kept his customers happy every day, but I will keep this blog entry shorter and bittersweet.

Why did I get canned? Three strikes and I was out.

First, I was making too much money. That's why Greg would fire 90 percent of his workforce before they reached their two- or three-year anniversary date. Despite my performance, Greg was a penny pincher and had a long history of firing strong and loyal employees simply because he was too cheap to keep them. He was always looking for a bargain and would have fucked his own mother if it meant he could save 50 cents a week to hire a chimpanzee instead. Greg constantly used the compensation and benefits each employee earned as guilt trips, saying he worked for free so he could provide for our families (yet he slipped a $10,000 check a month to his wife, drove a $30,000 Harley and took 4-5 extravagant vacations a year). He always bragged he was a "share-the-wealth guy," but in reality, he was full of shit.

Second, Greg was an obsessive-compulsive nutjob. He would snap over things like the parking lot - which bordered a forest-like park - not being completely leaf free for every second of the day in the middle of autumn. He was pissed once because he found a decapitated cricket under the pop machine and ranted on how we could miss sweeping something like that. He was a weirdo control freak, too. He would preach about setting up processes, then he would be the lone person to constantly break them, then he would want new processes created so he could break those, too.

In my final days, I caught him bitching about me behind my back and called him on it. I told him if he was so unsatisfied, he should fire me so we could both have closure and move on. But he wouldn't do it because he wanted me to quit because he was getting skull-fucked with unemployment insurance rates with his revolving door policy. "You're done here but you're not done until we tell you you're fired, so wait for that or quit," he snipped.

So I waited. It gave me more time to read his crown jewel, seven-page "company philosophy" that rambled on like it was written by the Unabomber. It was full of more lies and bullshit than the Clinton-Lewinsky scandal. And it was about as effective as a triple roll of Charmin: Thick and great for wiping your ass, but not much else.

The third and final straw, I'm fat. He had one of his goons start harassing me about my weight, which unfortunately inevitably led to my "official" firing. My weight has never hindered me from doing anything in life, but I wasn't a perfect 5-foot-5 and 130 pound hobbit like Greg. The goon made repeated comments about my weight and made threats and aggressive posturing akin to "Let's have a bar room brawl." I could have kicked this brown-noser's ass in about 10 seconds, but I'm just a big teddy bear (and didn't want to go to jail over a little bitch goon like that). I wasn't comfortable working under this condition, or any of the others I have mentioned. Thankfully, the middle man finally granted me my wish and terminated me about 1:15 that afternoon a year ago today.

It was really tough at first because I hadn't really done anything "wrong" per se, which on top of all the other bullshit made it a pretty devastating blow. I guess when you finally escape a mental institution, it takes a while to get out of the strait-jacket.

Greg had also been mentally abusive. He told me I "didn't have what it took to take his warehouse to the next level." He constantly preached about the next level like his company was a big-ass Pac-Man game. But the thing is, we never reached that level. There were some minor peaks and valleys in his $4-5 million-a-year business plan, but for the most part, it was a bigger flat-liner than Kevin Bacon. Still, Greg would kind of brainwash you into thinking if he let you go, no one else would take a charity case like yourself in. It took me four months of unemployment to come out from under his thundercloud.

But then in February, the sky cleared. I interviewed at a job that made me an offer the next day for $5,000 more per year than I was making in Greg's gig. New Company had every confidence in my ability to join their $2.9 billion a year operation, which was more than just "the next level" up from the hellhole.

I am much happier now and am eternally thankful I am out of Greg's gulag, but I didn't have complete closure until today, when I sent the following letter out this morning to you know who:

Dear Greg,

Thank you for submitting your application to The Biggest Loser.

While we appreciate your enthusiasm that you believe you are the biggest loser, we regret to tell you that you will not be cast in future episodes because you don't meet our show's largest criteria: You're not fat.

Sure, you have a mullet and a cheesy mustache that makes you look like you went down on a muppet, which both do indeed make you a loser. Add in your personality and overall attitude towards anyone who is not in your mirror space, and you really are a big loser.

Unfortunately, you are only worthy of a big "L" on your forehead and not a spot on the cast for our third season. The show is called The Biggest Loser for a reason, dumb ass. The program is about obese people losing weight. Unfortunately, the show does not revolve around self-centered, skinny, pompous pricks like you.

Rest assured, if The Biggest Loser show was about finding America's biggest loser, we wouldn't bother holding a contest, even with Omarosa around. We'd just do a day-in-the-life documentary about you. But that wouldn't really take us to "the next level" in ratings now, would it?

Thanks for thinking of us anyway and keep watching all of your favorite NBC programming.

Sincerely,
Seymour Butts
Casting Director, The Biggest Loser

Man, that felt good. Yes, it was mean, and I'm probably the biggest loser for mailing that. But it was just what I needed to close that chapter of my life.

I may have not lost much body weight in the last year. But I did lose a great deal of weight that was on my shoulders, which was deteriorating my health and well-being more than anything else. So I guess you could say that canning really did preserve me.