Dental Hygienist of the Month: December

Hi gang.

It's me again, Dr. Mel Silver. I hope now that Thanksgiving is over, you'll consider making an appointment with your local dentist (and if you happen to live in or near Beverly Hills, that would be yours truly.) All those pies can really erode your enamel.

Speaking of sugary pies, now it's December, and you all know what that means! Time for a new Dental Hygienist of the Month! You might be asking yourself why I'm qualified to judge this category, especially since nowadays the people in this line of work like to call themselves dental assistants. Well, it's like I always tell my son David: I'm the third best oral surgeon in Los Angeles, and I'm old school. I also call flight attendants "stewardesses." Sue me. You can't teach an old dog new tricks, and boy, am I a dog.

That brings me to the other reason I'm qualified to select the creme de la creme of the world's most able oral care specialists: I'm a TOTAL pussy hound. Unfortunately, my weakness for a barely legal, vocationally-trained woman flossing someone else's pearly whites has ruined all my marriages. And as long as I'm single, I might as well appreciate all the beauty that this glorious profession has to offer.

Enter Miss December. She's a little older than my usual choice of hygienist, but I think you can all agree with me that she has so much style and class I can overlook her cougar status. Her name is Maria, and she was on an incredibly tasteful television program called "Rock of Love Bus." So she's not only an oral master, she's also a storied entertainer. Truly a Renaissance dental hygienist. She can massage my gums anytime.

Something 4 U, and 4 Me

I'm not going to trouble myself with familiarities, because you wouldn't want to be familiar with me anyway. I'm a thug, and I'm about to hit you up with some prison poetry...okay, not really, but I've had a hard time of it since the days when I was selling U4EA to unarmed idiot teenagers in front of God and everybody, and I'm ready to share. I've been silent too long, and I'm doing life, so like I have anything better to do.

My name isn't important. I'm the kind of guy who likes to be known for his actions and reputation, rather than government name. Call me "Four" if you must call me anything. I like to be remembered for my deeds, rather than what my crack whore of a mother named me. Long ago, I once wore a big number four on my shirt to advertise my "business." This reminded me of how successful I once was at peddling a nonexistent drug to high school kids. My number "FOUR" was like a beacon for dumb kids who wanted to spend entirely too much money on invented-for-TV pseudo-ecstasy.

I still wear a number four on my shirt. Two of them, actually, as well as a handful of other numbers that identify me to the powers that be here at Pelican Bay. Once Emily Valentine stopped hanging out with the gang, I didn't have as much of a market as I thought I would. Everyone caught on to the whole "exchange an egg" thing thanks to a major story broken by Andrea Zuckerman in the West Beverly Blaze, and subsequent TV news exposés revealed that these parties were illegal and in *horrible* neighborhoods anyway. Then Emily Valentine started taking lithium and remembered her childhood ambition to be a marine biologist, and exchanged her figurative egg for a scholarship at the Cousteau Institute. With few options remaining, I elected to get into the meth game. BIG HUGE mistake.

Truly, I WISH that U4EA had caught on. The worst thing U4EA ever caused besides Emily Valentine-mediated attempted date rape is teenage regret. Seriously, Brandon just strolled home with no consequences save a mild scolding from his skanky-ass sister, and then went to sling megaburgers at the Peach Pit! He took U4EA–and without any prior preparation or knowledge of doing so–and still went to work without a complaint the next day. He was so damn spry he probably laid a bet on the Lakers while he was there, he was feeling in such good spirits. Then, however, Emily Valentine left Beverly Hills, people stopped handing out "Egg" business cards on Alvorado, and the U4EA market dried up. Apparently, people were doing "ecstasy," which I couldn't get from my competitors because I'm a gigantic loser. So I hit the internet, bought eight tons of Sudafed, and embarked on an unintentionally short career in amateur chemistry. I lit my shitty apartment on fire, attracted some police attention, and then...guess what? Somehow they found out I was a former U4EA dealer.

Thanks to "the gang" from Niner, I'm now on my third fucking strike, and doing hard time *4* LIFE. Instead of standing in an "underground club" with a shirt with a four on it, I'm making use of body orifices I didn't know I had as a mailroom smuggler in the prison "tits" trade. In case you haven't seen Oz, that's prison talk for "I'm a heroin mule," and I can swallow ten FULL condoms at a time to prove it! I tried to get in the game with the people controlling the tits business around here, but apparently their economy involves more complex and sophisticated operational techniques than simply advertising your wares with a large, extremely obvious representation on your person (ie: a giant "4" on your shirt when you are selling U4EA). I got some pot once, and tried to tap the market by writing "420" on my jumpsuit, and that earned me a robbery and forcible sodomizing. Please believe I learned my lesson there. I'd exchange any number of eggs to be back in the peaceful, relaxing confines of the underground club. There, all I had to deal with was a drunk David Silver, a guy in a rubber jumpsuit, one guy smoking crack, some random club trannies, and a bathroom worse than some chicken farm in Minnesota. In other words, PARADISE compared to cell block fucking D.

Seriously, kids, don't do drugs. Even something lame and made-up like U4EA can really come back to fuck you in the ass. LITERALLY!!!! In the form of my cellmate Garrett Slant. PLEASE, say no to drugs!!!

Sincerely,

Prisoner #446969

alias "U4EA Dealer"

Pelican Bay State Prison

California Department of Corrections

Thanksgiving - I'm not Thankful for Anything Because I have the Two Lamest Parents in the World

Hi everyone.

My name is Hannah Rose Zuckerman Vasquez. Can you even believe I got stuck with such a shitty-ass name? I'm pissed.

Right now, this blog is coming to you from inside my fat mother's womb. Her name is Andrea. It's not pronounced like how you would noramlly pronounce Andrea but instead it's "AHHHHHNNNNNNDREEEEEAAAAAHHHHH." When I first heard my dad call her this I about blew a gasket. Is she for real?

I was conceived when my normally uptight, super-lame mother got all hopped up sexual feelings and decided to bang the shit out of my Puerto Rican father. Talk about a scandal in the Zuckerman house!! Ain't no Jewish PR's out there. Grandma Rose bout flipped her shit when she heard that one. But then she realized my dad's pretty smart and for some god awful reason loves my mom, and then she got over the hump.

Anyway, I'm hearing from my annoying-ass mom that tomorrow is Thanskgiving. I also heard today while watching "Issues with Jane Velez-Mitchell" that some vegans are taking to calling it "ThanksLIVING" instead - because all the turkeys should live and we shouldn't eat them. Maybe when I get out of the womb, I'll become a vegan. SHA - and maybe someday my mom will have a nickname OTHER than Buzzkill Zuckerman.

So - I guess I'm supposed to say what I'm thankful for. Um - NOTHING. Let's see - my mother is ANDREA ZUCKERMAN. That means I'm sure to be the school nerd, perpetually look about ten-fifteen years older than I really am, and always be packing on at least an extra 20 pounds. Thanks Mom.

Due to my dad, Jesse Vaquez, I'm sure to get preferential treatment due to the fact that I'm a minority, but given the ethical morality of my mom, I'm definitely going to have a huge internal dilemma about everything that's handed to me in my life. Cool.

But what I'm most UNthankful about is that all the other kids of the original 90 cast get preemo spots in the new 90210 - guess what narded Hannah Vasquez gets? A tiny bit part in the very first episode - THAT'S IT - guess what I was doing? Following in my buzzkill mother's footsteps, reading on-air school report for West Bev. You know what though, it's all good because there was a "MAJOR STORY BREAKING!" and I was the first one to crack it - after I exchanged an egg of course.

Aight peeps I'm out - I won't be back for a while because after my mom eats the entire bird for Thanksgiving, I'm sure to be in a food coma till birth.

Special Agent Pettit's Top Ten Holiday Safety Tips!

Happy Thanksgiving to all you law-abiding civilians! The Peach Pit turkey is on the table, and rather than sit around watching it get cold while a spoiled, ungrateful brat broods about his daddy issues, I thought I'd share some of my sure-fire crime prevention tips! That way, all you regular folks can avoid being caught in the post-Thanksgiving crime epidemic that befalls us annually during this otherwise happy season.

1. Fake your death. I can't emphasize this enough. Criminals can't victimize you if they believe that you were killed in a car bomb. And this is one of the rare situations where you actually want to follow the terrorists' example. Really do try to make it spectacular. The less likely it is that you survived, the more likely it is the criminals will believe you are actually dead.

2. Avoid getting involved in business deals inexplicably involving junk bonds and supposedly Italian mobsters with French surnames. Junk bond trading and organized crime are each illegal activities one should steer clear of in general, but combining these two can be particularly dangerous. For starters, you should always be suspicious of anyone purporting to be of Sicilian descent who answers to a geographically and linguistically incongruous name like "Marchette" (for example). Anyone who is so unabashedly misrepresenting themselves is highly likely to be involved with violations of the RICO act and securities fraud, as well as other more unpalatable crimes (ie: murder).

3. Avoid allowing your offspring to marry offspring of Franco-Sicilian mobsters. This usually results in an accidental death by assassination.

4. Do not grant bottom shelf 1980s-era Geraldo Rivera knockoffs access to your entire $8 million dollar fortune. I repeat, no matter how many times he promises to "clean up the bay" so you can surf more often, no matter how many vinegar-and-baking soda experiments he shows you at work to prove his capacity in this regard, and no matter how persuasive he can be when dropping fancy official-sounding "science" words such as "bioremediation," do NOT invest every dime you have except the Blue Book value of your Porsche in his scheme. I don't care if this guy is married to some trailer-trash former mistress of your father's that you didn't know about or if he's the stepfather of your hideously ugly bastard half-sister. He is running a long con on you and is NOT to be trusted.

5. Do not use alcohol or heroin. If a shady creep in a pool hall asks if you've ever "chased the dragon" in front of the entire bar, go back to your surf shack and bang the hell out of Valerie Malone instead. Don't take him up on his offer. Illegal narcotics are bad news, and guess what? If you are an alcoholic, you can't just have a beer or two to unwind. That's how flowerpots get smashed and Brenda Walsh gets scared.

6. Whenever possible, go undercover as a rich guy's trophy cougar mistress. In my experience, there is no disguise more effective at deceiving criminals.

7. If you must steal something, make sure it's your best friend's boyfriend. And in my experience, there's no better way to cement this legal form of theft than by doing her in the pool at the Bel Age Hotel.

8. The best place to hide from one's enemies, responsibilities, creditors, or potential murderers is the Bel Age Hotel. Actually, if you have a yacht, that works too.

9. In the event that some family member of yours fakes his/her death, don't launch an investigation so incompetent that it makes Elmer Fudd look like Sherlock Holmes. For one thing, you'll draw unwanted attention to the person who is trying to hide. For another, you'll probably encounter the dangerous sorts of people that your fake-dead family member was trying to get away from. TIP: If you are trying to get the most asinine, threesome-containing sci-fi screenplay ever picked up by a producer, AVOID pitching the project to known criminal associates of your fake-dead family members who have abandoned ski gondolas in their backyards.

10. If you really want to know how to hide and you can't ask me, you should actually talk to the U.S. Marshals. They are in charge of federal witness protection, not the FBI.

And on that note, I wish you all a wonderful, safe holiday season full of faked deaths and intact 8 million dollar fortunes.

Stay legal,

Special Agent Christine Pettit

Federal Bureau of Investigation

Dental Hygienist of the Month

Hi gang.

Dr. Mel Silver here. Not Mel Silver the producer. Mel Silver the oral surgeon. The third-best oral surgeon in all of Los Angeles, in case you were wondering. Anyway, I'm single this week, so if you meet the following criteria, you should call me:

1. You are involved in the oral trade, either as a student or as a practicing dental assistant

2. You are hot, and not old enough to drink legally in the United States, and you do not know my son David

3. You like free trips to Cabo contingent upon fucking your boss, who is admittedly one of the hottest nerds in the dental science game

In the meantime, take a gander at the new young lady in my office. I mean, doesn't she just look like she's ready to throw a bib on you, grab her impression mask, and discover your secret bulimia? And then, like she's ready to go to México and bone the shit out of you for the price of plane tickets and some huevos rancheros? HELL YES! Let's give a big old Bev Niner welcome to Miss November!

GRRRRRRRREETINGS!

CHEERIO, my good co-eds! You may refer to me as Roy Randolph, and I am a world famous director and overall master of the thespian arts, which I should disclose on the off chance you've been dwelling under some sort of rock or boulder somewhere. I am particularly well-known for my award-winning 1994 production of Tennessee Williams' masterpiece Cat on a Hot Tin Roof on the exalted stage of the California University drama department. Of course this memorable production starred the inimitable Brenda Walsh as Maggie...excuse me, I mean Margaret. The lovely and colourful Ms. Walsh prefers to call Maggie the Cat by her given name, and if you could see how much more spectacularly inconsistent and cartoonish her Southern accent is in comparison to the certifiably insane and privacy-disrespecting Laura Kingman, you would certainly understand her rather unorthodox approach to her roles. Said approach involves visiting me late at night and telling me–as her character Margaret, of course–what a wonderful lover I am.

Sure, sure, I signed a contract with the hallowed academic institution known as California University assuring the administration that I would keep my cockney hands off the co-eds, but it's hardly against the rules if she's in character and I have assumed the role of Brick. That's called acting, for all you pitiful, insignificant little peons that cannot appreciate my brilliance at the fine and subtle art of the stage. Besides, it is not as though I need to employ my hands at all to receive certain favours from my aspiring leading ladies. Furthermore, by performing said favours, the astonishingly gifted Ms. Walsh can safely claim that she has still only ever technically slept with Dylan McKay and Stuart Carson, who I might add are both amateurish fools who know tosh about the demands a thespian might face.

Then again, these fellows should hardly feel bad since nobody else can fully honour my genius, either, except perhaps Brenda Walsh and my disturbingly Mel Brooks-ish stagehand. I've been told that in years of late, the talented Ms. Walsh has seated herself in my chair, and has tackled directing a production of Spring Awakening for West Beverly High. Keep striving, my little Minnesotan crumpet! Someday you'll be able to ascend to my level of directing drama club productions at university!

Therefore, I have agreed to inaugurate this pathetic little "blog," so that I might remind you all how resplendently superior my talent is. And, of course, so these depressingly unsuccessful other little "co-stars" of mine from my California University days might attempt to scratch out some sort of artistic meaning to their pathetic, insignificant little lives.

Stand by for more missives explaining to you all about my indisputable superiority, as well as a lot of tawdry efforts by the other riff-raff, people with pedestrian jobs such as dentists and chemists and cut-rate English scholars. And–Great Scott–even a collegiate athlete, and not even a footballer! I shudder to think of what you dear readers shall endure. Never fear, however. I shall return to relieve you of this literary drudgery with further tales of my smashing triumphs of the off-off-off-off-off-off Broadway university theatre circuit! It shall be grand! And until then, please endeavour to reacquaint yourself with the greatest theatrical production of all time!

Dramatically yours,

Roy Randolph