Jared Jeffries

New written piece at KillAllComedy.com
http://killallcomedy.com/changes-where-to-eat/

 Originally posted on killallcomedy.com
 

To: editor@weeklyfreebie.net
From: dholliver@weeklyfreebie.net
Re: Feature Title

Liz,
Wrapping up that feature on the new comedy club downtown. Need title. Torn between “No Laughing Matter” or “Seriously Funny.” Totally stuck. Suggestion?

-Donal

To: dholliver@weeklyfreebie.net
From: editor@weeklyfreebie.net
Re: Feature Title

D,
Obviously, It's important to everybody on staff that we get this one right. We can't have a repeat of the John Glenn traveling exhibit. We're going to nail this one the first time.

Not sure how much help I can offer. Stuck myself...working on title for article about movies based on true stories.

Wrapping my head around this. Sounds like you think think these guys are funny, but they (paradoxically) take the business of comedy seriously. Have you considered "Funny Business"?

-Liz

To: editor@weeklyfreebie.net
From: dholliver@weeklyfreebie.net
Re: Feature Title

Liz,
Funny Business! Golden! I was starting to get a little worried. Still reeling from the John Glenn incident. Can't believe News4U beat us to "Out of This World."

-Donal


To: dholliver@weeklyfreebie.net
From: editor@weeklyfreebie.net
Re: Feature Title

D,
Still “reeling”?! Eureka! For my the movie story --movies are shown on “reels.” Based on stories that are “real.” Might be something there. Will look into feasibility.

-Liz

To: editor@weeklyfreebie.net
From: dholliver@weeklyfreebie.net
Re: Feature Title

Liz,
Last minute nerves kicking in...one small concern with "Funny Business"...too smart? Sure, you and I get it, but will Joe Sixpack?

-Donal

To: dholliver@weeklyfreebie.net
From: editor@weeklyfreebie.net
Re: Feature Title

You're right. We can do better. Our readers deserve it. Forwarding this message to my mentor from Journ school. Just finished his manuscript about Cambodian genocide. He's a genius.

PS- Reel/Real thing was a dead end. Back to the drawing board.

-Liz


To: editor@weeklyfreebie.net, dholliver@weeklyfreebie.net
From: sbell@brynmawr.edu
Re: Fwd: Feature Title

"Ph" instead of "F"?


To: editor@weeklyfreebie.net, sbell@brynmawr.edu
From: dholliver@weeklyfreebie.net
Re: Feature Title

Dr. Bell,
Phunny Business! Brilliant! Let's change the case of the letters for maximum humor! "pHuNnY bUsiNesS!" I'm LOLing just thinking about it, (in an informed way). Can't wait to see their faces at Snooze4U when that one hits the stands.

-Donal


To: dholliver@weeklyfreebie.net
From: editor@weeklyfreebie.net
Re: Feature Title

Donal,
LoVE the CaSeS iDEa! Devastating news, though. We don't have clearance for Comic Sans (or CoMiC saNS...can't get enough of this!).

Have to shelve the story until we can work it out with the layout guy. So sorry. It's a tough business. Will buy you a drink after issue is out.

PS - We almost did it, didn't we?

-Liz

Knock, Knock.
Who's there?
Hope.
Hope who?
Hopen the door. It's important!

Knock, Knock.
Who's there?
Wayne .
Wayne who?
Wayne a minute, you don't know anybody named Hope.

Knock, Knock.
Who's there?
Don.
Don who?
Don open the door for Hope! Wayne is right! This “Hope” person isn't who she claims to be!

Knock, Knock
Who's there?
Hope.
Hope who?
Hope you don't listen to these guys! Don's got a gun!

Ring, ring.
Who's there?
I'm Don.
You're Don who?
I'm Don playing games! This could get ugly. Stay on the phone and back away from the door.

Bang, bang
Who's there?
Hope.
Hope who?
Hope's dead! I shot her! This is Wayne.

Wayne who?
Wayne Don wasn't looking, I took his gun. Who is this?
Lemme
Lemme who?
Lemme guess. This won’t end, will it, Wayne?
No. I'm Don.

Okay, kids. Everybody have a seat. Calm down. Let’s talk about the skeleton you found in the chimney.

First of all, I just want to preemptively say it’s not Santa Claus. So, moving on...

It’s not...so just settle. I’m sure once the police get here, we’ll be able to sort out this whole mess, but I just want to make sure you kids are okay. That’s a pretty scary thing to find when you’re playing in your Grandma’s den. You probably have a lot of questions about what you saw and I’m not sure if I can answer all of them, but--Jaimie--JAIMIE--It’s not Santa Claus, okay?

Because I just know. Dads know this sort of thing. Judging by the way the skeleton is facing downward, I’d say it was probably somebody trying to rob your grandma and they just got stuck. That explains the big sack.

Anyway, scary stuff happens in life sometimes and we have to be brave. That’s what growing up is all about. Remember last year when grandpa died?

It’s not Grandpa.

Don’t cry. It’s not Grandpa. We went to Grandpa's funeral, remember? Remember seeing Grandpa in the casket?

Please stop crying.

The point is, we buried grandpa. He’s not in the chimney. And neither is Santa Claus.

Look, these bones are completely clean. They’ve probably been up there for at least a year, so it can’t be Santa. You both got Christmas presents last year, didn’t you?

Real clever, Luke...I didn’t ask if you got good presents. I asked if you got presents.

I’m sorry if you didn’t get everything you wanted last year, but that does not mean that Santa is dead.

It doesn’t.

Okay, here we go. Santa Claus isn’t in the chimney. You know why? Because he isn’t even real.

No, Grandpa was real. Remember how you used to sit on Grandpa’s lap?

Well, no, you didn’t sit on Santa’s lap...that was just pretend. It was just somebody dressed in a Santa suit...actually, your grandfather dressed in a Santa suit, so...it--

No, Grandpa wasn’t covering for Santa dying, either. For all practical purposes, he was Santa. So in a way, we buried them both.

Yes, Grandma knew. She’s the one who bought the costume. It looked just like the one hanging from this skeleton.

Please stop crying.

Hey, everybody! Cathy Normanstein, here.

I'll keep this short. First of all, I want to thank everybody for coming out to the 5th annual Lincolnshire 5k Walk/Run for Popular Cancers. It has been my honor to organize this event and design these T-shirts every year, but I couldn't have done it without my four co-chair-people, who really ought to get more credit. I want to thank you each by name, so we printed that at the bottom of today's brochure.

Five years ago, I approached local businesses about donating money torward research for the cancers we all feel comfortable talking about. At first they seemed reluctant to join the search for a cure...that is until I assured them that they would only have to fight cancer if another person walked around a track several times. That's added value! By the way, I meant that promise, so know that if you cut corners you could be costing lives.

Over the last four years, all of you that are gathered here today have helped me raise over $10,000 for research toward finding a cure for the types of cancers that aren't gross. And talk we will, because, even more important than the money, we are raising awareness. In 2005 an informal study conducted by our planning committee found that 20% of Lincolnshirians hadn't heard of breast cancer and another 15% had heard about it once, but forgot. Not anymore. As we make our way through our route, we are shattering the ignorance for each of the types of cancer that we have managed to tie to a famous person or our gender identity. Oh, a quick aside on that note: I wanted to apologize to the survivors of cervical cancer. Our search for an awareness color for you gals was exhaustive and when we realized that autism already claimed the multicolor thing, we had to switch to a bright-rose/medium turquoise plaid pattern. You should get your hats in the mail next week.

Also, a note on the route. Thanks for making it here in spite of the rain. I wish our date planning went as well as our T-shirt planning! Of course, some things have to be delegated to my four chair-people...to mixed results...you know who you are. Anyway, eight laps around the gym equals about a k.

Finally, I want to thank the real heroes that are with us here today: the women and men who have survived popular cancers. Ladies, I keep doing what I do because I am so inspired by your bravery. Your bravery to keep fighting! So much braver than all the people who get cancer and then die like cowards. Your life and death struggle with an incredibly painful disease and its almost equally severe treatment have inspired all of us here that didn't have to work on saturdays to walk around this gym for roughly three hours. Seeing you here with us alive today is all the thanks we need. Well, that and the T-shirts!

Anyway, enough said. Grab your commemorative tote-bags! Let's get going!

Dear Editor,
 
    This letter is a response to Mr. Terrance Lambert's March 19th letter which The Three Forks Gazette chose to publish in it's otherwise fine pages.

    This being the United States of America, certainly Mr. Lambert is entitled to his opinion. However, I can say without hyperbole that his cowardice is a cancer rotting our community from the inside.

    I say what this town needs is a little more of the spirit of our pioneer forefathers.

    Move the Three Forks Honey Festival? That festival has been held at the mouth of Bear Cave for the past 50 years, and it will continue as long as I am alive. And as long as my remaining children are alive. The only thing that can stop us is giving up. Maybe if a few more people had the strong will of former Mayor Lee “No Bear” Hillsdale (the man for which No Bear Hill was named), we would make it through the opening ceremony this year.

     Hillsdale shared the Pioneer Spirit. He knew that when founders like my great, great, grandfather came here in 1880 they wouldn't be stopped by little things like mercury contamination, rampant dysentery, and the fact that Indians already lived there. And certainly not hundreds of aggressive bears.

    When Terrance Lambert's great grandfather came here--six months ago (from back east, folks...), he lacked this same Pioneer Spirit.  The First Families of Three Forks moved here for religious freedom and relaxed gambling laws. Old-Man-Lambert was simply passing through town on his way to California. Yet both shared the same fate: savagely mauled to death by bears. The difference is in how they lived their lives. One cowardly visiting his son during a train layover and the other as a glorious,  brief, and extremely violent celebration of life.

    The fact is, it's appeasement policies from pushovers like Terrance Lambert that have given the bears their current foothold. How dare he suggest that the hard working people of Three Forks alter their lifestyles to stave off wave after wave of bear attacks. If anything, we should be more bold, to show the bears that no amount of aggression can deter us. If not, then three of my five daughters have already died in vain.

    Let us ask ourselves; has Terrance Lambert ever lost a child to the bears? No, he hasn't. He's only lost one to Mercury poisoning. Pretty hard to relate to, isn't it?

    My daughter Nancy, who recently became our oldest, has the Pioneer Spirit. Her birthday is coming up next week. When I think of some bear-sympathizer stooge denying her the childhood innocence of busting a piñata upwind of a family of grizzlies, it makes my blood boil. No bear is going to tell my family how to act. If a bear wants my little girl's piñata, they'll have to rip it from her cold dead hands, as they so often have. 

That's the Pioneer Spirit.

              This weekend, I will be first in line for the blindfolded three-legged race and log crawl in Bear Hollow that Mr. Lambert is so afraid to run...and I will do it with the pride in our community that he so sorely lacks. I will proudly flaunt that same pride each and every day until the bears ferociously rip my limbs from my still-screaming body. The question is: will you be with me?

    After all, if we let these setbacks dampen our spirits, then haven't the bears have already won?


Sincerely, 
-Jim Arster

    Dear Editor,

    I am writing in response to the Three Forks Gazette's coverage of the recent tragedies in our little town.  I personally believe that these terrible events are the result of our failure to address a problem that has been festering for far too long. The only solution is for us, as a town, to take a good, hard look at this issue from both sides.

What are we, as humans, doing to provoke the bears?

I, like most children, believe that when an artist finishes a piece, it ceases to be hers. Whatever intent she may have had when she began the work--even the significance of the finished product as seen through her eyes--is ultimately replaced by a third meaning: The perception of the piece as Art, as a single-minded statement within the public discourse.
I would argue that this meaning is by far the most valid. In fact, it is the only meaning that truly counts--because it is the meaning that fulfills the underlying goal of all art: To stimulate thought and debate. Usually, it has been my course to stay out of such debate, because, naturally, everything I have to say on the subject is present in the work. In this case, the portrait of our dog, Waffles.
But as an artist who strikes herself deaf and dumb at the completion of each work, this time I cannot help but to feel those whispers that rumble throughout this community. It is no secret: I have been dogged (no pun noticed) by allegations of nepotism since the beginning of my career. Branded, derisively, as "Mommy's little painter." Now, with a full quarter of my lifetime spent under the shadow of this accusation, I feel that I must finally address the issue.
So I ask you now, Mother, in all earnestness: Have my Refrigerator premieres truly been earned, or are they merely the result of some perceived parental obligation on your part?
Why did I paint our dog, Waffles? Why only three legs? Why watercolors? Why with my fingers, instead of a brush? I know the answers to these questions--and I feel that they are spelled out right there on the construction paper. But have you ever asked these questions of yourself? Did any thought, at all, strike you when you first laid eyes on the piece? Are you challenged by it in any way? Or do you merely pretend to be, because I am your four-year-old daughter, your prized protege, another hot young talent to be bandied about town?
After careful thought, I must conclude that if you did ever fully appreciate the implications of my work, that time has long since passed. The pristine face of the Westinghouse--a tantalizing blank canvas in its own right--used to be an illustrious, magical place. A place where all two of your children hoped to have their work showcased and seen by the upper crust of this town's Thursday night book circle. But under your stewardship, this Refrigerator's reputation as a place for serious art has fallen precipitously. Consider that the very magnet holding Waffles #2 above the lip of the ice dispenser now commands more attention than the painting itself! I attribute this to the fact that Waffles #2 lacks the phone number for Domino's pizza, but you, Mother, lack the smallest modicum of taste necessary to keep base commercialism away from this hallowed place!
So, if you at all care to know: I painted Waffles because she is soft. I painted three legs because I forgot how many she had. I am four years old. I needed to render that. You feel the paint ooze between your fingers as you smear it around the paper and then tell me there is any other way to capture the essence of a beagle. You savor the taste of the Crayola watercolors as you suck your fingers clean and tell me there is any medium more teeming with life.
I will spare you any additional arguments and simply say this: Take it down. Remove Waffles #2 from its place on the Refrigerator. I would rather it languish in obscurity than bask in the hollow praise of a philistine such as yourself. I doubt you will, though--just as I doubt you will even take the time to read this page of scribbles and smears and drool. But my feelings are here, just as they are in my painting, whether or not you will decipher them.

Sincerely,

Your Daughter,












NOTE: This letter was edited by Jeff Rukes.