Man Resting Comfortably After Candy Heart Transplant

n Saturday Ollie Tarwell of Decatur, Illinois entered the medical history books as the world’s first candy heart transplant. Tarwell’s doctors say his recovery is going surprisingly well in these initial post-op stages.

Tarwell, a 62-year-old ladder climber, had been waiting two years for a donor heart due to a weakening of his own heart after the cancellation of Baywatch. Doctors were growing increasingly alarmed Tarwell would never make the top of the donor list, as it’s all in who you know.

“Finally, we got desperate and drank a few bottles of Kentucky Bourbon between all of us,� stated Tarwell’s surgeon Michael Matuzo, “and I think at that point someone bet me I wouldn’t put a candy heart in him. By the time I woke up out of the haze I was already closing and he was showing good signs.�

The candy heart, which is the size of a human fist and purchased at a novelty store in Indianapolis next to the hospital, reads, “Love Machine� on the front. Doctors are surprised at how well it pumps blood throughout the body and shows no signs of failure. And because it’s candy, the body refuses to reject it.

“The transplant team couldn’t agree in entirety on what to use,� said Matuzo, fielding questions about the surgery. “A few of us liked the message ‘Sweet Thing,’ but the rest of us thought it sounded gay. I’d hate to be in a traffic accident, lying all cut up next to my heart and have it saying ‘Sweet Thing’ when the paramedics show up. How weird is that?�

Tarwell is already out of bed and reportedly cleaning his floor of the hospital, but doctors say after the initial sugar high wears off he will likely resume normal activity with only a headache as a side-effect. In order to keep his candy heart functioning properly, he is under strict orders to exercise, diet, and eat a pound of sugar or artificial sweetner a day.

The nation’s transplant doctors are reacting with fervor in the wake of the surprising medical miracle. Seven new candy heart transplants are being planned this week, and doctors are already looking into the feasibility of candy livers, kidneys, and pancreas.

“Frankly,� said surgeon Donald Bakley, “pancreatic transplant isn’t likely to be too successful. Once you can make a candy organ that is capable of producing normal amounts of insulin, you’ve also just loaded the body with the biggest piece of sugar available. Talk about a catch-22.�

Tarwell is expected to make a full recovery and resume his former ladder-scaling business. Candy organ transplant groups have also begun fervently razzing scientists working on cloning human organs, jeering at them to “Catch up.� If you run a candy store and would like to donate organs upon your death, please fill out the back of your driver’s license and specify “candy� under the heading “type.�

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Tony and I may have had a verbal disagreement, perhaps even one that came to fisticuffs. And some present may argue that I did not come out on top in this exchange. Some hysterical individuals have even suggested that I was bitch-slapped. Bitch-slapped? Come now; let us not get carried away here.

I merely suggested that a low-yield Mutual Fund would, in all likelihood, outperform Tony's hotshot "stock of the week," given the market's present course and well-established seasonal trends. And this was apparently enough to send Tony into a pre-verbal tantrum. I guess I should have taken mother's advice: if you don't have nice financial advice to give, don't give any at all. Touché, mother.

There was a row, I'll admit. And regrettable words were exchanged. I'm sure Tony also regrets some of his physical actions as well, like when he struck me about the head and neck with that radiator. Oh, the foolish things we do whilst in the grips of a spirited debate!

I've certainly been guilty of the same a time or two. Remember the time you were trying to convince me that ascots were still in style, mother? And in the heat of the moment I suggested that you were very occasionally mistaken in your conclusions? Oh, how many long nights did I wish I could have those words back! So I could certainly understand where Tony was coming from when he was attacking me with that rubber hose.

You know how those sorts are over at the Faberge Room, mother. They'll invent stories in their entirety just to have something to gossip about. And yes, they do indeed often involve bitch-slapping. It's a favorite subject in certain unsavory circles, I assure you.

Please mother, you must know without asking that your son more than held his own. I got in my licks as well, you can be sure. While Tony was closing the piano lid on my skull I fired off some particularly tart remarks regarding his breeding and manner of dress. As they say mother, fireplace pokers and piano lids may break my bones, but smart words hurt the worst.

Yes, I'm sure I can imagine what your friend Deidre would have had to say about the affair. "Who's your daddy?" Really mother, that's far too rich. I don't care if she was seated at the next table over; your bridge partner's debauched imagination is no proof that I announced to a room of socialites that Tony was my real father. I don't care if he'd had my arm twisted behind my back, I still wouldn't have said such a thing. You know father was my real "daddy," rest his soul, and I've got the switch marks to prove it.

I know father didn't raise me to be a "sissy," mother, that's why I saved my most cutting retort for last. While Tony was rolling the dessert cart back and forth over my neck, I let loose with a withering appraisal of his character that few in the room will likely ever forget, if they heard it over the crashing sounds and the shocked gasps of the many patrons present who had a weak stomach for blood.

Yes, mother, I did use the word "uncouth." I'm sorry. If Tony didn't want to hear that kind of language, he never should have stomped those broken shards of tableware into my privates. And yes, mother, I know you raised me better than that. I guess I just inherited father's ugly temper.

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Never let it be said Clarissa Coleman lets a defeat get to her, 'cause I'll kick the guy who says it in the balls.
Case in point, the disappointing showing of my new UPN sitcom Archipelago Law. I had a shot at the big small time, the 6th network, and it didn't hit. The executives were pricks and had it in for us since day one, but I'm not bitter about the missed chance screwed up on purpose by those gargantuan dildos. No, I pick up the pieces and move on, looking for some Elmer's glue.

That means moving back to the world of commercials. No doubt I would rather be doing movies, car show appearances, or the penultimate acting experience, television, but if those avenues are drying up in this nasty recession, I can still turn my attention to commercials. Commercials are more popular than ever. Commercials are on TV, in movie theaters, on radio, on big signs by the side of the road, in front of urinals when you pee (I hear), on the sides of buses, and constantly popping up your ass on the Internet. Sounds like ripe material for me to exploit.

Sure, I can get all pissy about it like Cher when she sunk so low she had to do that infomercial, but I'm a survivor, like that fat naked gay guy. You can rub my face in a big pile of crap, what do I do? I shrug, tell you to get me a Kleenex, and come running back for more. Well, not for more of the crap, but… never mind. The analogy is about to make me throw up.

The point is, I can do commercials. I even make an art out of it. A lot of actors say they could never do commercials, because they're so gaudy. Hello! You'll show up to the Oscars with your ass hanging out and resting on a trolley cart because some fashion designer says it's cool—you're already a tool, at least get paid for it. Some actors say they can't do a commercial if they don't believe in the product. Correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't have a problem acting with a puppet who's supposed to be an outer space alien who eats cat, but the minute he brings up the subject of cheap long distance your credibility is stretched to the breaking point? Shut-up and tell them the number, collect your check, and hit the road, Pacino.

I make an art out of commercials. Really, I work at it, like a method actor. I even put up mirrors in weird places at my apartment, then forget about them. That way I open a cabinet looking for the peanut butter, see my face and get surprised—now I know what it looks like to be surprised by how good that peanut butter is. When I act surprised, by golly I can make it convincing. I sort of retrieve that emotional memory of seeing a lady's head in the pantry with my peanut butter. I could write a book about it, really, if books weren't so goddamned boring.

You may remember that commercial I did back in 1996, when I'm cleaning my face with the zit cream and smile real big, saying, "Pimples can't do shit against Extra-Strength Oxy!" They cut out my line and just showed my surprised expression when the zit cream worked, but my face said the same line better than my voice did. I knocked that bastard out of the park. I bet if I called up Oxy tonight and told them I was doing commercials again they would jump at the chance to shoot a sequel. I could be like that Orbit gum girl, a recurring commercial character.

For anyone who says commercials aren't creative—get over yourself. It's not like Gunsmoke on Gilligan's Island was a great idea either. At least UPN can't cancel me if I'm selling a beer to minors.

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