Monday, August 14, 2006

I'm moving!

Yes, it's true. After talking about it for months, I have a found a new, free blog service to host my blog. The new address is, but from now on, will direct to that address, not this one.

This blog will still exist, it just won't be updated. There really is no reason to go here anymore.

All my old blogs are up at my new page, which, like I said, is located at

Please update your bookmarks, if you have set them to my blogspot address. If you bookmarked, you should be all set.

If you subscribe to my blog via rss feed (which is a great idea, by the way), please re-direct your feed reader to my new feed

I hope you like the look of my new blog, I think it is better, please let me know how you feel, either way. If enough people like the old version, I may switch back. So feel free to send me an email to

Thanks for reading,

Saturday, August 12, 2006

The blood of democracy...

"Don't move or I'll blow your fucking head off."

The voice was calm. It emitted absolute authority.

Mark DePonce woke his wife, Cheryl. As she came to, she saw the four armed men in masks standing in a semi-circle around her bed and she screamed. Mark put his hand over his wife's mouth.

"We just do what they say, honey," he assured her, as her eyes grew wide with terror and she thrashed against her husband as he held her still.

"Yeah, this bitch would do well to listen to you." Only the leader spoke.

"I will not have you speak like that in my home--". He was trying to be a toughguy, but the sawed-off shotgun to his temple put an end to that act.

Mark DePonce shut up and urinated all over himself and his wife, but neither seemed to notice.

The four men motioned for them to walk downstairs to the living room where two more men were waiting with the three DePonce children.

"Daddy, what's going on?" asked the middle child, Jessica.

"It's gonna be OK, baby. Just be quiet and do what these men say, OK?" She nodded.

Jessica held on to her little sister, Megan, who was only six. Their older brother, Matthew, had his arms around both of them. He was protecting his little sisters and his father swelled up with pride until he noticed the lack of urine on his son's underwear, which stood in stark contrast to his own soaked pajamas. His pride was quickly replaced with shame.

Mark's mind was going a mile a minute. He looked for any sort of blunt instrument he could use to turn the tables. Not finding any, he reminded himself he was no Steven Seagal. No, it was best to play along, do whatever they said.

The family stood there for a moment, not sure what was coming.

After what seemed like a whole lifetime of waiting, the leader produced a 9mm handgun and issued a command to Mark: "Choose."

The children looked to their father, confused. He couldn't look back at them, though. He knew all too well what the man in the mask was asking him to do.

"I can't... I can't do it," he pleaded in a tone of desperation that sent shivers up the spines of his wife and children. This was their father, their husband, their protector. He sounded like a scared, little child.

"Fine. Then I shoot them all. All but you," said the voice.

"You bastard!" Mark grew a sack and lunged at the leader. It was futile. Two others grabbed him and a third hit him on the back of the head with the butt of his shotgun.

Mark felt his face against the cold floor, the knee of one of the men on his back. The face of the leader loomed large above him.

"You fucking coward," he said with disgust, "you wanted us to shoot you. You go out the hero and you don't have to make the decision."

As he said it, Mark realized the man was right.

"Pick this piece of shit up," he commanded.

The others roughly pulled Mark to his feet. His wife and children were crying now.

"Listen up, buddy boy, no matter what you choose, someone's gonna die. And it ain't gonna be you. You'll live a long life, grow old and have to think about this choice you're going to make for a long time. I'll see to that."

Mark hung his head. How could anyone make such a decision?

"I can't," he whispered.

"Fine, they all die." The man raised his gun to Matthew's head.

"Daddy?" he sobbed.

"No!" Mark yelled, "I'll do it."

"Good," said the man.

"Cheryl, I'm sorry," Mark said through his tears.

Cheryl felt immediate betrayal. This was her soulmate, the man she loved. But in the seconds that followed, she realized she would have done the same, to protect the children.

"I love you," she mouthed to him.

"Wrong," said the man in the mask. "You choose one of them." He motioned towards the kids.

"Goddamit!" Mark cried out, "Have some fucking mercy, they're children for Christ's sake!" The kids crying got louder.

"5..." the leader counted down.

"No, I won't," insisted Mark.

"4... 3..." Continued the voice behind the mask.

"2..." He cocked his gun.

"1..." He again raised his gun to Matthew's head.

"Wait! Fine! It's Megan! Shoot Megan!" screamed Mark DePonce, motioning towards his youngest daughter.

"What?!" came the words, so primal and frenzied from Cheryl DePonce as she struggled in vain to protect her youngest and most-treasured daughter. "Why not Matthew?" she asked, not realizing what she was saying.

Matthew looked up at his mother, who was so quick to feed him to the wolves, but before he could say anything, the man in the mask cut him off.

"It's done. You made your choice." He strode over to the little girl, held the barrel of his handgun against her forehead and squeezed the trigger.


They all stood there. Not sure what had happened. There comes an acceptance in the last few moments of your life. An acceptance of the finality of things. And this finality had been disturbed.

"What the--" asked Mark, speaking for the group.

The man in the mask knelt down by the littlest girl and did something odd: he hugged her.

He flung his arms around her neck tenderly and held her head against his face and whispered in her ear as she sobbed.

"It's going to be OK, none of you are going to die. But you must always remember: they picked you. They love you the least."

And with that, they were off. The family remained standing there, in a trance, wondering what the fuck had just happened.

Outside in the van, the leader took off his mask. As the guys congratulated themselves on a job well done, he called someone on his cell phone.

"Hello?" asked the voice, groggy with sleep.

"It's done," the man said.

"Chad?" I asked.

"I did it, buddy," he said with pride.

"Oh God, what did you do this time?" My mind began to wander the universe of terrible possibilities.

"I got even with that no-good son-of-a-bitch who stole your presidency!"

Albert Johnson of 1629 Bluebird Lane had ran against me in the election for leader of our town's Harvey Danger Fan Club. Things had gotten pretty heated and it seemed like someone had been spreading rumors about me and my past involvement with a loose association of people who traded tapes of Dave Matthews shows. Chances are it wasn't even Albert, but one of his supporters who was behind it.

Anyway, like I said, Albert lived at 1629 Bluebird Lane, right next to Mark DePonce and his family, who lived at 1633 Bluebird Lane. When my "good buddy", Chad Robuckle, heard about my loss in the election for presidency of the Harvey Danger Fan Club, he took it upon himself to "fix things", concocting this elaborate revenge scheme on Albert and his family.

Of course, after months of planning, it never occured to Chad to make sure he entered the correct house and hatch this scheme on the right guy and not some innocent bystander whose wife was now filing for divorce and custody of two of her three children.

But hey, that's Chad for ya.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Score one for "progress"

Am I the only one?

Will no one else stand up to the tyranny of commercialism?

Today, I was deeply saddened to read that Disneyland will be removing the roller coaster ride from its beloved classic attraction, "The Matterhorn" (

"Oh no, they're tearing down the Matterhorn?" you ask?

No, they are not. They are removing the ride and leaving the building intact.

And what are they putting in the building, you ask? A store.

Not just a store, a Disney Store.

Maybe I'm showing my age, call me a relic, if you like, but I actually like the Matterhorn.

Sure, it's old and it's corny when the abominable snowman lights up and growls at you, but what's wrong with some good, old-fashioned, corny fun?

When I go to Disneyland, it's not to ride the latest thrill rides. If I want to go on a roller coaster that's 500 feet tall and goes 120 miles an hour, I'll go to Six Flags. That's also where I go if I want to get stabbed, but that's a topic for another time.

I go to Disneyland to relive my childhood. I walk under the train station and onto Main Street, USA and I am a kid again. Everything is safe and fun and the world makes sense. I see limitless possibilities laid out in front of me. Life is good.

Do I believe those are real elephants in the Jungle Cruise? No, they look fake as hell. Am I scared by any of the ghosts in the Haunted Mansion? Fuck no, asshole. I'm no pussy. Do I think I'm really in "the world of tomorrow" when I walk past Space Mountain? I'm not even going to answer that.

It's called "willing suspension of disbelief" and to all those people out there who lack an imagination: you should try it. If you can't take 10 hours out of your day where you pretend you're not a miserable son of a bitch, then I truly feel sorry for you.

When I would get in line at the base of that big, white mountain, I would look up at its peak in awe. Since I don't believe in vaccinations, I'll never get to travel overseas and see the real Matterhorn, so this is as close as I will get. I stand there by the pine trees and breathe in their scent. The sound of yodelers fills my ears. I close my eyes and I'm in Switzerland.

The ride is old, I understand that. According to the article, that's the reason they gave for closing it.

"'Popa granda' is a Swiss word for 'grandfather' and we believe the Matterhorn is the Popa Granda of Disneyland. Unfortunately, it just got to the point where it was no longer cost-effective to keep repairing the track, but it was important to us that we kept the spirit of the Matterhorn intact," said Sharon Mullcahy, Senior VP of Attraction Development.

They plan to "keep the spirit of the Matterhorn intact" by continuing the Swiss mountains theme of the original ride inside the store. Whoop dee doo.

The article goes on to cite the cost of several major refurbishments in the past few years and it does seem prohibitive, I will give them that. I remember visiting Disneyland many times and seeing a big white wall around the entrance to the ride as the Imagineers fixed it, yet again.

When you ride it, it jostles you around and you've only got an old, frayed seat belt holding you in. It is definitely a "blast from the past" and I feel that's why it needs to be saved. You can't find rides like this anymore. I, for one, would be willing to take a bump in admission price if it meant saving the Matterhorn.

But, like I said earlier, this isn't about old rides getting phased out. This is about the tyranny of commercialism. I might even buy the Disney Company Line, if not for the fact that they're replacing my favorite ride of all time with a store.

Tear it down, make a new ride - even that would be less objectionable. Screw it up by making it "The Emperor's New Groove Presents: the Matterhorn". I would take all these options over the one they have now.

The last thing Disneyland needs is more shopping. May I remind the executives that this is not a mall. It's a theme park. I understand the need for merchandising, but not at the expense of the visceral thrills that draw you to the park in the first place.

That should always be the focus of a great theme park, everything else is ancillary.

In the past, this has always been the Disney way, but now, I fear they've taken that model and flipped it.

If the Matterhorn Disney Store is a big hit, what's next? "Tom Sawyer's Nike Emporium Island"? "Peter Pan's Magical Flight Through the Apple Store"? "Pirates of the Caribbean starring characters from the motion picture starring Johnny Depp"?

Doesn't seem so crazy now, does it?

Monday, August 07, 2006

Thank you, American Girl!

I know there's been some controversy regarding these recently, what with young kids being told to go out and get abortions or something, but I don't care.

I love my American Girl doll!

I know what you're going to say.

"You're a 30 year old man, you like women, you went out and bought an $87 doll from a website: THAT'S A GREAT IDEA!"

And you're right: it is a great idea! I named her Cristifina Filipkowski, after my brother's childhood imaginary friend who died of neglect. What brought me to this life-altering decision?

Some would call it genius marketing but I have a different word for it: kismet. Look it up.

Just like you
It’s your story, your star! Choose a doll, clothes, and accessories that tell a story all your own. For ages 8+.

Just like me? I've always wanted something "just like me". My whole life, I've felt ripped off because I wasn't a twin. I've hated and blamed my parents all my life for not being a twin but with Cristifina in my life, I feel the healing can now begin. I'm a star!

Tell a story? I love writing! How did you know?!? This is getting spooky now!

For ages 8+? That's me! OMG! I am so excited!

But which doll to choose? There's so many to pick from.

Well, cross off the minority ones right off the bat. While I often feel alienated from society, like an outsider, I'm looking for a doll who's "just like me" and I don't want to co-opt anyone's culture.

That leaves the white ones. I don't have curly hair, I'm not blonde... the list is getting narrower... I need the one that's truly "just like me"... Here we go!

"Light skin, red hair, blue eyes"

Just like I have! I had found the doll that was "just like me"! I think you'll agree, the resemblance is remarkable.

Now it was time to place my order, sit back and wait and start telling stories of my (our) own!

When Cristifina arrived, I was not disappointed. She was a beauty and her resemblance to her paternal great-grandmother was dead-on. I took her out of the box and welcomed her into the world.

"You are special," I told her, as I cradled her in my arms, "there's no one in the world just like you except me."

I kissed her gently on her forehead and rocked her back and forth. I was so happy! For the first time in my life, I felt complete! Thank you, American Girl!

I had also purchased the "Kickin' Back" outfit for $26 and as I changed my doll into her cropped pants, diagonal-striped tank and green hoodie, I could barely contain my excitement at the thought of showing her off to all my friends!

I packed her extra clothes and accessories into the $38 "Backpack for Girls" (yes, I think that's sexist too) and we were off.

We were off to the local watering hole to meet up with some friends. As I strode into the bar, we immediately became the center of attention.

"Cool sandals!" enthused a normally surly-looking biker from his bar stool.

Three 20-something girls walked right up to us, drinks in hand. "Oh my god, she is adorable, what's her name?" one asked me.

"Cristifina," I said with pride.

"She is too cute! I have a hoodie just like that!"

And the night pretty much went like that.

People wanted to hold my doll, give her a hug, get their picture taken with her. She was a hit. We were a hit.

It was one magical night. Unfortunately, it would be our only magical night.

My story with Cristifina Filipkowski ends there. I'm sorry it's not the fairy tale you may have been hoping for. If you want to stop reading here, I don't blame you, but you'll be missing out on a cautionary tale that anyone who has ever given their heart to someone unconditionally will be able to relate to.

When you meet someone online, you're not really getting to know them, you're getting to know who and what they want you to see about themselves. It's an idealized version of who they are.

If I had known the real Cristifina Filipkowski, I would have never taken her anywhere that served alcohol. Not in a million years. But I didn't know that side of her. The ugly side, so full of pain. The side that didn't really like who she was and certainly didn't know how to love herself. The side that tried to bury all her problems at the bottom of a bottle.

I'm not going to recount all her awful behavior that night. I'm not looking for revenge, I'm not "venting". I don't want to slam her. She's a good kid and we really could have made something out of this and I hope one day, when some time has passed, we can start over as friends.

As we left the bar that night, Cristifina was flying high. I didn't think anything of it, at first. She was new in town, had just been getting acquainted with me and all my friends. I understood she was probably nervous and looking to unwind a bit. But when we stepped out into the cool, night air, she became a different person. As I went to get my car from the valet, I took my eyes off of her for maybe 30 seconds, but when I turned around she was making out with the biker who had complimented her sandals earlier. The sandals I bought her.

"Cristifina," I said, my voice heavy with hurt, "baby, what are you doing?"

She broke off her kiss with the biker and turned to face me with nothing resembling love. "Who are you calling "baby"? I'm not your fucking baby!" she screamed at me.

"Please, Cristifina, you're making a scene," I pleaded with her.

"I'm making a scene? I'm making a scene? You bring a fucking doll to a bar and I'm the one making a scene?" the words came from someone I thought I knew but clearly didn't and that's what hurt the most.

"I think you've had too much to drink, let's go home before you say or do anything you're going to regret later," I tried to reason with her.

"What the fuck did you just say? Are you fucking threatening me?" asked a hysterical Cristifina Filipkowski.

She pulled out the "Cuttin' and Stabbin'" switchblade I had bought for her ($23) and waved it at me in a menacing fashion.

This cleared the crowd out pretty quickly.

I backed away, trying to hasten my exit before the cops got there.

"Are you crying, you little faggot?" she asked me, mockingly.

It was true, I was crying. If things weren't going to work out with us, fine, I can deal with that. But seeing her this way broke my heart. All I ever really wanted was for us to be happy.

"I'm sorry, Cristifina, I hope you can find some peace, someday." I genuinely meant it.

"I'm serious, asshole. Get the fuck out of my face before I cut you!"

I didn't need to be told twice. I heard the sirens as I ran for my car. I guess she got out of there too because I didn't see any mention of her in the police reports in the paper.

I really do want to thank American Girl. I don't regret my experience in any way. You live, you learn and you move on, stronger and smarter than you were.

I know this is a company that has helped lots of young girls expand their imaginations and that is a great thing, I don't begrude them that. I mean, I know the target customer for these dolls is not someone who's likely going to bring their doll to a bar, so I don't know if I see a need for any sort of rigorous background testing for drug and alcohol dependence.

I know Cristifina is a good person. I know that what I witnessed was a relapse. It's an illness and to deny her the right to love would be as unfair as denying the same to a cancer patient.

I just wish it could have worked out because I know I could have made her so happy.

Thursday, August 03, 2006

What? Another blog??

OK, so I admit it.

I have too many blogs.

But, this is an attempt to cut back. To consolidate. From this point on, I will have, where I will put up my fictional stories,, where I will host my podcast and, where I will post real blogs about pop culture, technology, gossip, stuff I saw, cartoons I drew, fake movie reviews, pictures I've taken, videos I think are funny, etc.

What about the other 15 blogs I've got? Well, most likely I won't be posting on them... maybe a lone post from time to time. It's just too much work, between those blogs and my ten Myspace accounts, I hardly have time for my six-hour mid-day naps anymore.

Anyway, enjoy!

Monday, July 31, 2006

My greatest hits *updated*

Here is what I consider my best work, condensed into an easy to follow set of links! Imagine that! There are so many of them, not because I'm egotistical, but rather because I'm indecisive. And egotistical. If there's any you like that aren't up here, feel free to email me and let me know. Thanks!

These are in chronological order of when I wrote them because I am too lazy to do it any other way, so feel free to skip around. The Chad Robuckle ones are at the bottom and I consider those some of my best work.

The Revenge - A boy gets revenge on his parents for reasons unknown to the author.

Pickles the dog
- A story loosely based on the time I tried to pay a girl to make out with her brother at my birthday.

The fish who couldn't swim - A fish who couldn't swim. Duh.

Dear Grandma - A cute little letter I wrote to my grandmother when I was younger.

My trip to Subway - I stand up for my beliefs in alternative condiments and I get a glimpse of a secret, tiny world.

Meet Mary Raptorapper - An imaginary friend and her unusual job. I don't know why I never wrote another story about her, I guess there are just no good roles for women in Hollywood.

Craig's List find of the day! - I make a fake Craigslist ad involving tattoos or something.

Jimbo hates the Olive Garden - A boy who hates the Olive Garden and almost commits murder because of it.

Roger Stubbins: American Patriot - A story about a boy and his lion. It sounds like something Chad Robuckle would write, but it's not. I wrote it. It's all true. (Also republished here.)

Ironically, literary editor caught mis-using the term, "ironically"
- Don't let this happen to you!

These knuckleheads at the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru are really starting to cheese me off!
- A guy gets pushed too far and takes the law into his own hands.

The time I fucked Kelly Clarkson - Yeah, it's true. I did it.

The spectacles party
- My mom attempts to make me feel better about being different.

You want a piece of this? - A criminal's letter to the old woman he victimized. Or is it vice-versa?

The new "what 'chu talkin' 'bout, Willis?" - I really thought this putdown would catch on.

Clueless movie review - King Kong
- I review a movie I never saw.

The worst thing that happened in 2005 - I miss out on watching a movie at Disney World. No, I don't think I'm over-reacting.

Ms. Pacman speaks out against abortion - Who knew video games were so political?

My name is Eric Filipkowski and I was a victim of child molestation - The harrowing, true tale of the day my life was shattered. *warning - graphic content*

Girlfriend insurance - I get sexist for a change and explain the phenomenon that is sweeping the country.

My telegram to Jesus - A tribute to the passing of the telegram.

Camera corner: how to... - Some tips on taking great pictures of something.

Why I love clowns (Koko) - This is a story I wrote for my girlfriend while I should have been entering a contest.

My new ad campaign - I decide to give up comedy and do something productive with my life.

I invented a new day! - I invent a new day and luckily, have the foresight to register its domain name.

My broken heart - No, not another story about my operation and how everyone should feel sorry for me. This is a true story about my attempt to make the woman I love stay with me forever.

Abramowitz Co. Launches 'Black People Brand Hot Sauce' - Because nobody writes fake news stories, especially ones involving racial issues, I decided to be a hero the nation and the world and take on that responsibility.

Letters to home - A chronicle of my journey into manhood.

Podcasting by numbers - Why I love bald eagle egg omelettes.

Ross, I didn't declare your zero-interest loan you gave me to the government - I come clean.

Cunt - I use the c-word and get all "political".

How Lucky lost his leg - The true story of how my three-legged dog went from being a four-legged dog to a three-legged dog.

The Ray Bans - A story about a man and his sick aunt. Sounds like a Chad Robuckle story, but it's not. Cuz I changed the names.

Things I've Noticed - by Eric Filipkowski - I wax philosophical about some issues that have been pickin' at my craw!

Another Entirely True Story - Eric Filipkowski - My plans to kill a kid don't go so well.

23 Days Later - I deliberately try to gross out my family with this true story from the seedy underbelly of life.

Here are links to stories involving my imaginary friends.

Chad Robuckle

Chad Robuckle: imaginary "friend" - My introduction to my imaginary friend who may or may not have raped someone.

Look what I found - Chad Robuckle's letter to Mythbusters.

Chad Robuckle's Dad - Hopefully, this will explain why Chad is the way he is.

A completely original work of fiction - Chad Robuckle (doesn't) learn the lesson of the boy who cried wolf.

The early bird gets the worm
- How I met Chad Robuckle.

Fish Killer - Chad's love of animals backfires.

The adventures of Arthur Q. Pennybottoms
- Chad goes on an epic quest for adventure. People die.

I hate Carly Simon - By Chad Robuckle
- Chad wins a contest and makes an enemy of a recording artist and 70's icon.

Number 17 - Our friend Chad recalls the 17th worst thing he ever did. Needless to say, kids get orphaned.

Terry Bradshaw and me - by Chad Robuckle - Chad's brush with celebrity.

The Bachelor Party - Chad decides to have one last hurrah for his friend.

Immigrants gone wild - by Chad Robuckle - Chad sheds some light on a side of the immigration debate that many people may have overlooked.

The Assassination Factory - A heartwarming tale of a boy and his mother.

The time I lost my way - by Chad Robuckle - Chad talks about a turning point in his life.

Tucker McGrath

The worst thing I ever did - The time I convinced my other imaginary friend to tell his parents he was gay.

My note to the tooth fairy - How I found out the tooth fairy isn't real.

From the desk of Tucker McGrath - Tucker takes it upon himself to turn the tables on criminals.

Rob Wagman

The time I won a ventriloquism contest
- Here's a heart-warming tale of a boy and his dummy.

A true story! - Some childhood pranks go wrong.

Sunday, July 30, 2006

23 days later

A note to my family: If you are reading this now, please consider before continuing: you will remember that in July of 2003, I disappeared for a while. When I returned, I told you that I had been on a last-minute, emergency charity trip to Burma to help out some orphans. This was not true, but for a long time, I would rather you continued believing this lie than knowing the truth. Thank you.

There is a show on the air that you may or may not know of. It is called “South Park” and it is an animated series that airs on the Comedy Central cable network. It is known for its outlandish and crude humor, but I have found that it often treats current issues with a surprising amount of thought and insight, if you manage to look past the potty humor.

One episode, however, went way too far, in my mind. I believe in freedom of speech. I’m all for protecting the rights of artists to follow their vision and not be prevented in doing so by the government, BUT, along with this right comes a responsibility. The responsibility to own up to the consequences of the art you create.

Do I feel celebrities should get a free pass and be protected from criticism or satire? No, of course not. Paris Hilton is a public figure. She has chosen this path and courted her own celebrity status. The issue is not whether it’s ok to make fun of her because she’s a celebrity. The issue is whether it’s ok to make fun of anyone who has befallen tragedy.

It’s not wrong to make fun of Magic Johnson and his AIDS because he’s a celebrity; it’s wrong because AIDS is a horrible thing. You shouldn’t make fun of anyone for having AIDS or cancer or whatever. It’s not the law, but it should be.

And just like it’s not ok to make fun of people with AIDS, it’s not ok to make fun of people who have befallen Paris Hilton’s fate, either.

In season 8, episode 12, Comedy Central aired an episode entitled “Stupid Spoiled Whore Video Playset” in which Miss Hilton comes to South Park and exerts her influence over the town’s young girls, to disastrous results. I see the need to satirize a situation in which a young woman of questionable morals, famous only for being rich and spoiled, becomes a role model to the youth of today. Believe me, I understand.

But how do the creators of South Park dispense of the villain in this episode? By having a naked gay man jump on her head, inserting her whole body into his anal cavity.

I am not making this up; this is actually what happened in this episode.

If someone could explain to me how this is funny in any way, shape or form, I would appreciate it, because I am clueless.

Perhaps I’m biased, due to my own experiences, but this is just plain gross. Nobody should have to endure that kind of punishment, no matter how awful a person they are.

Trust me, when I say this is a fate worse than death.

July 17, 2003: Alicia Jane Stevenson, certified by the Guinness Book as the world’s fattest woman, is flying from her home in Texas to the (unfortunately named) Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota to undergo emergency gastric bypass in a last-ditch attempt to save her life.

Miss Stevenson is grossly obese and suffering from numerous medical problems related to her enormous weight.

As the custom-retrofitted C 27 cargo plane chartered by the Oprah Winfrey Show for the sole purpose of bringing Miss Stevenson to the weight loss clinic is passing over Des Moines, Iowa, it encounters severe turbulence, causing the plane to rock back and forth. As it does so, its cargo breaks free from its tether and begins rolling around. This, in turn, causes the plane to pitch violently from side to side, setting off a disastrous chain reaction.

The pilots, unable to control the plane and steady its 1200 pound passenger, had only one option. I don’t blame them for lowering the cargo ramp and going into a steep climb. They did what they thought was their only option. Are three deaths better than one?

Meanwhile, 23,000 feet below all of this, a lone man spies a black spot emerging from an airplane. He notices it getting slightly larger as it falls to earth. He cranes his head upwards, unable to discern what it is. By the time he realizes what it is and where it is headed, it is too late to run.

You may remember the story of Alicia Jane Stevenson: her courageous journey, her terrible fall and her miraculous survival. It was all over the media how this poor woman had been jettisoned from the very airplane that had been trying to save her. How she had fallen from that height, reaching such speeds and yet walked away from the incident without a scratch. It was the lead story for days.

Doctors wanted to examine this miracle woman and make sure that all her bones and internal organs were intact. The problem is, there isn’t an x-ray, cat scan or MRI machine in the world that is large enough to contain her.

I am sad that we live in a world where the almighty dollar dictates who gets medical treatment and who doesn’t, because if they had been able to stuff that fat bitch into an x-ray machine, they would have seen the grown man stuck inside of her vaginal cavity.

They would have seen me.

The fact that one person could have survived such a fall is beyond explanation. The fact that two people could survive such an impact is beyond belief.

What I have been told is that thanks to a one-in-a-million shot, I entered this woman in the exact right location. Her body absorbed the shock of our contact, as if one of those giant air bags that people jump from a building and land on had landed on me, instead of the other way around… I don’t really know, it doesn’t make much sense to me.

All I know is, I was now trapped in a living hell that would eventually last for 23 days.

On South Park, Paris Hilton crawls around and interacts with mythical characters. In reality, you are in complete darkness, breathing in foul air, unable to move.

I screamed, but nobody could hear me. I tried to make noise by tapping on the walls of this woman’s internal organs, but that only made horrible, horrible things happen. This was easily one of the worst things that ever happened to me and I wouldn’t wish it on all but the most evil of men.

Her body recognized me as a foreign entity and her immune system reacted by trying to destroy me. I was covered in goo, which I was forced to eat to survive. I began to hallucinate. I imagined I was an olde tyme miner and I had been trapped in a cave-in. At one point, I believed I was an astronaut, set adrift in his space capsule, unable to contact earth.

As the weeks went by, eventually, I gave up all hope. I looked for a means to hasten my demise, but finding none, accepted the fact that I would probably starve to death.

Then, it happened. The literal light at the end of the tunnel. Hands. Reaching in and grabbing me.

Had I indeed died, then been reincarnated as a newborn baby? What was happening? I reached out to steady myself, the sensation of falling was overwhelming.

I was lying on the floor of a large, white room. I was wet and cold. There were doctors everywhere.

“Ga ga goo goo,” I said, trying my best to adapt to my new situation.

The room erupted in laughter. “Well he’s still got a sense of humor, that’s a good sign!” said one of the doctors. I looked behind me and saw the most enormous person I had ever seen. There was a gaping chasm… I followed the slime trail from it to my present location… everything clicked… and I lost consciousness.

For 23 days, the state of Iowa had been unable to locate a freight scale that was mobile, yet could handle a 1200 pound load. At last, a cattle farmer in Altoona was located who had the equipment to handle those specifications.

The first sign that something wasn’t right came when this 1200 pound woman was rolled onto the scale and it gave her weight as 1400 pounds. Even someone on a 20,000 calorie diet can’t gain that much weight in such a short time.

The scale had to be wrong. It was quickly recalibrated and again, the same result came up.

The doctors were mystified, but luckily for me, a young intern named Sandra Chopak had a hunch. The best OB/GYNs in the state were brought in and an ultrasound of Miss Stevenson’s uterus was ordered. That’s when they saw it, or rather heard it: another heart beat.

Naturally, they jumped to the wrong conclusion. What are you going to believe? That some fatass had a 200 pound baby in her or that she fell on a grown man when she was ejected from a cargo plane? Don’t be an idiot.

Well, further tests revealed what was really going on and I was quickly removed from my vaginal hell.

I could have cleaned up, financially, with a lawsuit, but the last thing I wanted was more publicity; to relieve this experience over and over on national TV. I was embarrassed. I told Oprah and her producers that if she wanted to make this all go away, she had my word I wouldn’t seek a dime from her.

And I haven’t. I have not spoken to anyone about this until just now. The medical staff, bound by the laws and oaths of their profession, were forbidden from repeating anything they had seen.

Through the ordeal, a large number of high-powered people had been put in rather embarrassing positions by all that had taken place, so they were more than happy to keep silent.

As was I. Until I realized I needed to get my alcohol and drug dependence under control. With the help of several 12-step programs and a newfound belief in my higher power, I have come to terms with my past, part of which is letting people know the truth about the awful events of those 3+ weeks.

Thank you to those doctors; especially Sandra Chopak. Thank you Oprah and thank you Miss Alicia Jane Stevenson. To my family, let me say that I am sorry I hid the truth from you for so long. I was ashamed of who I was and that had nothing to do with me or any of you or the fact that I had been inside an enormous woman’s vagina for over 3 weeks.

I leave you now with the words that inspired me to accept myself for who I was and all I had been through. I wish you the same.

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.