We're banking on YOU to Get Seriously, but not Fatally, Injured

by Mark Peterman

Hi there. Didn't notice that I was shooting a television commercial, targeted at day time television watchers, who might need legal services. As you can see, I was busy researching law topics in a pretentiously clad legal office and taking my glasses on and off, while that other lawyer was spitting water all over himself because he is intimidated about my credentials. That's because I am hard working, lawyer who is out to defend YOUR RIGHTS and win you BIG CASH MONEY. Have you been run over by a tractor trailer? Did your boss accidentally drop a cinderblock on your legs while you were eating lunch two stories below? What's that blue screen say off camera? Oh yes. Blah blah blah, blah blah [insert big legal word] blah blah [insert legal justice conclusion] --PAUSE-- [insert game face]. Here at the Firm [Insert long string of last names], we are banking on YOU to get seriously, but not fatally, injured.

In all honesty, fatalities are a pain in the ass. Usually I have to put on a daytime soap act of concern about the deceased in front of the family while they whimper and tell me 'how great' the deceased was. Yeah right. If he was 'so great', he wouldn't have gotten in a four car pile up. On top of that, I have to deal with a TON of paperwork. Boooooring. Plus, I don't have a half dead guy to prop up in front of the jury for those extra emotional dollars. (Cha-Ching! Can you say house boat? Probably not, cause you are half dead)

Now you can't be drunk, or injure yourself. And please, don't go off getting injured by someone who is flat broke to begin with. What good is a half a mil' settlement when you can't collect? No good. I'm not in the business of putting a lien on someone's house, or reaping the benefits of a repo'd Kia Sportage. Like I said, it's house boat season, and you need to step it up. Getting injured at work? Great. Getting injured at work, within the scope of your employment, for a national chain of department stores? Now we're talkin.

Aesthetically, it would be nice if the injury isn't that visually shocking. Nobody wants to look at you when your face is all half melted off by sulphuric acid. Gross. Missing limbs are OK, just as long as they are presentable. Fake limbs are even better. You could flail it around during trial and knock things off the desk. Wheel chairs, crutches, casts -- all good things. But lose the neck brace, they are so cliche faux injury. We are going for believable, sad, and nice. Throwing in a cute wife, 2.5 kids and a family pet doesn't hurt to seal the deal. As I always say, "If people can relate, they will compensate."

So get out there and start following tractor trailers. If you are at work, take that risky assignment your boss gives on the construction site. You might as well jot my number down now, to save the hassle of me having to stalk you in the hospital parking lot. Just remember, we're banking on YOU to get seriously, but not fatally, injured.

[Disclaimer: The above legal blog does not constitute legal advice by Mark Peterman. Unless you have already been injured. In that case, by reading above blog, you have entered into a binding agreement in which Mark Peterman is your sole legal representative, for all your personal injury cases, throughout the universe, for eternity]

I Still Can't Get Enough of that Dancing Baby!

Wow. I don't even know where to begin.

This is definitely NOT my department

by Steve Bosworth

Trust me, you can ask questions all you want, but I can assure you right now: This is NOT my department. I may have the outward appearance of a very nice, approachable and knowledgeable individual, who is eager to answer all your Do-It-Yourself related home construction queries. This is true, but happenstance has caught us in a zone of the store in which I am unable to formulate a response.

I know what you are going to say next. That, my friend, is another question I cannot answer. Being that I am so far removed from the designated area in which I am mentally apt to answer your questions, I would not be familiar with the employees who actually DO work in this particular section. Remembering all the employees throughout this D-I-Y mega convenience center would be both mentally and socially straining, detracting from my ability to provide focused and informed answers to the questions directed at me whilst inside my zone of questionability.

I understand that your question is simple and just requires a general direction in which I believe a certain item might be located. I apologize, but again, I must assure you that my perception is significantly altered once I leave the zone designated for my employment. Answering such a question could rip a hole in the D-I-Y space/time continuum, which would be both the end of time and existence. Heaven and Hell would collide on earth, causing a massacre of epic proportions and the end of humanity. In such a circumstance, NO ONE would be able to answer all your home project related interrogatories or soothe your construction related concerns . That would most certainly detract from the 'convenience with a smile' attitude we are trying to convey.

What's that you ask? No, again, I'm sorry, but I cannot inform you of what particular department I work in, or the name of my manager. Being that I started work two months ago, I have yet to actually find my department, or meet the manager of aforesaid department. However, when I do find it, I can assure you that I will be happy to answer all of your questions in a friendly and appropriately educated manner. Until then, I will continue to wander around the store appearing busy, because this is definitely not my department.

Looking For: Friends

by Young Zombie Professional




I feel like I'm a real outgoing Zombie. I'm up to date on politics, have a pretty good sense of humor, comparatively good fashion sense, and a fervent love of Indie music. Hell, I even breeze up on pop culture news now and again, just in case I get caught up in a random conversation about Shiloh's new wardrobe or Bono's latest trip to a third world country. But contrary to popular belief, being a Zombie doesn't exactly make you prime real estate in friend country. When was the last time you heard someone say, "Hey Zombie, you want to go grab a beer and watch the Phillies Game?" or "Hey Zombs, could you help me out and play wing man on friday?" Last time I checked, that happened never. Apparently, trying to eat a girl's brain while she leans over to ladel clam chowder into her mouth during a double date ruins the mood. (Thanks for the heads up on that one, Dad -- Maybe if you spent less time wandering around the countryside moaning and more time at home with your family, I wouldn't be so emotionally inept)

Do you how it feels when you go to the trendy store to buy a pre-worn shirt with a sexually suggestive quip across the chest and every 18 to 25 year old runs out screaming in sheer terror? The only people that even debate helping me try on clothes are those burned out freaks that work in the commercialized excuse of a rebellion. You know what I'm talking about, that place that sells metal records and 80s memorabilia to kids who got made fun of in 4th grade. No Thanks, weirdos. While we're on the subject, just because I'm a Zombie doesn't mean I love Hell, Satan, JNCO Jeans and Iron Maiden. And no, I don't want to hang out and smoke cigarrettes with you while you talk about how much your parents suck.

UUUUHHHHHHHHH!!!! (low guttoral moaning, slowly getting louder)

oh, sorry, I got sidetracked there for a minute. What were we discussing? Oh yes. I'll continue.



Despite the obvious advantages of scaring away everyone within a half mile radius, smelling like a rotting deer carcass and having the mobility of a 95 year old on meds, being a zombie doesn't have many advantages. I literally can't leave my studio for more than an hour without some gung-ho, ex-marine meathead, flying high on a cocktail of anabolic steroids, trying to decapitate me with some kind of powertool. Seriously Rambo, chill the fuck out.


Given my predicament, I had all about given up on the idea of finding a bunch of like-minded, witty, informed and active colleagues, with which to exchange thoughtful conversation and playful banter. That was until I found the beauty that is FaceSpace. Finally, a forum so detached, yet intimate, that even beings condemned to wander the earth decaying and feasting on the flesh of the living can know intimate details about someone's life, interests, and favorite television programs!

For instance, just the other day, I got to know Stacey H in a way I thought I never could. She loves the OC, likes coke over pepsi, Hates asparagus and NEVER kisses in public, cause she had a baaaaad ex bf experience. LMAO!!! Haha, I'd tell you the story, but ONLY people in her designated top friends area know about it.

Plus, I can let people know a bit about me -- although my interests of stumbling in large groups, moaning and eating brains are a little lackluster -- so I've picked up some fake ones to make friends, like sipping lattes at Starbucks, reading, and Tai Chi. Also, I replaced my pic with a random guy i found on google with a six pack. My schedule is too tight for me to go to the gym, do abs at home, or really do anything except think about eating human flesh. So I figured I would just use his photo instead. It's been a choice move for making friends -- I already have 50 within 5 miles of my postal code!

So if you are from my particular area and spend a fair amount of time on the internet, look me up! I'd love to exchange messages with you and add you to my friend group.
www.facespace.com/youngzombprofesh. Lata Playa!



(if you are sitting there thinking, 'hey idiot, Zombies have no capacity to think or speak, let alone listen to music, purchase a t-shirt, pay rent for a studio or to use a computer or access the internet -- [first off, you are a nerd, NERD] -- but I have one question for YOU. when was the last time you met a zombie? just because you read a book by Max Brooks doesn't mean your an expert. In addition, his views are completely bias against zombies as a group -- I wouldn't take everything you read as fact)

Bitchez betta step off in tha Blockbuster Line

by Lil' Doug Fresh

I kno its always like I’m playin an shit. Everyone’s always like, Lil Doug Fresh, you hilarious, you laid back relaxin like you Baby Boy Da Prince, but more fly. I kno, shouts to my peepz an holla at cha boy. But I gots to get serious right quick. I ain’t frontin and bitches best not be trippin, cuz I’m THE TRUTH when I say bitchez best be steppin off in tha Blockbuster Line.

It’s been a minute since I’ve holla'd at cha. Things have been goin good in Lil’ Doug Fresh’s life. But I GOTS to be honest. Get tha fuck up outta my ass when I’m tryin to rent Ghost Rider. Broke ass kakhi wearin polo shirt sportin goofy punk ass wanna be punk ass. Shiiiiit. With your ugly ass baby’s mama tryin to rent Little Nemo or some shit. Go put on some boat shoes and talk about golf or some shit an quit breathin down my neck when I’m tryin to jack some twizzlers before I roll up outta this piece. Of course I didn’t pay for that shit, asshole. Stop blowin up my spot fore I slap you like a bitch.

Damn, I Look Good

by Brice Lancer

I woke up early this morning so I could have my routine an egg white omelette, freshly squeezed oj and low - fat organic yogurt. But before I even made it into a pair of designer jeans, I was floored when I caught a glimpse of myself in my full length mirror. Its not often that one gets caught off-guard by their taught physique and iceberg baby blues. I must have spent at least two hours staring in the mirror before I reached the conclusion: Damn, I Look Good.

People stop me on the street, bi-daily, to make comments on the sculpture that is my body. They ask me, Brice, what's it like just being so damn good looking? In one word I reply; Completely Awesome. Now don't get me wrong. Whatever anyone says, a chiseled bod that put's Michelangelo's David to shame and handsomely rugged looks that could make Burt Reynolds cry don't come easy. You can't just pop a pill and expect to look like Brice. Brice takes hard work, dedication, and three generations of hot people engaging in sexual intercourse.

I also realized that I looked damn good when I was at the upscale martini bar sipping a cherry vodka and diet. I made eye contact with a hot skinata (pronounced skin-yata; See also, 'firey skinata', 'extra spicy skinata', 'hot tamale') and approached her to announce the presence of Brice. She was all about me; so much so that she suggested that I engage in intercourse with myself. I've entertained that quandary before, and trust me baby, if Brice could do that, Brice would have been there and done Brice. The evening ended abruptly when she got so excited that she bolted out of the club. I imagine she went home to clear her calendar for the next two weeks, as to leave ample time for Brice-flection on the life changing evening she had spent with me. But not before she cooled me down with her appletini. I knew my bad boy moves were burning up the dance floor, but I had no idea that I had brought it so hard that a babe-ette would sacrifice her ten dollar beverage for my personal comfort. Thanks sex kitten. You sacrificed one for the team. And by team, I mean Brice.

But Enough about her. Back to what everyone wants to talk about: Me. There have been substantial rumors circling Brice Lancer as of late. A bit of Brice-Mania, if you will. People have said everything from, to 'Brice is signing with Calvin Klein', to 'Brice is throwing the biggest model party in New York' to 'Brice is debating putting on pants' to 'Brice slept with me and stole my purse'. Let me assure you, none of these rumors are true. Except for possibly the last one, which is highly unsubstantiated, and my lawyer has asked me not to discuss. Brice is not, as of late, signing with Calvin Klein, throwing a modeling party, or putting on pants. However, if someone were to propose such an arrangement, Brice would not be whole-heartedly opposed. As for now, Brice will just continue to be the stud-muffin that everyone has come to worship and adore.
Alas, all this unsubstantiated rumor talk has again gotten me off topic yet again. What were we discussing? And can someone tell me WHO that dropdead gorgeous guy is across the room in his underwear?! OH, HAHA, thats just me in the mirror. Damn, I look good.

I Met My Girlfriend at the Abortion Clinic

by Sam David

Now before you start getting judgmental, I have to clarify a couple of things. One: Maria wasn’t getting an abortion; her younger sister was. Two: I wasn’t there for any abortion related reason; actually, I thought the abortion clinic was a McDonalds. I should have known when I went to walk through the drive-thru and there wasn’t one. Also, the protesters and the picket line might have tipped off a less hunger crazed individual. But, I was famished! I just needed to double check, so I went inside and ordered a number two. Briefly thereafter, I was informed, that in fact, it was not a McDonalds, but Mason City’s abortion clinic. I would have killed for a double cheeseburger and value size fries, but getting a girlfriend was just delightful. Unlike other people in the waiting room, I had made a wonderful mistake.

I remember meeting her just like it was yesterday. Actually, it might have been yesterday. I've been engaged in lite-hearted celebration since finishing finals at university -- GO BOBCAAATS!!!! -- and I've been having so much fun that the days tend to blend together. However, regardless of the date, I'm pretty convinced that I must have been intoxicated on that fateful day -- Intoxicated with love.

I remember how beautiful Maria was, offset by her sister crying and screaming in her cell phone at her baby's daddy. Maria was texting her ex-boyfriend and twirling her lush, semi-permed hair around her purple, sparkly, self-adhesive nails . She looked up at me as I proceeded to urinate on the fake ficus in the waiting room. As I strolled over to start light conversation, I stumbled over a poorly placed cofee table and practically landed in her lap. Everyone in the room must have seen how nervous I was to talk to her -- What a butter-fingers! I was so love struck that I proceeded to vomit in her lap. She looked down at me with the cutest mad face, "OHHH NO U DI-NNNN'T". Oh Yes I did, honey buns. Yes I did.

It was love at first sight. Sure, she may have her issues: but at 23, who hasn't had several children from different men or another man's name tattooed on their neck? We've all been there. Who are we to judge?

I'll admit that telling people I met my girlfriend in an abortion clinic is a little different. But it's no different than locking eyes while reaching for the same loaf of bread at the grocery store, or falling head over heels at line at the coffee shop. Love doesn't wait for you to be in a socially acceptable venue for flirtation. Sometimes love just happens. And that's why I have no shame in saying that I met my girlfriend at the abortion clinic.