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An Open Letter To The People Who Read My Open Letter To Hannah Montana

ATTENTION: You are on a comedy web site.


How’s it going?

When you all read my open letter to Hannah Montana, I couldn’t believe how much feedback I got. I thought some of the responses were a teensy little bit over the top, but you know, it’s the Internet, right? (more...)



An Open Letter to Hannah Montana, Who Made My Daughter Cry.

Poor Cordie...

Dear Ms. Montana…

Ms. Cyrus… Miley. My name is Max Burbank. I’m just a small-time comedy writer and proud father. Cordelia, my youngest daughter, is seven. This year for Christmas, Santa brought her a Hannah Montana doll, the Hannah Montana Backstage Closet, and a Hannah Montana FM radio microphone. Santa knows Cordelia loves you. I think Santa knows that Cordie isn’t just a fan. You inspire her. You make her want to reach for the stars, and believe that she can do that by embracing her essential self, being true to her heart and her friends. And Cordie’s not alone. All over the country, little girls look up to you not because you’ve done something they can’t, but because they see in you all they can become. (more...)



In Which I Reveal My Failed Pornographers Past

A 'Brand Max Burbank' Comic

Gentle reader, a confession.

A few years ago, for about eight months, I drew a comic strip for Hustler magazine. It was called ‘Angry Darcy’ and featured a caustic young woman talking about things and people that made her mad. At no time did she remove her clothes, frolic in a garage with another woman and/or man dressed as an auto mechanic or insert a single foreign object into any part of her body. This could explain why I was eventually fired, but management never asked me to make the comic any dirtier. In fact they didn’t ask me much at all. Editorial feedback was limited. They asked that all words be of a uniform font and size. In my original submission, font size varied according to how loudly or quietly Darcy was speaking. Once they asked that I remove a joke they either didn’t think their readers would get or didn’t find funny. (more...)



In Which my ‘Temperament’ is ‘Analyzed’

Who you lookin' at?

Gentle reader, it’s possible you have noticed something of an ‘edge’ in my writing recently. I’d like to assure you it has nothing to do with you, but we can’t always do what we like, if ever. Honestly, it has very little to do with the real you, whom I know nothing of. It’s more based on an educated guess about what a person who regularly reads my work with some pleasure would be like, which is to say, not very pleasant. In addition, I suffered a rather epic careen down the stairs this Christmas eve, accompanied by a vacuum cleaner I had been carrying at the time. The resulting insult to my physical person has been characterized by what my medical team calls ‘a nasty sprain’. I can only hope the lawsuit I am preparing for them is so blisteringly appalling that they are reduced to tiny piles of ash when further consultations reveal the actual source of my continuing agony: Ankle Cancer. (more...)



In Which I Offer Up My Obsession With Zac Efron

You can call me Zac

Gentle reader, last night I told me eldest daughter it was my plan to divorce her mother and gay marry Zac Efron. I advised her to get used to the idea that Zacky was going to be her new dad as quickly as possible. I did this because A.) I am the best Dad ever, and B.) Zac Efron is the most dreamiest dreamboat crown prince of unintentional comedy that ever was.

My daughters are twelve and seven, so I’ve seen “High School Musical” (or at least been in the room when it’s on) several times now. Zac’s big show stoppin’ song and dance tirade ‘Bet On It’ is so howlingly hilarious I was quite literally reduced to tears the first time I saw it. (more...)



In Which I Consider The Writer’s Strike

We're on strike until somebody takes a better photo of us!

As the writer’s strike enters its third month, I stand in solidarity with my brothers and sisters on the picket lines, whom ironically I am making more money than for the first time in my life. Internet writers are like the redheaded bastard stepchildren of magazine writers who dream of someday suckling from the lavish teat of television and film writers. I’m not sure exactly what that means, but I did get to write the words ‘lavish teat’ and publish them, something certain people I went to college with who now write for late night TV shows and think they are better than me can only dream of. (more...)


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