I sadly post my relatively large work desk on Craigslist because my new studio is about the size of an inflatable castle ball pit. To my delight, I immediately receive phone calls from two interested customers. After explaining the desk is approximately large enough to perform dual circumcisions and is in pristine condition, my first customer agrees to swoop on by so I inform the other caller of the pending transaction. But after waiting an hour for a stranger who refuses to return my phone calls, I call back interested customer number two.

“Do you believe in evolution?” she asks me.

“Sure,” I say and hear a concerned sigh.

“Well, did you ever practice any evolutionary science on the desk?” she asks.

“I don’t know, maybe,” I say.

“I cannot consider a desk that has been sullied by impure hands,” she says.

“Oh, then no,” I say.

“Ok, great,” she says with relief. “I’ll swoop on by.”

As I hang up the phone a scruffy bearded stick man lurches through my front door and shiftily greets me in a scratchy voice. Of course – this must be caller one. I offer my hand but instead of shaking it he removes his filthy spectacles, places them on the desk, and begins vigorously scratching his graying beard with both hands while his entire body quivers. Steel wool on sandpaper accompanied by tiny grunts. I take a step backward and glance out the window at the afternoon skyline, considering every strange soul that may be living within it’s confines. The audible scratching ceases and the man clears his throat.

“How many, er, circumcisions could you, er, perform on this desk at once?” he asks. We’ve been over this already.

“Two,” I say. “You can perform two circumcisions at the same time, side by side.” I step over to the desktop and demonstrate, molding two infants out of air, then consecutively picking each one up and snipping the ring of air foreskin around each air penis. The man nods.

“What about, er, vasectomies?” he asks.

“I suppose it depends on the clientele,” I say. “Seeing as how the procedure is most common in grown men and that grown men are usually much larger than infants, a single vasectomy would require the entire desktop.”

He stares at the desk for a long moment before asking me to make him a sandwich. I agree on one condition – that he buys the desk from me. Soon enough I’m in the kitchen spreading mayonnaise on thick slices of sourdough and thinly slicing a fresh tomato while the man, propped against my refrigerator, watches closely. Then I hear a woman calling my name from the living area.

“I’m sorry,” I say after approaching her, mayonnaise knife in hand, “but the first person I contacted actually showed up to claim the desk.” She frowns and glances out the window at the afternoon skyline, considering every stroke of poor timing the confined populous must have experienced today.

“Then why did you have me come over?” she says. “This has been a waste.”

“Nothing is, er, a waste,” the man says, emerging from the kitchen with a sandwich consisting of sourdough bread, mayonnaise, and tomato slices. He stands behind me in the doorway, slowly munching on my uncompleted creation. The woman’s jaw drops.

“This man is buying the desk?” she says. “I bet he doesn’t even have a vehicle to transport it!”

“Hey, do you have a car?” I ask the man. He shakes his head and gently lifts my acoustic guitar-equipped stuffed polar bear off my bookshelf, dropping the sandwich remains on the floor.

“What did I tell you?” the woman says. “Do I get a sandwich now?”

“It depends – are you going to buy this desk?” I ask her as I stare at the man who is now sitting on my unmade bed, staring into the eyes of my stuffed polar bear and scratching his beard.

“Yes – that’s why I came in the first place,” she quips. I turn to face her and see another man – taller and shaved – saunter into my studio.

“Hi, is the desk still for sale?” he asks the room.

“No, I’m about to buy it,” the woman says, violently fishing a wallet out of her purse.

“Wait, who are you?” I ask.

“I’m Tony,” Tony says. “I called over an hour ago but got caught up in a rousing game of Connect Four with a paraplegic child. It’s a long story, really.”

“Wait, then who the hell are you?” I ask the bearded man on my bed, pointing at him with the mayonnaise knife.

“Do you have change for a fifty?” the woman asks.

“Nice polar bear!” Tony says. His eyes light up and he bends over for a closer look. “They say the polar bear evolved from the brown bear – which is my favorite bear – so these hardy troopers are a-ok in my book.” Tony scratches the bear’s head and the bearded man stares at him. The woman’s jaw drops.

“What did you just say?” she says.

“Hardy troopers?” Tony says.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” she says. “You made an ‘evolution’ reference.”

“So I did,” Tony says. “Referring to the bears.”

“You’re a heathen, clinging to the empty promises of science. And you’re tainting my desk.”

“Yes – will someone just buy the goddamn desk?” I say.

“Yes – do you have change for a fifty?” the woman says, raising her voice to an intimidating decibel.

“Yes – I am a heathen with logic and factual evidence on my side,” Tony says. “Evolution is a sound biological process that expands our world for the good of mankind.”

“SHUT IT,” the woman snarls, crumpling the fifty in her palm.

“I think considering trilobites in your family tree frightens you,” Tony says. He glances out the window at the afternoon skyline, considering every multi-celled organism that may have swam through the city hundreds of millions of years ago.

“I think God frightens you,” the woman says.

“God, er, frightens me,” the bearded man murmurs.

“Trilobites! Trilobites!”

“THAT’S IT,” the woman says, stuffing the crumpled fifty into her wallet thrusting it into her purse. “This is COMPLETELY ridiculous. You can all take your nonsense and collectively shove it.” With that, she storms out of my studio and I turn to Tony.

“Please buy this desk,” I say. I can tell he’s not interested as he performs a brief inspection.

“How many circumcisions did you think this could accommodate?” he asks. We’ve been over this already.

“Two,” I say, ready to perform phantom circumcisions at any second. He scratches his head.

“Well, the desktop looked a lot larger in the photographs,” he says. “I was banking on four simultaneously, accounting for the photographs and your lack of circumcision knowledge. Obviously I’m wrong.” He turns to the bear, which has been discarded to the floor next to the sandwich. “Is your bear for sale by chance?”

“No, it’s not.”

“Well, good day then.” With that, he saunters out of my studio and I turn to the bearded man. He’s laying upright on my bed, propped up against the wall, staring at me. I sigh.

“Look, I have no idea who you are,” I say, “But will you just take this desk?” The man coughs loudly.

“I, er, have no use for a, er, desk,” he says. “But listen.” He slowly rises from my bed and approaches me, patting my shoulder on his way out. “You never know when, er, you’ll need a nice flat surface to, er, write about a bum that just peed all over your bed.” With that, he closes the door behind him and I’m left alone to wash my sheets and write the most random story ever.

Your sister is getting married next month? Impress your family by bringing a date to the wedding! No longer will grandpa question your sexuality. Show him who’s the fucking MAN by bringing a certified grade-A piece of ass to the reception. Are the bimbos you normally bang utterly embarrassing with backwards logic and lack of grace? Ditch those bitches! Let your new scholarly date impress everyone within earshot while she spouts a profound analysis of Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself”. Is your ex-girlfriend going to be in attendance? Oops! Shove your voluptuous slice of heaven in her face and laugh as she runs off in tears.

I know what you’re thinking. “Escort service.” But why play by their shady rules when you can invent your own? Why pay hundreds of dollars when you can bring a willing guest for free?

How is this possible?

THROUGH THE AMAZING POWERS OF CRAIGSLIST!

In case you are unfamiliar, Craigslist is an online service that was created 12 years ago for the sole purpose of finding people to have sex with. Over the years it has blossomed into a thriving community covering a wide spectrum of topics, offering services such as housing rentals, job postings, classifieds, and community forums. Today we’ll be using Craigslist to get your sorry ass a pleasing wedding date.

Step #1: Determine the correct section for your post.

Craigslist can be a daunting place. The layout is bland and harbors hundreds of links cluttering any given page. Luckily for us, the “Personals” section seems like the perfect place to find our amazing female companion. But which “Personals” section should you post under?

Well, that depends on your agenda. Are you seeking a business arrangement? I’d recommend posting in “Strictly Platonic”. Does the prospect of hot fucking after the wedding excite you? Then summon your courage and post in “Casual Encounters”. Want to keep if open-ended? “Men Seeking Women” should work well for you. If you’re thinking about posting in multiple sections, use caution: community members tend to frown upon this practice and your posts may get flagged.

Step #2: Write your ad.

Be completely honest about your intentions and get straight to the point, stating specific guidelines and necessary attributes. The more specific you are, the better your results will be. When imagining your dream date, remember to be as selfless as possible – this is more for your family than yourself.

Explain why you need a date for this wedding and what your future intentions are. My best advice is to leave it open-ended, but stating that you have no time to concentrate on a serious relationship due to your World of Warcraft addiction is fine as well – the prospect of closure may create a less stressful situation. Be aware that this is not the time to seek a WoW-playing vampiress unless your mother has at least two level 70’s.

State specific physical and mental requirements including weight and height ranges, ethnicity, education level, and employment. Some of these metrics may not seem important, but remember – you’re catering to as many family members as you can. In situations where preferences clash, cater to the eldest relative. You want them to die as happily as possible.

Step #3: Post and prune.

You’ll need an efficient way to organize all the ladies once the responses to your post pour in like a torrent of lava. Ignore vague and questionable emails. Print out promising responses and compile a spreadsheet of your contact activity with each. Pretend you’re an employer with a stack of resumes.

Respond to each approved email with a coffee or lunch offer; meeting your potential wedding date will aid in the screening process. Depending on the size of your list, this may get somewhat expensive. If finances are an issue, offer to meet her somewhere else, such as a park or square. A public place will keep things light and provide both parties with some level of anonymity.

After your selection has been made, kindly thank the remaining candidates for their interest and make plans for the wedding. If the date is still a few weeks away, maintain contact with your girl – but not too much contact, unless you two really hit it off (which is doubtful). You don’t want things to fall apart before the date.

So there you have it.

The magical evening is up to you. I’d recommend holding your date’s hand during the reception, being attentive to her needs, and initiating at least one passionate make-out session by the restrooms. Of course, these details must be mutual – most likely worked out ahead of time. This situation could potentially backfire, lowering your family’s opinion of you (if that’s even possible). Nobody wants a rapist for a relative.

Now go knock ‘em dead, kiddo.

Hope this helps.

« Read part 1 first…

We abandon our battered camels outside the lower entrance to Khafre’s Pyramid after midnight, Landon still bitching about the price he managed to haggle. Inside the pyramid, the narrow stone corridors are freezing – even colder than the desert air. An eerie quiet envelops us. My body shivers out of coldness, claustrophobia, superstition, and the prospect of photographing Landon’s asshole in the near future. My Maglight’s beam shakes in my hand causing shadows to dance as if by firelight. Ahead of me, Landon leads while nonchalantly humming a nondescript tune.

To my surprise, the vertically cracked wall behind the subsidiary chamber circled on the crude map is a real landmark. We push hard against the rightmost cracked slab and a portion of the rock slides backwards before toppling over, revealing a narrow portal to the hidden labyrinth. Landon’s laughter and celebratory yelling echoes through the tunnels. His high-five almost shatters my wrist.

Minutes later we’re deep in a narrow maze of winding corridors, walking in circles. The handler’s map, which depicts an arrow from the secret portal to the hidden burial chamber, is useless at this point. Landon studies the arrow before ripping up the map in a cursing fit, and then takes a swig from his flask. I dig through my pack for navigational items – a spool of thread, a bag of corn nuts, anything – but only find photography equipment and batteries.

Dumb luck eventually leads us to a small burial chamber. A stone sarcophagus rests in the center of the chamber and we approach it slowly, speechless. I drop the pack and retrieve the camera, confirm film is loaded, and affix the flash. Landon circles the sarcophagus, running his fingers along the lid’s edge. I imagine this to be his proudest moment. Hell, it may be mine as well. I take a photograph of the sarcophagus and then of Landon sitting on top of it, giving a two thumbs up review.

At the count of three we heave the massive lid – sliding almost too easily – off the stone box and it crashes to the dusty ground. I begin gagging, the smell of death wafting from the revealed wrapped corpse. Landon seems to savor the aroma, bending over to examine the corpse more carefully. The mummy looks abused. Some of the linen wrappings have eroded, exposing decayed limbs and a damaged face with disintegrated eye sockets and gaping maw. I creep backwards, gripped by fear.

“BRAAAH!” Landon roars, lurching his head up quickly. I scream and fumble with the camera while he laughs. “It’s fucking dead,” he says. “And now I’m going to shit on it.” He unbuckles his belt and drops his pants. Summoning my final wits, I mechanically approach the sarcophagus and lean in with the camera raised, Maglight tucked under my arm. His ass and the corpse’s chest are both clearly visible in the viewfinder. With a grunt, Landon pushed out a long wet turd and I successfully capture the action before turning to vomit on my shoes.

“We’re done,” Landon says, pulling up his pants. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and turn to face him from across the stone box. We sigh over the mess.

Then we hear a muffled groan.

Landon cocks his head to one side and stares at me. I’m still as stone, wide-eyed and listening. Another groan, louder and longer. Peering down into the sarcophagus I witness a wrapped hand slowly reaching upwards. I gasp and do the first thing that comes to mind: run the fuck away from the horrible thing we’ve awakened.

Landon screams, racing after me into the labyrinth. “What the fuck? What the fuck?” he barks. My Maglite’s potent beam darts between the narrow corridor walls, sometimes disappearing down dark stretches of hallway. I’m drenched in sweat, terrified, and completely lost in the winding passageways, frantically turning corners like a Cairoian motorist. The moaning echoes throughout the labyrinth around us. All Landon can do is curse repeatedly.

My heart beating out of my chest, I stop at a fork to catch my breath and assess the situation. There’s a chance I might die very soon. There’s also a chance I’m hallucinating. We’re both hallucinating. Together. The moaning echoes louder. I laugh deliriously.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Landon screams, his eyes darting from each corridor, to me, then back again. “What the fuck is wrong with us? This isn’t real. This is bullshit. This is—“

Suddenly, Landon begins to vomit uncontrollably. Beginning as dry heaves, it quickly escalates to steady streams of puke, splattering against the wall he’s propped against. I step back and watch my partner collapse to all fours, retching and spitting blood. Then a long, horrible cry echoes through the hall in front of us. I shine my light down the corridor and step back against the wall, locking into paralysis. The awakened corpse – our mummy pursuer – floats steadily towards us, its curled toes dragging along the dusty floor, thin arms reaching forward with wrappings dangling. I sink to the ground and glance at Landon, still retching his insides out.

The mummy halts a few paces away from Landon and floats in place, six inches from the ground. I stare, sitting as still as death, holding my breath and fighting tears. The only sound is raspy choking; Landon is curled up in a pool of blood and fluids, barely conscience. A faint glow begins to emit from the wrapped terror. It’s head rolls backwards, faint beams of light shooting from the neck and face holes. A howl, building deep within its maggot-ridden belly, begins low and grows louder. And louder. I cover my ears and scream with the mummy as Landon’s head explodes like a squished grape.

I’m still screaming as the mummy turns to me, the glow dissipated. It stares at me for the longest minute of my life. My screaming ceases but my ears are still squeezed closed by my palms, hoping perhaps my arm strength will keep my head whole. The mummy motions to me slowly. It reaches out with one shattered hand and raises the other to its face, arching its intact fingers like it’s pretending to hold something. I’m still frozen in disbelief until it groans, motioning towards me again. It points to its chest.

I look down at the camera still around my neck. I look up at the mummy and rest my hand on the lens barrel. It nods slowly and turns its back to Landon’s stained body. Mechanically, I lift the camera and position the mummy’s ass and Landon’s chest in the viewfinder, Maglight tucked under my arm. The floating corpse squats over Landon in midair. With a horrible moan, a volcanic blast of black shit and maggots erupts from the mummy’s ass, covering Landon with the most epic of dumps. I capture every moment of the action.

When the shitting is complete, the mummy turns to me, stares for a second, and then floats peacefully down the hallway it came from. I’m still paralyzed, unable to comprehend my trip to Cairo. All I know is that Stanley Seymour is getting much more than he bargained for and that I’m asking for double.

Something is obviously amiss in your life if the prospect of a trip to Cairo to photograph a stranger taking a shit sounds like a great opportunity. But if you happen to find yourself in the international terminal at LAX with a boarding pass, are dating a 19-year-old KFC fry cook who just had your baby, and have dropped out of your fine arts program, I say go for it. You fly to Egypt and point that lens barrel up some ass like your life depends on it – because perhaps it does.

I meet with Stanley Seymour, a slimy walrus of a man, one numbing afternoon at his Beverly Park compound out of desperation. Among other countless exotic interests my new employer harbors, he is especially into voyeuristic photographs of people shitting in exclusive worldly areas. His photo albums document hundreds of epic dumps: the edge of the Eiffel Tower’s highest observation deck, the center of Stonehenge, on a busser’s cart in the CN Tower’s 360 Restaurant. My stomach turns sour as the montage of bowel movements continues for pages. He simply stares at me, wide-eyed, patiently petting his left hand like a baby rabbit moments away from intense anal violation. The left hand twitches, aware.

The next four days are spent staring at the flight confirmation Stanley gave me, pondering life while my unhealthy baby’s wails fill my empty shed of an apartment. Inez tries soothing the child in Spanish to no avail before switching to bits of Original Recipe, mashed up like regurgitated nourishment from a mother bird.

Inez says she loves me. I tell her she’s full of shit and then we fuck like lions. Later that evening I meet my assigned accomplice on our flight to Egypt.

Landon is a large, loud, drunk man with straight jet-black hair. I instantly recognize him from the photo albums. He aggressively urges the flight attendants into the bathroom with him until they stop serving our row. He then attempts having an aggressive conversation with me about trucks until he realizes I have no automotive knowledge. Sighing, he takes a swig from his flask, fishes a SkyMall magazine from the seat pocket in front of him, and incessantly discusses every product aloud, paying particular interest to the Portable Mood Light.

“If I brought one of these fuckers on the plane, my dick would be wet by now,” he says and gives me a nudge. I feign sleep, counting down the hours until touchdown, wondering if I can pretend to snooze the entire time. Meanwhile, the scent of rum and sweat wafts from the seat next to me like bog gas.

I land at CAI a little past noon. Landon crashes, silent since vomiting in a drinking fountain at our Roman connection. He heads straight for our room at the Mayfair Hotel while I, somewhat coherent, take an opportunity to wander around the unknown city solo. The relentless heat and smog reminds me of a hot summer day in the San Fernando Valley, but considerably less pretentious. My walk proves unnerving as I haphazardly stroll into the sluggish chaos of Cairo traffic, dozens of horns blaring as each vehicle attempts forging it’s own path. I creep along the street’s edge, constantly wiping sweat from my brow and onto my damp jeans. Then, I spot an oasis at the end of the block: KFC. I speed my pace towards the safe haven, duck inside, and promptly order a 2-piece Original Recipe meal. I wonder if Inez has enough bus fare for the week.

At twilight, Landon groggily leads us to a less reputable part of town to conduct business. In exchange for most of the allowance Stanley Seymour gave us, and seizing our passports as deposits, an abusive handler eagerly provides two camels and a pencil-drawn map depicting a supposed secret burial chamber deep within Khafre’s Pyramid. Of course the deal is ridiculous, but my outcries are swiftly extinguished.

“Listen, you fuck,” Landon growls at me while the handler smiles. “I’ve been doing this a helluva lot longer than you, and there’s a lot of cash at stake if you’re willing to take risks. So back the fuck off and let me do our job.” Whether it was his intensity or the truth in his logic, Landon is very persuasive that moment. After all, he has photographs to prove his experience. I back away, bite my lip, and grin while imagining my bleached bones scattered across the desert.

» Onward to part 2…

First, you must select a situation. This situation will most likely be at the end of something, but the beginning of something is not unheard of. Know that some situations require a bow due to social standards, while bowing in other situations can be detrimental. Social situations are preferable but feel free to bow in isolation should the situation arise.

If you are having trouble discovering a situation, know this about life: It is an infallible chain of situations. Take your pick. This step will become natural.

Here are appropriate situations to bow at the end of:

• Yanking a tablecloth from under a table cluttered with dinner.
  • If the trick was successful, it will add flair.
  • If the trick was a disaster, it will add humor.
• Catching yourself from falling down a flight of stairs.
• Serving a grand breakfast.
• Butchering karaoke.
  • If the performance was exceptionally bad, take another bow.
• Rescuing a kitten stranded on an inflatable donut in the middle of an above-ground pool.

Here are appropriate situations to bow at the beginning of:

• Greeting royalty.
• Moments before crawling into a cannon with the intent of being shot through five flaming rings.
• Serving a grand breakfast.
• Taking the podium during a “how to bow” seminar.

Here are situations where bowing is unacceptable:

• Punching someone in the stomach because their parents just bought them an Xbox 360.
• Rape.
• Stranding a kitten on an inflatable donut in the middle of an above-ground pool.
  • May be acceptable if the kitten is unlikable.
• Getting caught eating unpurchased bananas at Albertsons.
• Ordering waffles.
  • May be acceptable if overcoming a breakfast-related phobia.

After you have selected a situation, it’s time to start bowing. Place your right hand over your waist and place your left hand behind your lower back. If you are left-handed, reverse this placement and ponder the cards life has dealt you. Now, bend your torso forward while keeping your balance. Pause a moment before resuming an upright position, hands at your sides.

The duration of your bow depends on many factors:

• For larger audiences, bow deeper.
• If a beautiful girl was entwined in the chosen situation, bow deeper.
• If clapping is vigorous, bow deeper.
• For life-threatening situations, bow deeper.
• For any situation involving kittens or waffles, bow deeper.

Once your bow is complete, return to your life as normal. Nobody prizes arrogance, save the arrogant. Understand that while the bow offers a fleeting burst of pleasure, more opportunities to utilize this performance tool will surface during the course of your life – unless you become quadriplegic. In that case, ponder the cards life has dealt you, purchase some voice recognition software, and enroll in World of Warcraft.

Hope this helps.