My friend Jon is hilarious and smart and this is a potent combination. Following a well-earned ban from Yelp, he decided to take his fake-reviewing talents to Amazon where he’s produced some amazing work. A small sample is feature below.


Screen Shot 2014-07-14 at 8.56.37 AMThis orange-juice made a man out of me! (5 Stars)
I was just a boy then. I’d scarcely seen my fifth summer when my father, his gaze heavy with purpose, led me to the top of the hill abutting our lands. Thereupon I spied a lone ox, chained to a post. It was a magnificent beast, well muscled and proud. My father had sharpened his axe upon a stone beside the ox, and as he raised it high, he spoke to me.

“Do not look away,” he said. “For you are almost a man now, and a man should have to see this.”

He drove the axe strong and true, and it snapped the neck of the mighty creature, spilling forth a river of blood upon the iron-streaked soil.

“Hand me your goblet,” my father told me. His tone was solemn and stern.

I handed my father the small metal cup I’d hammered and hewn in our workshop a few weeks prior. He filled it to the brim with the animal’s blood, and handed it to me to drink.

“Drink this,” he said, “For it is by drinking the essence of the fallen that we shall gain their strength and constitution!”

Dutifully I quaffed from the cold, metal goblet, gulping down the warm, briny broth it contained.

“Good,” my father said. And he handed me a second glass, this one filled with a delightfully perfumed orange-drink.

“Drink this,” he said. “It’s pretty good OJ.”

And so it was.

toothbrushesThese toothbrushes bring back fond memories of my apprenticeship to a Greek shepherd! (5 Stars)

When I was a boy of no more than 12 summers, I’d come to wander the countryside, after having lived on the run from the destruction of my father’s ancestral lands at the hands of his own folly. Homeless and alone, I earned my keep on several small fishing vessels off the coasts of the Mediterranean, before finding refuge in the seaside home of one Mr. Hercules Katsoulidis, a Greek shepherd of limited means and boundless generosity. To this day I owe much of my knowledge of animal husbandry, rustic cuisine, archery, wine, and song to the wise words of Hercules Katsoulidis, and I blame him not for the tragedy that soon befell him.

I had just returned to the dinner-table, having spent the afternoon gathering corn-husks and sea urchins for supper, when Hercules burst into the hut, foaming at the mouth, his expression vacant and eerie, a crude machete dangling from his beefy hand. I saw, by the wild and distant look in his eye, and the in-sane smile that crested his lips, that Hercules had been stricken by madness! I would later surmise that he’d contracted the sheep-rabies from a wayward ewe in his flock.

Hercules lurched toward me, salivating, murmuring gibberish from the corners of a mouth that had long ceased to be capable of rendering perceptible human speech. He drew his machete and raised it aloft, and in that instant, I knew I would have to use my limited understanding of the martial arts in order to defend myself.

“Hercules!” I cried. “It is I, the boy who’s come to stay with you! Do you not remember me?!”

The wretched old Greek lunged forward at me in reply, his blade nearly slicing the ear from the side of my skull! I grabbed a splintered broom-handle from the kitchen corner and parried his clumsy blows as best I could, all the while attempting to talk some sense into him.

“Hercules, you old, befuddled fool!” I said. “I’ll do you in if I must! But please, return to your reason! Or have you taken leave of your senses entirely, and do you now stand before me more beast than man?!?”

Sadly, I received the answer to that grim question. Hercules locked eyes with me, and in a low, gutteral growl, he said only this: “Baaaaah. Baaa-aaa-aaaaaaaah! Baaaaa-aaaa!!!”

The rabies indeed! It was too late for him now! My mentor, my savior, my charitable host, had given over his mind to the demon sheep-rabies and had become a madman!

For four long hours, without rest, without relent, I battled Hercules and his machete with my broom-handle to a reasonable stalemate.

“I see,” said I, “That this contest will not be settled by our prowess with these weapons, but with the wits in our skulls!” And at that, I kicked a clod of dirt into the old man’s face, momentarily blinding him. I hesitated to deal the coup de grace the once-proud man probably deserved, and instead, I ran off into the hills under cover of dusk and cloud.

To this day, whenever I brush my teeth with these Colgate Extra Clean Toothbrushes (Full Head – Soft), I think back to my time on the Aeolian isles, and I weep for the man that Hercules Katsoulidis had been, and for the twisted freak he had become. His smile, once so kind and so full, gnashed and gnarled as his mind gave over to madness, and the foam seeped forth from his maw. My smile, ever so soft and refined, maintains its pearly luster on account of these brushes. And with the Lord as my witness, the only foam to fringe the corners of my mouth will come from the rich lather of my toothpaste!


Screen Shot 2014-07-14 at 8.55.40 AM

These shorts saved my prestigious medical career from the accusations of a scoundrel! (5 Stars)

The Rev. Paddington Quincy Farnsworth is a mountebank and a confidence-man of the vilest character. He is an unrepentant peddler of all manner of snake-oils and cure-alls, and he has amassed a considerable fortune in taking advantage of the confidences of willing dupes. I’m not afraid to say that right here and right now, and should he decide to emerge once more from the shadows and the slime to face his critics in the public square, I say let him!!!

On at least fifteen occasions I have had the utter misfortune of having the Rev. Farnsworth attempt to sabotage my spotless medical career, and I’ll brook his nonsense no more! No more!

Approximately two years ago I was delivering a lecture to a distinguished panel of medical researchers at the prestigious Escuela de Medicina in coastal Colombia, overlooking the sparkling blue waters of the Caribbean Sea. No less than halfway through the lecture I was rudely interrupted by chants of “Quack! Quack-quack! This man is a quack!”

The audience fell silent, and aghast, I looked out into the sea of distinguished faces, only to spot my accursed nemesis, the Rev. Paddington Q. Farnsworth, unmistakable in his monocle, his freshly groomed beard-tips, and his dusky combat fatigues.

“Quack-quack!” he continued. “This man here is a quack, I say! Quack! Quack!”

Quickly the crowd began to turn on me, and they joined in the blood-frenzy incited by the rascal Farnsworth. “Quack-quack! This man is a quack!” they screamed. Their faces were filled with bloodlust, and it was not long before a rotten potato-peel arced through the air and landed ignominiously upon my brow.

“Nay,” I shouted. “You have been deceived, my friends! ‘Tis not I who am the quack-doctor, but indeed, it is this man who stands amongst you, the vile and reprehensible scoundrel Paddington Q. Farnsworth! Be led no further astray by his silver tongue and impeccable fashion sense!”

The crowd began to realize the error of its frenzy, and quite soon, turned its venomous attentions to the charlatan Farnsworth. Together we chased the devil out of the lecture hall, across the campus of the Escuela, through seventeen miles of harsh jungle, and down to the rocky coastline. The bastard must have known his hour would come, as he was met at the coastline by a band of hoodlums and a crude bamboo raft. Farnsworth and his cronies beat a hasty escape on the vessel, pushing off into the foggy afternoon and out into the bosom of the mighty gulf!

Several years have passed since last I had the grave misfortune to occasion a glimpse of my hated rival, or to suffer the indignities of his slanders. But I credit my Lucky Brand Men’s Linen Cargo Shorts, size 31M, for giving me the comfort and the freedom of movement to have chased the scoundrel Farnsworth across the jungle and out to the unforgiving sea.

These shorts have saved my prestigious medical career from the baseless depredations of a flim-flam man!


sandalThese sandals rescued me from my folly! (5 Stars)
When I was little, my father and I would stroll through the fields in all the lands surrounding our manor, wishing a good harvest and fine tidings to the peasants who worked the soil.

He never meant those words, of course. My father could be a cruel, capricious landlord. One winter, when the driving rains turned the soil to mush, and the mung-beans and wheat-stalks lay rotten in the waterlogged earth, the peasants cried out in starvation and cursed the gods for their ruin.

My father would sing, and he would laugh, and he would prance about the fields in chicken-feathers and a beak, gleefully tearing up the wheat-stalks and tramping them into the dirt. “Cacaw!! Cacawww!!” he would shout, as in his animalistic frenzy, he would torment the villagers and consign their small children to certain demise.

Afterwards we would dine on fine linens and gold-leafed plates. We would feast on fatted lamb and stuffed goat, and we would slurp a hearty stew, and we would drink our fill of exotic, spiced wines from the furthest corners of the world. Oh, how we wanted for nothing! And oh, how this wanton and careless display of opulence enraged the local peasantry! If you listened closely — and my father did not — you’d hear their talk turn to revolution, their words baited with venom, their intentions violent and resolute.

I awoke one morning to find our castle engulfed in flames, my father screaming for his life and fleeing on horseback, abandoning me to whatever cruel fate the revolutionaries had in store for me.

And so I grabbed what little I could, including these fine sandals by Adidas, and I ran out into the dusty streets, beating a hasty escape from the life I had known and all it entailed. I know not where the road ahead will take me. But I do know that I will walk that road in comfort and style, with these reasonably priced and durable Adidas Duramo Slide Sandals in Navy and White, Size 12M.