Ask Jack!

Happy Happy Hump Day, dear JBB friends! Here’s this week’s devisive question. Send your own queries to me at jackblacksbody@gmail.com. Fire away!




Dear Jack,
I really like my job. Some might even call it a profession. And while I am extremely thankful that going to work every day doesn't feel like slamming my head against a wall until the end of time, I wake up at night in a cold sweat... Does this fact-- my being employed at a job 9 to 5, 52 weeks a year, with optional dismemberment insurance-- disqualify me from the post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something set? I mean, what would I read at work if I couldn't tap into the joy of Jack Black's Body?

I don't want to wait anxiously for the next issue of the Economist to come out. I don't want to talk to colleagues about the housing market. I don't want to call the police on those noisy kids next door. I don't want to be severed from Jack Black's Body and everything it stands for. I know my dismemberment insurance won't cover that. So, Jables, please advise. I would pick you over a 401K any day...
Yours truly,
Worried at work


Worry not, Worried!
But whew! Your question sparked a flurry of inter-office debate. Hence the many-months-long advicely silence on my part. Of course, we all know I do very little work. Primarily, I sit around the office looking pretty, donning costumes to frighten Fred (y'know, the office midget) while Croftie and Oline work their overworked asses off. But your question, Worried, it brought life at JBB HQ to a grinding halt. We were forced to work our trusty minds and draw up our trusty pens and put our trusty thoughts down on trusty loose leaf and try to come to a conclusive trusty definition of who exactly is allowed admission into the trusty post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something set.

The debate was intense. Croftie and Oline nearly came to fisticuffs. They pushed their desks apart. They almost had to be put in seperate rooms. But ultimately, Oline apologized and Croftie kissed her hand and all was well again. And we were, at last, able to compile a breakdown that we felt comfortable engraving in stone. I give you: The Official Fantabulous Jack Black's Body's Criteria Of Official Twenty-Somethingness.

The Official Fantabulous Jack Black's Body's Criteria Of Official Twenty-Somethingness
1) Do you find me strangely attractive?
2) Are you literate?
3) Do you have or have you ever had a student loan?
4) Does the current presidential administration make you frown?
5) Are you between the ages of 12 and 63?
6) Have you ever been unemployed for an obscenely long period of time?
7) Can you talk about Freud and Project Runway in the same sentance?
8) Have you been in at least three weddings in the past two years?
9) Do you have a degree in English or some other such subject that is allegedly unapplicable in the "real world"?
10) Are you or have you ever been a MAPHer?

Answer "YES!" to any one (1) of the above questions and you're officially in Jack Black's Body's post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something set. So unless you're an eleven-year-old illiterate, Republican heiress who doesn't watch TV or read critical theory and has been employed since birth, majored in math at Northwestern, and is in no way attracted to me, welcome to the fold, O worried one!
XOxOXXOxOxOxOxOXxOxOxOxXXXXXXXX,
Jables

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Ask Jack!

Happy Happy Hump Day, dear JBB friends! Here’s this week’s teacherly question. Send your own queries to me at jackblacksbody@gmail.com. Fire away!




Dear Jables,

I am not a teacher. But I love teacher sweaters. It's something about the rulers and pencils and crayons that are always so delicately embroidered on them in that chunky acryllic thread. And they've even got their own department in the stores. There's a very clear delineation between the trendy clothes and the teacher clothes. Somehow I always wander into that department. It feels so safe, so cottony and crocheted and bedazzled. And are teacher sweaters really that bad, Jack? I think they get a really bad rap from all those silly hipsters, and that makes it hard for people like me to feel comfortable in public in our teacher sweaters. Teachers wear them and they seem to be nice people. Why when I wear mine, do the young people—people who are probably my own age but don't realize it because they can't see beyond the vibrancy of my sweater—snicker and jest? There's that song, "Hot for Teacher," and I'm betting that teacher wore teacher sweaters, so why the social stigma, Jack? Why?

Love,
Teacher at Heart

Dear TH,

You know that other song about teachers? That little weird one by Sting that starts off:

Young teacher the subject
Of schoolgirl fantasy

Well, there’s a reason teachers are the subjects of school-people fantasies. Just look at my character in School of Rock. I was hot! And it most definitely was not because of my outfit. Teachers are fantastical because they have that forbidden, sexy knowledge thing going on. You know what’s not sexy? Low self-esteem hidden under lumpy pencil sweaters. That’s why the chorus of said song goes like this:

Don't stand, don't stand so
Don't stand so close to me
Don't stand, don't stand so
Don't stand so close to me

No one wants to be seen with a teacher in a lumpy pencil sweater. Even more so, no one should want to be mistaken for a teacher in a lumpy pencil sweater, especially if she’s not even a teacher.

I think your sickness comes from an innate desire to be overlooked. Perhaps you are self-conscious about your love handles or your flabby upper arms. You said it yourself: people can’t see beyond your sweater—and I have a feeling that’s subconsciously what you want. If people don’t look beyond the acrylic crayon imprinted on your bosom, they won’t notice the flatness of the chestal area underneath. You told me yourself: you are drawn to the teacher department because “it feels so safe.”

Let me ask you this: Is fashion safe, my friend? The answer is NO—no it’s not. Fashion is daring and dangerous. It’s chic and mod. It’s everything that a teacher sweater embroidered with rulers and pencils is certainly not. Take a hint from our own Fashionista, and try out some new trends for 2006. Shop beyond your comfort zone; perhaps a legging will suit you. But then again, perhaps you have chunky calves. In that case, I would advise you to try a long coat on for size. A long coat can hide many a chunk—take it from me.

And I must defend hipsters for just a moment, since many of my readers are said young people who might “snicker and jest” at the vibrancy of your decorative apparel. Hipsters aren’t mean. They just want what’s best for you and they have trouble expressing their awkward concern. Said awkward warm-hearted hipsters tend to giggle out of confusion. I suggest making a hipster friend and taking her shopping with you. That would be a great first step out of your comfort zone.

And finally, teachers are nice people. I like sweaters. I even like pencils. But here’s a general plea to the masses: Do away with teacher sweaters and make the world just a little bit sexier.

Good luck and send us some snapshots of the new you!
Big hug, sloppy kiss,
Jables

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Ask Jack!

Happy Happy Hump Day, dear JBB friends! Here’s this week’s timely question. Have questions of your own you’re just longing to ask? Send your queries to me at jackblacksbody@gmail.com. Fire away!


Dear Jack,
I'm having trouble budgeting my time. How do you manage to get everything done on deadline? Thanks for your help.

Time Crunched
Chicago, IL



Dear Mr. (Captain?) Crunched,

I find that lots of my post-collegiate, pre-professional 20-something friends have the very same problem. That’s right, they’re disorganized and dysfunctional. I say “they” because I, thankfully, am past the pcp20s stage of life. Which means I’m an expert budgeter and I get everything done on time with no help whatsoever.

Not quite. Actually, I’m pretty messy and a little lazy. I always say I’m going to join the gym, but I don’t. Before my hot wife came along, I always planned to learn how to cook but always wound up microwaving frozen meat patties for supper. That’s right, I’m a bit of a wreck. Or I was, until my trusty editors came along.

The best way to budget your time is to get yourself a pair of trusty editors (and I'm sorry, man, Croftie and Oline are not for sale). Trusty editors can do anything—they sweetly nag me to finish my creative endeavors, they kindly dispense just the right ratio of bubbles to bath, they tend to all the needs of my needy Body, they check my mail and write my letters, they make my words do the work I want them to do—and they look damn good while doing it.

So, while I’m not one to tell you how to budget your time and get all your work done, let’s take a look at how my trusty editors do it for me:

Lists:
Trusty, organized people make lists for everything, my friend. The books they’re going to write, the sentences that will go in the books they’re going to write, the things they need to do today and tomorrow, and the things they think they might need to do if they decide to do them. My editors tell me that there’s nothing that can rival the joy of crossing something off a list. I never said they weren’t dorks.

Planners:
Planners are little books filled with calendar pages. Apparently, you write the things you need to do today inside the little square for Wednesday, August 23, 2006. Whenever you’re given a new deadline, put it in your planner. This way, you can see your whole month laid out for you on one handy spread. This sounds boring to me, but I’ve heard that these little books come in lots of colors and fashions… some even have unicorns on the covers. So I say, go for the unicorn, dude!

Prioritize:
Now that you’ve got lists and planners, you must learn to prioritize the projects noted therein. My trusty editors recently explained the meaning of this word; here’s what they said:

Prioritize /pri-or-e-tiz/ : to list or rate (as projects or goals) in order of priority

Useful, right? What you’re supposed to do is decide which of your projects are the most important. Get to work on those first, and save the others for later. Here’s my personal list of priorities for this afternoon, ranked in order of importance:

1. Respond to Mr. C’s Ask Jack question
2. Join the gym
3. Choose dessert from vending machine
4. Check in with trusty editors to schedule further priorities

You’ll notice that I put your question down as my top priority. I have nearly finished dispensing my wisdom, which means that it is almost time to call the gym. And I’m going to do it this time, because it is a top priority. Please also notice that dessert comes before checking in with my editors, because dessert takes precedence over most other things.

So go treat yourself to some dessert and get to work. You can do it Cappy Crunch. And remember, if all else fails, get yourself some trusty editors.

Keep me updated and send me a photo of your new planner!
XOXoxOxOXOxoxoXooxoxooxoooooooo,
Jables

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Ask Jack!

Happy Happy Hump Day, dear JBB friends! Here’s this week’s cuckolding question. Have questions of your own you’re just longing to ask? Send your queries to me at jackblacksbody@gmail.com. Fire away!


Dear Mr. Body Sir,

This morning my dog ran away. The milk in the fridge was spoiled and the hot water wouldn't work. Outside, I found my Dodge Stratus had a flat tire and the bus I took as a last resort was overcrowded with men with strange musks. When I finally got to work I found I'd been demoted, now I'll be filing and alphabetizing each day for 9 hours. And they took away my computer because they suspect me of looking at pornography. In the cafeteria they were serving vegetable lasagna that was three days old and nobody wanted to sit next to me because a pen exploded in my trousers making it look like I wet myself. My back's been killing me ever since my firm's championship softball game. I dove for the ball and missed causing us to lose in extra innings. This afternoon I found my wallet has been purloined, my library card suspended, and my identity stolen, though I'm still required to pay the outstanding credit balance that the thieves have already rung up. I'm pretty sure I'm catching a cold and that nasty rash just won't go away. My brain surgeon former Miss Teen USA girlfriend of 7 years recently met a virile and hirsute young actor with a devilish grin and body that could stop traffic. Nowadays they're together all the time. My question is this. How does one tell when one is being made a cuckold? And what course of action do you advise me to take in this matter?

Yours with infinitely piling regrets,
Phineas Bumbershoot
Shackleton Falls, WI


Dear Mr. Cuckold… er, Bumbershoot,

You’ve unleashed quite the slew of pathetic information. And it all leads right back to your unfortunate girlfriend situation. Ask yourself these questions: Why did your dog run away? Why did your lady run to the shelter of another man’s hirsute arms? I think you’ll find that man’s best friend and your lady friend fled for the very same reasons.

Dogs like happy people. So do ladies. I doubt that your girlfriend enjoys spending time with the young actor for his virility, his talent, his devilish grin, or his body that could stop traffic (although I’ve heard that those are all admirable qualities in a man). It’s not this other guy who’s the problem in your relationship—it’s you. That’s right Bum, you’re pathetic. You’re whiny. You’re self-pitying. You’re irritating. You’re many, many bad things.

But you didn’t ask me if I thought you were a wimp, you asked if you’re a cuckold. Now, I don’t know your girlfriend, but I suspect that such an intelligent, winning creature would prefer to be showered with affection rather than your boring issues.

Now that we’ve established your cuckoldhood, what course of action should you take, you ask? I’ll give you a handy 8-step program to start off the healing process:

• Always check the date on your milk.
• Pay your bills on time.
• Learn to change a tire, man.
• Invest in a scented hanky to hold up to your nose during long commutes.
• Save the porn for home.
• Bring your own lunch to work.
• Don’t carry pens in your trousers.
• Drink lots of orange juice.

But JB can’t fix everything. To address your more profound concerns: I’m sorry about your canine. Demotion sucks. You probably stink at sports—that’s ok. Too bad about your wallet—next time don’t lose it.

And that goes for your girlfriend, too. Ladies are like wallets. If you don’t hold onto them, someone else will. And then you’ll have to pay the price.

Hope this helps, Bumberdude.

Big hug, very little kiss,
Jables

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Ask Jack!

Happy Happy Hump Day, dear JBB friends! Here’s this week’s crushing question. Have questions of your own you’re just longing to ask? Send your queries to me at jackblacksbody@gmail.com. Fire away!


Dear Jack,
A friend of a friend has a crush on her boss. He's not conventionally attractive but he does have a strange appeal. She could never tell him this and he's a happily married man with a small child, so she knows they could never be together. But these feelings are making her very uncomfortable. Yesterday, when he asked her to go buy some bubble bath for him, it was all she could do not to ask to join the bath. She knows she shouldn't say these things but it's becoming harder and harder. Her friend does these drawings of their boss as part of their work and in these drawings he looks SO HOT. All grizzled and Leo DiCaprio. While she may not feel this way in real life, this friend of a friend is totally in love with her boss as represented in these drawings. Like that Aha video. What can she do, Jack?

xo,
Ohlighn
Chicago, IL


Ohlighn, love!

Let’s get this straight—your friend of a friend (FOF) is in love, not with her boss, but with a cartoon of her boss? That’s weird.

But I’ve heard weirder (our groovy, linen-clad stalkerish friend from a few weeks ago, for instance). I suggest that FOF’s infatuation comes from a deep longing for a committed, loving, deep, lustful, bubble-filled romance with a hot, grizzled, Leo-like, slightly pudgy, perhaps slightly messy, but lovable man. However! This same FOF fears rejection, so she focuses her longing on an unobtainable figure. Her boss is happily married with a child. That’s rather unobtainable. But even more unobtainable is a cartoon of her happily married, potent boss. For what I hope are obvious reasons.

To get over this obsession, let’s make him obtainable. How, you ask? Well, there’s one way. FOF could seduce him, break up his marriage, and emotionally scar his child for the rest of his life so that he seeks therapy and falls in love with his hot therapist and breaks up her marriage and scars her child, thus enacting a virtual cycle of destruction.

I would advise against that route. But she does have another option. Have the friend of a friend’s friend make a cartoon just for FOF. In it, FOF will buy the bubble bath. Then she will seduce her boss in the bathtub. Then, just as the boss leans over all the bubbles to kiss her, he will—heaven forbid!—toot in the bath.

I’ll bet you anything her love will be drowned right then and there amongst the suds.

Best of luck to your FOF. And send us the cartoon!

Little kiss, big hug,
Jables

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Ask Jack!

Happy Happy Hump Day, dear JBB friends! Here’s this week’s defining question. Have questions of your own you’re just longing to ask? Send your queries to me at jackblacksbody@gmail.com. Fire away!


Jack Darling,

I've been with this guy for a month or so. We've had fun. But I have no idea what we are. We aren't dating anyone else but we haven't had an exclusivity talk and we aren't anything beyond "seeing" each other. We made out at Nacho Libre and he paid for my ticket and treats, but when we're with other people, he always introduces me as "my friend." The idea of having nothing more than a "man-friend" is pretty annoying, but I also don't want to look like a crazy, overbearing, desperate woman. So my question is: when and how to have the DTR (Define the Relationship) convo?

Love,

Lolita Charms
Yazoo City, Mississippi

Dearest Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins, my sin, my soul!

See, Jables reads too.

First of all honey, I'm not sure whether to pissed that you weren't watching my film, or pleased that it inspired such lust in a young couple-of-sorts. That's right, the "relationship" you're currently involved in is classified as a "couple-of-sorts." Which means that you think you might be a couple, and he thinks you're his "lady friend." Well, lady friend, I suggest one of two options:

Take your man-friend, or pseudo-maybe-possible-boyfriend (however you choose to view the situation) to a public spot. I suggest a movie theater perhaps for another viewing of Nacho. No, really, I suggest taking a walk in the park to look at the swans swimming lazily in the cool, deep pond. This will put him in a romantic mood. If possible, invite a musician to perform behind some bushes so that when the time is right, he may launch into a sonata. Now is the time to begin the DTR convo. Much like a tiger or panther, men become aggressive when stared straight in the eye, particularly during a serious conversation with a lady friend who wants to be more than a friend. So don't make direct eye contact, keep walking, and simply ask him what his intentions are. If he's looking for love, congratulations! If he'd rather remain a lowly "man friend," there's always a nice, deep pond to shove him into, and some hungry swans who just might like a taste of man-flesh.
I'll bet you forgot that you had another option, didn't you? Well, Lo, you might not like this much, but sometimes it's not a bad thing to relax and just see what happens. That's the way Jables rolls. On the other hand, any good relationship is founded on communication and respect. That much I learned from my hot wife awhile back when she was just my "lady friend" and I was just food for swans.
Hope this helps, dudette!

Big hug, little kiss,
Jables

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Ask Jack!

Happy Happy Hump Day, dear JBB friends! Here’s this week’s burning question. And boy, is it burning. Have questions you’re just itching to ask? Send your queries to me at jackblacksbody@gmail.com. Fire away!



Hello Mr Black.

My situation. I am an attractive young person with loads of cool friends, a nice job full of co-workers who like me and respect what I do. I am clean but not compulsively so. I have a good opinion of myself, am generally happy with my life, and am satisfied with my body except in one regard. Once and a while when I am in the presence of workplace superiors it would serve me well to impress, that special someone whom I just met but I think really likes me, a gaggle of my friends at a fairly swanky dinner party, the pizza delivery guy, etc., I get an incredibly intense itch in a very unmentionable area. There is no opportunity for me to excuse myself to the lavatory or turn away from those addressing me. I know the conversation I am having will last an undetermined length of time, possibly for quite a while. My question is this. Do I scratch or no?

Thanks for hearing me out, you rock!
Yours truly,
Anonymous Jones
Veaux de Vicomte, Ohio


Anony J Dude!

Ah, to scratch, or not to scratch, that is a man’s most baffling question.

First of all, I don’t know if it’s entirely normal to get “incredibly intense itches” in the nether regions. You might want to get yourself checked out. However! Maybe it’s just some sort of psycho-sematic symptom of your inability to interact confidently with members of the opposite sex, or the same sex, for that matter. (That’s right, Jables has been reading up on the Freud!)

But you didn’t actually ask me to analyze your itch. You just asked if you should scratch it. Well, I say it depends on the situation—so let’s break it down and consider each itch independently of its brethren:

A. Workplace superiors. Hmm. Something tells me that, if faced with itchiness in the workplace, you should restrain yourself. I’ve never had workplace superiors, but I have played common workers on film. Most of my characters were the type of workers who would scratch, which is why I am suggesting that you do not. I’m assuming it’s unprofessional.

B. Special someone you just met. Depends on what sort of lady you’re looking for. If you’re courting classy dames who wear Prada and carry teacup pups in their purses, I advise against the scratch. If you’re looking for a woman who’ll eat greasy pizza while watching the game and burp louder than you do, I’d say it doesn’t really matter if you scratch or not.

C. Gaggle of friends at a swanky place. No. Definitely not. Believe me, because I’ve done it. And it got me some really strange looks on the red carpet. On the other hand, I’m a funny guy. Most of the people who saw me sneak a scratch just thought it was my ape impression and chalked it up to my grubby charm. But it’s not always good to be mistaken for an ape, and there are times when one doesn’t want to seem grubby. Like on the red carpet. Or whatever sort of “swanky place” people visit in Veaux de Vicomte, Ohio.

D. Pizza delivery guy. Whatever, Dude.

Etc. I’m assuming that “etc.” covers a lot of itchy possibilities. Since I can’t possibly address every scratch-worthy situation in this humble reply (that would be one hefty answer, and I’m not sure you’re worthy of that much of my time), I’ll give you a very basic rule to take away with you: When in doubt, wait it out.

That should cover everything. Good luck, Dude.
Little kiss, big hug,
Jables

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Ask Jack!

Happy Hump Day, people! Every Wednesday, our very own JB will be spicing up your work week with his new column, “Ask Jack.” He’ll be answering all your questions regarding the dos and don’ts of post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something life. Send your burning queries to JB at jackblacksbody@gmail.com. Fire away!

Dear Jack,

You are the only man I can talk to about this. I know you’ll understand. I can cook, I clean, and I’m terribly smart. I mean, I’m a philosophy PhD and I read Hegel in the fifth grade. I have no personal hygiene problems that I know of, and I brush my hair. I dress really well—linen suits and all that jazz—and I’m also incredibly handsome, if I don’t say so myself.

You see, Jack, I’m looking for a lady. But despite all of the aforementioned groovy personal qualities, I’m still dismally single. I’ve tried sending girls roses. I recently bought a brand-new corvette in an attempt to lure a lady to love me. I rented a boom box and stood outside my neighbor’s window playing “When a Man Loves a Woman,” but she called the police. I just don’t understand it. As you can see, I’m a great catch! So what’s the problem? Are all girls crazy?

Sincerely yours,
Chippy Smith
Mystic, CT


Chippy! Dude!

Nice attempt to sneak in the word “groovy.” It might work better next time if you loosen up a bit. And that goes for your love life, too.

If you’re really as groovy as you say you are, you should have no problem landing a lady friend. I mean, look at me! I’m a little funny-looking. Dude, I’ve been known to have a few personal hygiene problems, I can’t cook or clean, I didn’t finish college, and I don’t brush my hair too often. But man, I’ve got me a hot wife! Know why? Because I’m not creepy. That’s right. I’ve never sent roses to strangers, or driven a corvette (very Barbie of you, by the way), or stood outside anyone’s window with a boom box (I’ll leave that stalker-inspired wooing technique to my arch-nemesis). Let’s face it—all that’s just creepy.

So, want to know what this cave man does to land a lady? It’s really not all that tough, Chipster. Girls aren’t crazy, man. And they aren’t that complicated, either. They might say they want a sensitive, intelligent, successful, handsome lawyer or doctor. But that’s not true. All they really want is someone who will make ’em laugh. And someone who doesn’t stink of desperation.

So my advice to you Chippy: don’t stink. Sell your car, desist with the roses, put away the bleach, box up your pots and pans, shower a little less often, and stop brushing your hair. But most of all, be confident in your unkempt, manly self. Just loosen up. Forget Hegel and all your philosophy crap, and talk to the ladies about super cool, totally rocking stuff instead. Ask the name of their favorite Mexican wrestler. Quote Joe Versus the Volcano. Try to guess their favorite Aha b-side. And when talk finally fails you, singing never will. Sing, Chippy. Puff out your chest and proudly sing. I suggest “Let’s Get It On.” Because girls like that and then you will. Good luck dude. I’ll be crossing my fingers and toes for you!

Little kiss, big hug,
Jables

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