Let’s have a mind and raise flowers.

The scene: a brightly lit 1940’s art deco boardroom filled with fat men smoking cigars.

“We need something new. Something that will take America by storm!” said the CEO.
“Our R and D people are working on something right now, boss.” said the mousy upstart, Miles Taggert.
“What’s that Miles?”
“They’re calling it Crack Cocaine, boss.”

Suddenly the door burst open and in rushed an intern, breathless. “The CIA scooped us on Crack! They just filed for a patent!”
“Gahhh!” Screamed the CEO. “Again! We need something new and quick!”
“I’ve got an idea.” Said Mr. Smartypants, the new inventor nerd.
“Well, what is it? Huh?” Said Miles, worried that someone might upstage him in front of the CEO.
“Sanitary Toilet Seat Covers.”
“What’s that?” Said the CEO.
“Have you ever used a toilet in a public place?”

The entire boardroom was quiet, then each one shook their head ‘no’.

“Of course not, you idiot!” said Miles. “Have you ever seen a toilet at a Denny’s?” He looked at the CEO for approval.
“We’ve never used one, because they’re disgusting.” said Mr. Smartypants. “Men piss all over the seat, even though they could easily lift it. And if its not piss, there’s invariably diarrhea sprayed all over it.”
“Yes, yes, we know!” Said the CEO.
“Well, what if there was something you could lay down over the seat to protect you? Like a toilet female condom.”
“A what?”
“A toilet……condom.”
“Oh.”

The room thought about it for .01 seconds before exploding into a roar of applause.

“What’s it made of?” The CEO asked.
“Sheep skin.” Said Mr. Smartypants.
“Great! Our lambchop operation in Akron has just been throwing that stuff away!” The CEO clapped his meaty hands at the thought of doubling his profit margins.
“Waitaminute!” Interrupted Miles. “Wouldn’t sheepskin clog the toilets and/or not decompose in septic tanks?”
“By God, he’s right!” The CEO smacked him on the shoulder. “You’re promoted!”

He turned to Mr. Smartypants. “Get the hell outta my goddammed art deco boardroom, you brainy eggheaded good-for-nothing!”
Mr. Smartypants slunk away, his lab coat wet with tears.

A year later, in the same boardroom, a new suck-up came up with the idea of cutting a hole in the middle of the toilet seat covers and Miles Taggert was fired. In spite of that ignoble day, he didn’t let it get him down. He found that inventing was 5% inspiration and 95% waiting around to make tiny improvements on other’s ingenious ideas. He went on to greatness in other endeavors: he is the man behind the divots on golf balls, the sticky vinyl footsies on kids’ jammies, and crustless white bread.

Ryan McGivern

Satan made herpes, whiskey, dancing, masturbation, Halloween, and –by extension — candy.

To celebrate this year, I read some really spooky books to get me in the mood: “Howl-a-day Inn”, “The Celery Stalks at Midnight”, and “Halloween Mad-Libs 8th Edition” which was scary even before I filled in the blank ‘verb’ and ‘adjective’ slots.

So my friend Jared threw a party last Saturday. I was really excited because parties are where I really shine. People always tell me that I am the life of the party!

And when I say “people” I mean “my mom”. And when I say they “always tell me I’m the life of the party”, I mean “one time when I was six and I had a kindergarten graduation party at Chuck E. Cheese’s”.

So me and the guys get all geared up in some awesome costumes and head over to the big Halloween bash at Jared and Mike’s apartment. I was dressed as Homestar Runner dressed as “Catwoman” from the original Batman TV series.  Derek was dressed as Sigourney Weaver from “Aliens”, and Ben was dressed as the Biblical character Deborah from the book of Judges.

There was about 5 people there and the party was bumpin’! They were playing the “Best of The Eagles” album really loud and that really got us all in the party mood. I met this guy named Scott in the kitchenette and I quickly tried to get an assessment on the beautiful ladies at the party:
“Who’s that chick in the clown costume?”
“My girlfriend.”
“Cool. That’s cool. Who’s that girl in the baby costume?”
“My sister.”
“That’s a great costume she’s got on. The three dots on her cheeks and the bonnet really sells it.”
“Yeah.”
“Great party.”

Jared had invited a girl who works at the “TCBY” across from the “China Palace” he works at in the mall. Apparently, he’s been trying to flirt with her for like seven months now and this was his first excuse to see her outside of the food court. Her name is Rikki and she came as a cat, so our costumes kind of matched, which was embarrassing. She also is a devout Jehovah Witness so she doesn’t celebrate holidays. She made Jared promise that it wouldn’t be a “Halloween” party. It needed to be billed as “a gathering of friends”. I told Jared that that was weird and he reminded me: “Prince is a Jehovah Witness. It can’t be that weird.”

Some of us were standing in the kitchen chatting, and waiting for the pumpkin bread to finish baking when all of a sudden I got stuck alone with Rikki. I tried to make some light conversation:
“So what is the scariest thing that’s ever happened to you, Rikki?”
“Being diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease.”
“…that pumpkin bread smells great, doesn’t it?”

It was getting close to the ‘witching hour’ and the party was starting to wind down so Derek, Ben, and I took off so that we could get a good night’s sleep.

We got home around 11:30 but we had eaten so much candy that we couldn’t fall asleep! We ended up telling each other spooky stories into the wee hours of the night.

To Ben, Derek, Jared, Mike and all the others: Thanks for making this Halloween so special. I love you all.

To Satan: I hope you take into consideration how much I celebrated your Birthday every year when I show up in hell.

And To Mom: Thanks for sending the cookies. They were great.

Ryan McGivern

I fought traffic on the 405 for an hour and a half to go the Encino Sperm Bank this morning.

I had the worst ‘donation’ ever.

First off, the collection room I went into had only one Cheri magazine (old), one Hustler, and two Penthouse. I knew right off the bat this was gonna be a tough one.

I also had the strangest thoughts (of the non-debauched kind) racing through my head.  I thought about the MSN video of a National Geographic television show about ‘real life’ vampires I had just watched.  To all the ‘real life’ vampires out there: Shopping at Hot Topic and drinking blood does not make you a vampire. I knew a kid in high school who also had no friends and hung out in a basement. He didn’t call himself a vampire, and we respected him for it.

I also thought about the MSN video (also a Nat’l Geographic show) about heroin addicts. They had some interviews with REAL heroin addicts. I couldn’t believe it! I thought that they were figments of my imagination, or just some cultural legend. I guess not. I mean, you see movies about them, but you never think: “Maybe…..Nah….Well….Maybe..they are real…..” Well, lemme tell you. They’re real. And they’re walking among us.

I also thought about some strange things I’ve seen lately. (all this thinking was getting me late. I usually like to wrap things up at the Sperm Bank within 15 minutes) I had seen yesterday a can of Del Monte Peach Halves.

Sounds normal so far, right?

Wrong.

In proud, bold lettering, the label announced — “Raspberry Flavored!”  This seemed like some weird flaunting of science.
Its like artificial insemination. Just because you can do it, doesn’t mean you should.  George W. is gonna start cracking down on both of these Frankensteinian, God blaspheming technologies in his next term.
(Oh, and you think he won’t win again? Huh.  I’ve got one word for you, hippy: Diebold.)

Well, finally I wrapped things up and pantingly and sweatily gave my sperm donation.
“Thanks, Ryan,”said the pleasant nurse/sperm wrangler.
“You’re very, very welcome. I put a lot of hard work into this one,” I said.
“You could almost call it my seminal work.”
I waited for her to laugh but instead she turned and went back into the lab.

Its not easy being a writer, comedian, actor in Hollywood.  Its even harder being a sperm donor.

I’m jet-hopping over to a Reno, Nevada casino tomorrow for a training about working in Native American communities. In preparation of losing my mind amongst the greed, addictions, unnatural blinking neon light epileptic seizures, cigarette smoke hotbox, midlife crises, empty glares, the bling bling and the cha-ching, I did some background reading on the second weirdest state in the union (after Utah’s Mormon absurdimania).

The Mayor of Las Vegas, Oscar Goodman, is among the most loveably boisterous politicians in America. Wikipedia reports: “On March 3, 2005, Goodman was speaking before a group of fourth-graders at Jo Mackey Elementary School. When asked what he would bring if marooned on a desert island, the mayor replied ‘a showgirl and a bottle of Bombay Sapphire Gin’. Further, when asked about his hobbies, the mayor named drinking Bombay Sapphire Gin as a favorite. Later, asked to comment, Goodman was unapologetic. ‘I’m the George Washington of mayors. I can’t tell a lie. If they didn’t want the answer the kid shouldn’t have asked the question,’ Goodman said.”

As a surprising number mindflower readers have written me that they are exploring potential careers in the prostitution field, let me be the breathless one to tell you Nevada is the place to be! However, there are regulatory caveats — unfortunately, pimping is not tolerated, and while the sex trade is legal in Nevada, it is not permitted in counties with populations of more than 400,000, which knocks Reno and Las Vegas off their high horses of another color. If you are horny and lonely in Vegas, a viable option is to take a cab twenty miles to Pahrump County, where you have a choice between Sheri’s Ranch or Chicken Ranch brothels. After wandering inside one of said brothels and choosing your meat from a lineup of women, you play lets make a deal; ask yourself, how much is sex with this person worth to you? Negotiations begin at $200 and the typical suck and fuck costs between $400 and $500, depending on the brothel’s proximity to Vegas or Reno, and on your subjective opinion of the “attractiveness” of the whore. Condom use is mandatory and actually has provided competent protection to the prostitutes who are tested for STDs every two months. Since 1986 there have been zero reported cases of HIV among the women.

1. [funny] What happens when you tickle a clown to death?
2. [what's for supper?] Tabasco, strawberry and radish salad; grilled armadillo sprinkled with baked kudzu chips; honey-dipped raw jellyfish
3. [a way to go] The Hindenburg, the Titanic, or the Challenger?
4. [food] Where should I put this Taco Bell chimichanga?
5. [sweet voices] If your breasts were filled with helium, would you permit Mike Tyson to give suck to your nipples in an effort to hear the highest sound audible to human ears?
6. [nothing] Imagine time doesn’t exist. What would you do then?
7. [round pound] The first shall be last, and the last shall be first. Which will you be?
8. [euphamisms] Would you rather “sluff a chutney”, or “rake the churchyard”?
9. [H.J.'s] Spit and polish or rough and tumble?
10. [My roommate Ben] You gonna pay me that 10 bucks you owe me, dude? Don’t make me ask-because that makes me feel like an asshole. I know its just 10 bucks, but its partly the principle of it and I need 10 bucks. That’s like gas money. Or beer money. Seriously. I hate to even bring it up, but sheesh.
11. [Jesus H. Christ] Who’s your daddy?

Today was the best day of my life. Not only did I have sex with my brother for the first time (he is BIG! — don’t worry, we used birth control), but I also made the perfect grilled cheese sandwich!

1. Firstly, use one sheet of superfine sandpaper to scrub your non-stick frying pan until there is plenty of loose Teflon. This, my friends, is secret ingredient #1.
2. Melt an entire stick of butter in the frying pan. Pour in one liter of corn oil. We are gonna deep fry that cheesy bitch.
3. Secret ingredient #2, gasoline. Just a dash, for color.
4. Let frying pan soak in the sunlight for five hours, while you surf internet porn in the other room. This will work up your appetite and get your pan ’sun-kissed’.
5. Go to the store and buy a loaf of gluten-free bread. If they don’t have any, make a huge scene breaking things and screaming: “This would never happen in Seattle!”
6. Throw that solar preheated pan in your pottery kiln, set the temp to: “Vase”
7. When you see the pan begin to melt, add loaf of bread. Let bake for 2 seconds. Remove pan and repeat step 4. This time, save watery ejaculate in a measuring beaker. This is obviously secret ingredient number #3.
8. In microwave, nuke String Cheese Incident vinyl records on top of loaf. Top with toe jam.

I can’t believe that my mother is going to become a professional skateboarder. I asked her repeatedly over Skype “mom why are you doing this?” and all she would reply was: “Ain’t your beeswax, honeymuffin. I’m eating muffins with hot sauce.”

But this shouldn’t surprise me. She’s always been a rebel.

When she was sixteen, she boned my dad, a married rabbi, on the top floor of the Swiss Army Knife factory. And have I mentioned how impressive her areola implants are?

In a recent email she wrote, “My crotch smells like rotting cabbage from having sex with Elian Gonzalez. He’s still not 18 so we did it on a raft off the coast of Miami. …. Some prick filmed it and I sued him for royalties. Maybe I’ll be able to buy you something nice like a Desert Eagle handgun.”

And today she texted me:

How is that Greyhound bus-driving job going, son? And when you gonna make me a goddamned grandchild?”

I love my mom dearly, but I’m worried. I’ve always felt like I’ve had to be the responsible one in the family. I’m the one who talked her out of drinking a dead man’s diarrhea. I’m the one who had to negotiate the hostage situation with her at the Vatican. I’m the one who always has to remind her that it’s tax season and that she should schedule an appointment with H&R Block.

But, she is the one who gave birth to me in a Taco Bell men’s bathroom, and for that gift of life I must always love her unconditionally.

Whether she fails at being the first 64 year old woman to do a 720 back flip over a cesspool on a skateboard or not, I’m going to love her, because she’s my Mom!

Someone said the love of money is the root of all evil. They were probably poor and bitter. Screw that dribble with a philips head right up the yin yang. Money is the American way and I for one am gonna get mine, sucka. I loves me some cash money more than you love your wife. I’ll do anything or anyone to get it, because once I have it I can sleep with your wife. She is a milf! I hope you don’t take offense.

I remember the first big deal I brokered at the age of 8 when I sold my sister Pam’s cat Kitten Caboodle to a neighbor for 3 bucks and then told Pam that the cat had been eaten by a cougar. With that 3 bucks I bought a yo-yo which I then traded for a kite. I tried that old Ben Franklin trick flying the kite in a storm, which is why I can see through your first layer of clothes. Yep, them some funky Tabasco logo boxers you sportin’. And that is one piping hot shit stain.

I also am a live nude model at the local community college where the art teacher Mr. Ames gives me 8 bucks and some pot to pose naked for 3 hours. Not only do I rake in some cash-ola, I get to air out my crotch rot and dry out my anal sores.

Here is my new scheme, infallible! Yesterday I second-morgaged my parents house and sold my 91 Chevy Cavalier Convertible and bought Walmart stock (on a friends tip!), $40,000 bucks worth! I put an ad on craigslist to sell all my family’s heirloom furniture, including an oak table that once belonged to Ty Cobb and my grandfather’s grandfather clock, which is worth at least a grand! My plan is to buy all new furniture at Walmart! Just watch that stock price sore!

I’m not sure how I’m gonna get home without my car.

This is America baby, and I’m living the American Dream. Don’t ever try and wake me up!

Wrestling is like sex.
You need a signature move.
Wear a nut cup.
Or better yet, have your bits removed.  
Never scream for mercy.
Have a signal with your corner to have them throw in the towel for you.
Make sure that the bear has been declawed.
(If wrestling a bear who will allow you to declaw it.)
Play dead.
(If wrestling a bear who will not allow you to declaw it.)

Its also a good idea to undergo a couple of enemas pre-fight.
I don’t know how many times I had to spray the mat like a Jackson Pollack
before catching on to this necessary pre-fight ritual.

A lot of people talk about wrestlers “cutting weight” to get into a lower weight class.
This is a myth. We don’t ride a stationary bike in a steam room for 5 hours to lose weight for a fight! 
We do it to clear our pores. 

The best wrestling advice I can give you is:  ”It’s all in the wrist.”

Ryan McGivern

First, make sure that your core team has a shady newcomer who’s young and reckless.
You’ll also want to visit your prison friend Three Legs to get help finding a recovering drug addict getaway car driver.

If you are the ringleader, have a great relationship with your mom. That way it will be all the more tragic when you are gunned down by the cops.
If you are not the ringleader, be suspicious that they are going to screw you
out of the score, man. Try to undermine their power by getting drunk
with the gang over a game of cards and mouthing off about the leader. If the leader 
doesn’t kill you right then and there, that means they’re weak and you’ll be able to stab them in the back later after they’re gunned down by the cops.

Its always good to have a hideout. This can be found in most warehouse districts or spooky wharfs.

Have a fail safe plan that cannot go wrong….Unless one of your team makes a rookie mistake and there just so happens to be an overly zealous security guard nearby.
Then you’ll have to go to Plan B which involves an unfortunate shooting of somebody and then devolves into panic and your gang turning on each other.

This will be a good time to use your: “We’re in this together. There’s no turning back.”
Speech.

Finally, when all of you are dead or dying
(except for that quiet guy in the gang who always seemed to have a heart of gold who will get away miraculously),
remember to be reflective on the ironic nature of justice.

Ryan McGivern