Little known fact about that American Idol 'Justin and Kelly' movie:

My roommate and I wrote it on napkins and then shot it on my dad's old video camera over the course of a three day weekend. We hired some squirrels as the crew. We paid them $6.75 an hour.

True story.

So, Sally tells me of a friend of hers in Chicago who has acquired quite the posh temp gig. He works for Playboy magazine HQ. His job?

He is given a stack of photographs of nude women and must sort them by appearance and pose.

He's been at it for a while now, and he has come to hate it.

At first, he thought it was amazing. Who wouldn't? Hell, even if you were a straight woman or a gay man, you'd still love this job, because you're getting paid 12 bucks an hour to organize porn. The camp value and anecdote potential are both incredibly high.

Apparently, however, once the novelty wears off, and it is now your duty and you are being forced to look at naked women, it is no longer so fun. I can understand this. I love to watch the improvising, but when I have to be there Sunday nights running that lightboard, I am spending most of my time praying for a power outage or that the groups simultaneously decide to do the sensible thing and immediately pursue careers as accountants.

This guy's job does make me rethink my whole career search approach. After all, I live mere miles away from the San Fernando Valley, arguably the world capital of pornography. Do not porn films need production assistants? Do not the production offices of smut have papers to file? Do not girl on girl porn starlets need fluffers?

Sadly, I suspect I already know the answer to that last question.

So, I didn't really get a chance to talk about it, but over the weekend, the IO was host to the first Los Angeles improv comedy festival. There were lots of improv celebs and tons of cool shows. I saw Andy Dick hump a man's head and learned of his undying, passionate hatred of Chris Kattan. I saw MadTV vs. Saturday Night Live in a comedy throwdown.

I also saw my ego shattered and my will to live destroyed when I saw a picture of yours truly taken at the festival, and placed side by side with a photograph of Steven Soderbergh for contrast and comparison.

Those incredible bastards.

Urge to kill: rising. Hate world, revenge soon.

You know, it's bad enough that I get the occasional Woody Harrelson comparison. Oh, sure, whenever someone says that, they always tell me that they think he's a good looking guy, but come on. No matinee idol, him. And now I have to be compared to Soderbergh? I'm not fishing for compliments here, but if I have become unworthy of human affection, I would like to know so that I can just get one of those wire-mother-monkeys they use in experiments and be done with it.

If I were as bothered by this as I'm making myself out to be, I would find myself pretty damn annoying. In a weird way, I'm actually a bit flattered. I will contend, however, that better pictures of me do exist.

And it is pretty cool that I'm right underneath a picture of Amy Poehler.

So, if you would like to see improv performed tonight by a specially trained troupe of Steven Soderbergh look-a-likes, get yourself over to the IO at 11pm, grab a free seat, buy a drink, and get ready for a comedy thrillride that's guaranteed to be at least as funny as 'Traffic.'