January 7, 2012


MR.J® 12/9/11 Joke of Day

December 9, 2011

MR.J® 12/9/11 Joke of Day.

Who Is Mr.J? Well…Meet Mr.J!.


June 8, 2011

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MrJ Radio Interview

June 8, 2011






Wi-fi so serious? Let's put an emoticon on that screen...

I just published my first novel making me a “professional author, writer, and novelist”. Or as my parents call it, “unemployed failure with good grammar”, but, I say tomato they say get real job before my highschool reunion depresses me with reality!

NY Times said my book was dumb, LA Times said it was dumb, High times said it was brilliant then realized they were holding it upside down and later said it was dumb, then calling my book the first paper weight made of more paper that’s more confusing than solving a Rubik’s cube…color blind!!

But… Let me start at the very beginning: Parenthetically, I began as a college student majoring in English because I always wanted to be…homeless!

Incidentally, I loved english back in 12th grade when I graduated as class president, valedictorian, & prom king. Man, I really miss…home school!

Three things I don’t miss about home school:

1-Everytime I look in the mirror it’s a class reunion!

2-Snow Days were never canceled, Brandon Jones Academy was always open!

3-My mom was the entire faculty, staff, and still my mother which was so crazy I thought she was crazy which is crazy. I walked into homeroom (which was any room in my home) and she’s alone in the corner talking to her. I precipitously postulate that she’s wacko, nuts, crazy and hearing voices in her head. Come to find out, just a PTA meeting!

My debut book reviews are so depressing they should come with a chair and a rope, a tub and a toaster, or a razor and a note!

One critic said it was so boring it will put you to sleep faster than 20 mg of Ambien; Warning-side effects may include dizziness, drowsiness, and wanting an immediate refund!

Another critic said my book is to modern literature what Michael J Fox is to at winning a game of Jenga!

My publisher suggested I title the book MEET MR.J but in retrospect my publisher said it should be called, “screw the reader out of 12 friggn’ bucks”!

My editor said it’s so scatterbrained and written for a reader with ADD that the book mark should be a set of jingling shiny keys!

My distributor said it can be found on the bookshelves at GTMO bay for when water boarding just isn’t cruel enough!

420 bad reviews later, High times forgot they read my book and did a second review saying they haven’t read it yet but have heard good things about it…and then realized they were reading the all of those reviews upside down and once again called my book dumb!

So that brings us up to now,me a writer (the correct way to pronounce it, forget my parents)-But I need to pick up some windex for my class reunion @ Brandon Jones Academy and see if any of my classmates are still living on campus like me cuz they don’t have a real job like my mom said to the principal at the last PTA meeting!


March 17, 2010

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March 17, 2010

Okay from the top…the END OF THE END!
Okay from the top…the END OF THE END!
Okay from the top…seriously I got it this time…THE END OF THE ENNN…A-A-A-H-H-H-H forget it I’ll start somewhere in the middle….
This story is a Magic 8 Ball during an earthquake in the fact that it seems to be answering questions no one’s asked.
Hey, quick press Stop, then press Rewind, and now press play again while asking: “Who is Mr.J and what was he doing Tuesday night?”
Well, I wasn’t going to mention it…but since you’ve pry-ed with the steadfast curiosity of a sweatshop employee wondering if deodorant would lead to being fired, I’ll indulge your inquiry.
Meet Mr.J who was wrisfully paralyzed in elation while strolling last Tuesday night.
Mr.J’s glance fastened as he is subtlety captivated by the red sun was once overhead hovering restlessly the first half of Tuesday then replaced by sparkling pepper stars sprinkled intermittently across the powdery air.
Mr. J’s eye’s involuntary winking as he is visually awe inspired by Tuesday night’s velvet twilight, after the earth lurked away from the crimson-rose-coloured beams gleaming from the red sun.
It’s quite simple to sum up Mr. J as ughhh hmmm errrr…dinstinct in a vague sense, unique like everyone else, and unforgettable for something or rather.
Less eloquent and more epigrammatic delineations would paint your mental canvas with brush strokes of colourful details, descriptions, and depthful definition but combing with scrutiny of a fine toothed comb as if it were a Cliff Note Version of Mr. J and Cliff Note Versions are obviously way harder to read because it’s the full length version of the original story opposed to a brief synopsis and short summary.
According to Cliff and his extensive notes that are the stenographer of Mr.J’s every thought, action, and thought of an action or action of a thought.
According to this nerdy note-taker named Cliff, this Mr.J is well, well,well…
Well-He’s a twenty something man with reserved reticence.
This lack of being mealymouthed was often confused as him being veraciously meek, authentically humble, or some other admirable attribute that he genuinely didn’t merritt.
Truth be told, Mr.J was the anti-thesis of this popular yet precipitous postulation.
In fact, unbound by the shackles of affectation, Mr. J was so self involved that he almost failed Astronomy 101 because he thought the world actually revolved around him.
Yes, he was the center of attention, focus, and known universe.
Yes every floating planet orbited around this megalomaniac’s sanguinely misplaced sense of self entitlement.
His contemptuous smirk radiantly abortive of sorrow acted as the midwife to the birth of his pretentious, pompous, and pedantic son named, “Skewed Self-Consciousness”.
And this son was the sun and only sun.
This son was the grandson, godson, and the 3rd rock’s ultraviolet sun.
His arrogance glistening privileged glimpses of riotous sophism’s and short lived elegant excursions so bright even during winter evenings, it’s reflection turned the dark moon into a pale beacon casting audacity rays wedged between shadows of unguarded ears that his wicked tongue was poison to yet tickled.
His vast fetid sump sucking wasteland abyss of empathy was what the Egyptian God Ra represented on hieroglyphics.
Yes to Mr.J, this is why he failed astronomy because he was the sun.
Him, a man that was charming yet as contradicting as a mime performing ventriloquism.
A man as vexed and perplexed as a mongoloid trying to crack the Rubik’s Cube unknowing he’s also color blind.
A man who was emotionally stable as the quivering hand of Micheal J Fox during an intense game of Jenga.
He was the sun opposed the golden disk that illuminates our blue marble 12 hours of the day.
Footnotes juxtapose a paradox portrayal that’s the Rosetta stone to decrypting decoding and discovering the davinci code disguise.
His denial, deception, demeanor dictated a diminishing denotation disparaging and deprecating.
The simplistic quizical easily enigmatic peiceless puzzle of Mr. J is art imitating life imitating Mr. J’s life imitating his art which imitated Mr.J.
Mr. J doesn’t give an F about LIFE and parenthetically note the word LIFE minus the letter F spells the word LIE.
Subsequently, LIFE is a LIE for those who never gave an F, that’s a FACT.
FACT for those who don’t give an F is just the word ACT and that’s Mr.J’s ACT of LIFE no LIE, FACT.
If he did give an F…some F’s…or all F’s they were Fd up.
F’s fell frequently foreshadowing famously funny flings flickering flames fluttering fickleness feigning form facing fictional facade foiled fully from foibles, follies, and flaws forging fake face of Mr. J who gave an F yet was ineffable so F it.
Okay now either look or listen close because I’m not restarting or repeating after I begin…actually lemme start over one more time.
THE BEGINNING…of the end…ahh forget it I’ll finish at the beginning.

mrj comedy writer

March 4, 2010

FLASH FICTION SITE TITLE: “Prolific Parade Populated Preponderantly by Pompous-Pretentious-Pedantic Publications, Postulations, & Pontifications.”
MR. J 2010
I am soon to be paralyzed in the happiness of the tender night.

Involuntarily my grey sun strained eyes fluttered.

Winked ferociously from glancing at the once bloomed in bright crimson light, rays elicited by a cheerful red sun.

A sun that seemed to have unobtrusively dimwits as if it was quivering on the horizon from the warm center of the world to the ragged edge of the universe.

A sun that lightly, slenderly, languidly sank with soft whispers and an effeminate swank forging a velvet dusk.

Acting as the midwife to the birth of a warm winded summer day’s sinister contrast.

Suddenly: Streetlights shinning, candles flickering, and blackness vanishes any harsh defiant wristfulness.

Privileged glimpses privy to the riotous excursions found in natural curiosity’s abortive sorrows uninflected.

Running together in a soothing tone with leisure movements nibbling stale ideas as they tremble helplessly.

Plunge the days gruff husky tenor arrogance and supercilious manner as the suns face fiegns affectations

Pleasing contemptuous expressions now twirling, rippling, and ballooning downward like its anchored by a metallic shrill of its own void of desire and surplus of skepticism.

The night bellows a triumphant yet meekness and you can almost hear its thrilling laughter fragility unaffected by scorn or contempt.

These nocturnal short winded elation heightened in sensitivity by the sky vacuous of solar rays shining but populated by a parade of flabby impressionability in the shape of twinkling consolations.

Abruptly my eyes now flash restlessly searching the arresting phenomenon of darkness left in the wake of absence of a majestic sunny day.

Hovering impatiently, as if I’ve become more alert, my stare is fastened with an awe expression to the sharply different dull illumination consoling proximity to the gleaming silver pepper of the stars.

Stars reflected on bays mirror like surface resembling diamonds glittering along the water consumed by young breath giving air radiantly moonlit, calm and crisp.

Aimlessly, under a beam paler than a winter moon yet not as gold as a harvest moon, footsteps echo my previous destination as I stroll.

Carelessly wandering with childlike glee and vulnerable exultance in the twighlight’s crystallized blanket of wavering silhouettes emerged from wavering shadows.

Soon enough…I am now paralyzed in the happiness of the tender night.

meet mr.j

March 4, 2010