With a noose cinched around his neck and a belly full of pills, area man Elijah Stone came to the unwelcome conclusion that he could not go through with his own suicide. The thirty two year old New Symrna Beach native hesitantly removed his noose and puked up the pills without relish. "But I'm keeping the ones in my butt" he added. When asked why Mr. Stone did not go through with the "totally sweet" suicide he had planned, he sighed. "It's pretty lame, but for the moment I have to keep on living this bummer-clad life." Going into detail about everything from the inherent chaos of the universe to how annoying his dealer, Jeff, could be, Elijah depicted our current reality as a bleak and horrific hellscape, a torment to all beings.
After an eloquent speech, Mr. Stone then recanted and cobbled together a desperate and, quite frankly, unconvincing argument. "Well, I still got my terrible dog, Quinceanera, who literally killed a girl on her Quinceanera. That's why I called her that. I have no idea why they didn't put her down, by the way. Anyway, I would feel pretty bad for the person that would have to take care of her. So, that's one thing I guess." Mr. Stone went on to list other such reasons as his one pen pal that hasn't written back in over two years and the near certainty that he would test positive for one of a number of STDs that he believed himself infected. "I just kind of want to know" he shrugged.
Apparently exhausted from the mental exertion required of him to draw up these regrettable rationale, Elijah laid down. His posture not so much belied the cognitive dissonance of a man no doubt drowning in the dark waters of chaos, but rather his countenance, which was contorted with anguish. Still, he eked out a broken smile. "There's some chance that someone at my job will have to pick up the slack from the absence caused by my death. And even though I hate most of my coworkers, I wouldn't wish my fax machines duties on anyone."
Titillated by the dark ruminations of this pathetic soul, this reporter decided to go elbow deep. Prodding him further, I asked how the mild inconvenience of his death was in any way a justification for life. "Ehhh," he squeaked "no one likes a hassle." Though not unreceptive to this reporter's insistence that life itself is merely a prolonged suicide, a slowly tightening noose which wreaths our hearts in dread, Elijah remained committed to living. When presented with the intimate option of joining this reporter in a whimsical suicide pact, Elijah declined. Thoughtfully, however, he did agree to transcribe the rest of our interview as I asphyxiated. With the pallor of death marching across my body and a prodigious erection, the door bell rang. Elijah answered and let in what appeared to be a Kristen Stewart impersonator. Mustering a wave hello in the last moments of my consciousness, I overheard what was almost certainly a negotiation concerning the value of my soon-to-be-dead body.
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Word Wizard
Almost any student of linguistics will tell you that the evolution of modern language is as complex and nebulous a topic as counting the number of butt hairs that exist in the world. That is to say, "y'all couldn't even handle the tip." Show me the human that predicted "no homo" coming, let alone "swaggot," and I will show you some homophobic reptilian trans-dimensional being that can time travel. Such were the attitudes of pretty much everyone in the English speaking world during the second decade of the twenty first century. That is why the arrival and meteoric rise of Word Wizard was met by the collective premature ejaculation of the West.
The origins of Word Wizard are far from understood, but a few things have been pieced together thanks to the diligent efforts of PRISM. Though his birthplace and name remain unknown, the first confirmed sighting of Word Wizard came in 2009 at the height of the swine flu epidemic. At such time the hallowed Word Wizard @BitOfaLanguageLush twitter account was registered in the little Rhodesia neighborhood of Albuquerque, New Mexico. His first tweet coined the term Preemin' or #preemin', a word used to describe a person requiring hospitalization after leaving a party too early, much like a premature birth. The word was a hit and people began to clamor for the elusive wordsmith.
The words came slowly at first, a frimtiplins here, a kepyut there, but each an immediate success. So quickly did the creations of Word Wizard fall into modern parlance that new editions of dictionaries began to be printed weekly (thus reviving an industry decrepit since the days of Henry Kissinger kid's show "Happy Fun Realpolitik Playtime Hour"). He achieved Olympian heights of fame with his posts, ascending to the sanctified status of eternal trending topic on twitter. It seemed that he had become the husky and aroused lesbian to the timid, blossoming beauty of the English language in the steamy school shower that was social media. However, Word Wizard was in for a very rude nonverbal and un-enchanted awakening.
What began as frenzied internet stardom turned into polite psychological addiction seemingly overnight. Entire vocabularies were eroded by Word Wizard's new diction, leaving those afflicted incapable of speech devoid of hashtags and tumblr references. This varicose vernacular proved unsuited to daily interaction causing bedlam, chaos, and general confusion concerning sexual relations (the only word Word Wizard had forged concerning sex was "krimty" a term of endearment used for a person not in the mood for sex). Unable to voice their sorrows let alone the frequency of their scatological obligations, the people sought Word Wizard with increased vigor, hounding him for new words. Employing P.I.s, hackers, and trolls, the populace mounted an inquisition for the Banksy of internet speech.
In consequence of this pursuit, Word Wizard took to flight, always remaining a step ahead of the hunt. His pursuers found only the traces of a slovenly phantom: a disheveled breakfast nook, underwear with skid marks, burned notebooks, and always a large tub of Vick's Vapor Rub with a penis-shaped imprint. Rumors spread about the identity of this person and his alleged whereabouts. So great were the suspicions that communities began to out those among them as the Word Wizard. For many this became a farcical crucible with the accused forced to create words for an increasingly dumb populace. These poor souls lasted only as long as their words, subjected to horrifying and unspeakable tortures (they literally did not have the words to define them) the second a word did not achieve local hashtag status. The demented cat woman of humanity had fallen in the shower, breaking her hip and feebly attempting to fend off the legions of cats meowing for her flesh.
With the world burning Word Wizard came to realize his own guilt. His verbiage had brought the world to the brink of destruction and left humanity with but one word to contextualize their own demise. That word being "wipahkiff" a term denoting a dire writer's block along with the knowledge of a forthcoming wardrobe crisis (it also had the connotation of having underused genitals). Seeking salvation for himself, Word Wizard picked up a dictionary and began to post such ancient words as "hater" and "decolletage". Slowly he reintroduced the very language which he had so indecorously tea bagged. The world slipped back to its former verbal usage and thus to its previous order.
Fearing that he might once again plunge the world into a rectal abyss of hashtags, Word Wizard retired his twitter account. He has not been heard from since. To this day people still seek out the Word Wizard cleaving to the few clues he left behind. When asked why they would seek a person who very nearly ended civilization, the response is almost universal. "I need a new way to talk about masturbation on the internet."
The origins of Word Wizard are far from understood, but a few things have been pieced together thanks to the diligent efforts of PRISM. Though his birthplace and name remain unknown, the first confirmed sighting of Word Wizard came in 2009 at the height of the swine flu epidemic. At such time the hallowed Word Wizard @BitOfaLanguageLush twitter account was registered in the little Rhodesia neighborhood of Albuquerque, New Mexico. His first tweet coined the term Preemin' or #preemin', a word used to describe a person requiring hospitalization after leaving a party too early, much like a premature birth. The word was a hit and people began to clamor for the elusive wordsmith.
The words came slowly at first, a frimtiplins here, a kepyut there, but each an immediate success. So quickly did the creations of Word Wizard fall into modern parlance that new editions of dictionaries began to be printed weekly (thus reviving an industry decrepit since the days of Henry Kissinger kid's show "Happy Fun Realpolitik Playtime Hour"). He achieved Olympian heights of fame with his posts, ascending to the sanctified status of eternal trending topic on twitter. It seemed that he had become the husky and aroused lesbian to the timid, blossoming beauty of the English language in the steamy school shower that was social media. However, Word Wizard was in for a very rude nonverbal and un-enchanted awakening.
What began as frenzied internet stardom turned into polite psychological addiction seemingly overnight. Entire vocabularies were eroded by Word Wizard's new diction, leaving those afflicted incapable of speech devoid of hashtags and tumblr references. This varicose vernacular proved unsuited to daily interaction causing bedlam, chaos, and general confusion concerning sexual relations (the only word Word Wizard had forged concerning sex was "krimty" a term of endearment used for a person not in the mood for sex). Unable to voice their sorrows let alone the frequency of their scatological obligations, the people sought Word Wizard with increased vigor, hounding him for new words. Employing P.I.s, hackers, and trolls, the populace mounted an inquisition for the Banksy of internet speech.
In consequence of this pursuit, Word Wizard took to flight, always remaining a step ahead of the hunt. His pursuers found only the traces of a slovenly phantom: a disheveled breakfast nook, underwear with skid marks, burned notebooks, and always a large tub of Vick's Vapor Rub with a penis-shaped imprint. Rumors spread about the identity of this person and his alleged whereabouts. So great were the suspicions that communities began to out those among them as the Word Wizard. For many this became a farcical crucible with the accused forced to create words for an increasingly dumb populace. These poor souls lasted only as long as their words, subjected to horrifying and unspeakable tortures (they literally did not have the words to define them) the second a word did not achieve local hashtag status. The demented cat woman of humanity had fallen in the shower, breaking her hip and feebly attempting to fend off the legions of cats meowing for her flesh.
With the world burning Word Wizard came to realize his own guilt. His verbiage had brought the world to the brink of destruction and left humanity with but one word to contextualize their own demise. That word being "wipahkiff" a term denoting a dire writer's block along with the knowledge of a forthcoming wardrobe crisis (it also had the connotation of having underused genitals). Seeking salvation for himself, Word Wizard picked up a dictionary and began to post such ancient words as "hater" and "decolletage". Slowly he reintroduced the very language which he had so indecorously tea bagged. The world slipped back to its former verbal usage and thus to its previous order.
Fearing that he might once again plunge the world into a rectal abyss of hashtags, Word Wizard retired his twitter account. He has not been heard from since. To this day people still seek out the Word Wizard cleaving to the few clues he left behind. When asked why they would seek a person who very nearly ended civilization, the response is almost universal. "I need a new way to talk about masturbation on the internet."
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
A conversation with John Goodman
The following is a conversation I had with John Goodman. Though totally unverified by John and his representatives, I can assure you that this occurred IRL! It all happened one day when I was hitchhiking from New Orleans to Atlanta. John picked me up on the side of the road.
John: Hop on in.
Me: Thanks.
John: Where you headed?
Me: Atlanta.
John: You mean Black Hollywood, right?
Me: Where else?
John: Hot damn. Great fucking city.
Me: (Nodding) (Silence)
John: (Silence) (Picks donuts out of back seat and starts to eat it)
Me: So...how far can you take me?
John: (chokes on doughnut)
Me: Oh my god! Dude! Are you okay?!
(The car begins to swerve with John's increasingly violent choking. I strike his back a number of times in an attempt to dislodge the doughnut piece. John vomits all over the dashboard and expels the doughnut.)
John: (slaps his hand down on the puke covered dash) Woooooo! Now that right there is what my daddy called the old "Goodman car wash." And I ain't talking about by biological pappy either.
Me: Wait, did you just reveal to me that you are, in fact, John Goodman, the actor, and that you have some sort of daddy fetish?
John: You're darn tootin'! I like to treat the world like it's an AOL chat room. No faces, no names, and no way in hell am I going to spare you any details of my sexual depravities. So you just better buckle up and enjoy the ride, Mr....Mr. what's your name anyway?
Me: First off, I both see your face and know your name. Secondly, my name is Corey.
John: Well shoot, I meant to give you my screen name, not my real name, Corey. Give me a second here.
(John proceeds to pull out a pen and piece of paper and write his screen name down on it. He hands me the slip.)
Me: Wow. 420DogTurdSmoker69 That's a mouthful.
John: You should say that while smoking on a meaty dog turd! Hehehehehehe. But seriously, I'm proud of that screen name. You have no idea how fast the numbers 420 and 69 go.
Me: Tell me more, John Goodman.
John: Well, in this newfangled day and age when you need a username for every goddamn website you sign up for, you tend to want to get the prime real estate. You know, getting that really cool username that let's everyone else know you're top dog. Like PrimeRealEstate69 or 420Top69Dog. Problem is every Bo and Cletus worth their weight in ass pennies wants to have some permutation of CoolGuy42069. Them numbers get snatched up real quick. I'm more nervous than a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs when I sign up for a new username. You ain't a man if you don't got them numbers, son.
Me: I see. So John....I mean 420DogTurdSmoker69, now that you have totally alienated me with your weird theories on internet username propriety, how about we move on to a more mundane subject?
John: Another stick in the mud. Y'all hitchhikers are as boring as cookies without Xanax.
Me: You mean, you've done this before?
John: All the time. Hell, I'm supposed to be on set right now for a new movie I'm doing called Fire Under the Magnolia Bush, a Southern Gothic, Steampunk romance set in the Reconstruction era.
Me: Isn't it a magnolia tree?
John: Listen, son, I ain't one to care much for particulars. Furthermore, anytime you can say the word "bush" you go for it. That's why I always drink Busch beer, for the puns you see.
Me: Just crackin' open a big old Busch and diving right in.
John: That's the spirit! I had hoped you turn yourself around. Most of you hitchhiking fellas aren't much for repartee when I first pick you up, but by the time I'm done with you you're greased as hog...dialogically speaking of course.
Me: Well, I do feel remarkably at ease for sitting next to a man who has confessed his sexual proclivities and spoke about greasing me up like a pig within the first 10 minutes of me meeting him.
John: Don't flatter yourself, son. This sort of colloquy is just par for the course with old 420DogTurdSmoker69. Why just last week I picked up a woman, and told her how I am physically unable to get off without someone calling my a "shoebie."
Me: Like from Rocket Power?
John: Yep. I reckon it has something to do with the seminal vesicle resonating to the precise pitch and timbre of the word "shoebie." Of course, maybe that's just a hold over from my days as a traveling sexual anatomy instructor for teens.
Me: No way! My father was once a traveling sexual anatomy instructor for teens too!
(John slows down the car to almost a halt. He turns to me and with an expression so grave that his face literally turned into a graveyard, John stares me down. Reaching out his hand I recoil in horror and press myself up against the passenger side window. John grabs the door handle and opens the door.)
John: Get the fuck out!
Me: Joh...420DogTurdSmoker69, the car is still moving I..I..
John: Boy, if you don't get out of here right now...
(Just then a station wagon pulls in front of us. Two kids are sitting in the back, staring at 420DogTurdSmoker69 and me. They stick out their tongues and make what appear to be racially charged gestures about Asian Americans. John slams the door closed furiously and grips the wheel with both hands. He revs the engine and rams into the back of the station wagon. The children are terrified as the station wagon picks up speed and begins to pull away from us. John follows in pursuit.)
Me: What the fuck is going on?!
John: Let me tell you a story, son.
(420DogTurdSmoker69's eyes are glazed over. He no longer looks at me as he speaks.)
John: Far as I know, there are only two traveling sexual anatomy for teens instructors left alive. Me and your pappy. You know why that is?!
Me: Increasing education budgets?
John: Nope, it's because your pappy sold us all out.
(John reaches into the back and produces a bag. He sits it in his lap.)
John: It was back in 78. Business was good, and teens were giggling every time I said the word penis. However, the government was trying to hunt us down, but we were always a Perineum ahead. We thought we were invincible....
(The kids in the station wagon in front of us begin to pretend to play tiny violins. John growls and slams on the gas.)
John: Then the government started taking us out one by one. I didn't know what was happening at first, but when your father called me up and asked me where my next assignment was I put it all together. Son of a bitch is lucky I never saw him again.
Me: Yeah, my dad is kind of a dick. Sorry.
John: I ain't got time for apologies.
(John reaches into the bag on his lap and pulls out a rolled up poster. He unfolds it revealing an anatomical diagram of a female vagina. He presses the poster up against the windshield facing out and rolls down his window. John slams on the gas and closes the distance between us and the station wagon. He puts his left arm out the window and points to the poster.)
John: LABIA MINORA!!!!!
(The kids begin to laugh. John smiles and crashes into the back of the station wagon causing an explosion that engulfs us and the station wagon. Blood, steel, and flame bend together. Nothing in the wreckage is recognizable except for the laminated poster of a female vagina.)
John: Hop on in.
Me: Thanks.
John: Where you headed?
Me: Atlanta.
John: You mean Black Hollywood, right?
Me: Where else?
John: Hot damn. Great fucking city.
Me: (Nodding) (Silence)
John: (Silence) (Picks donuts out of back seat and starts to eat it)
Me: So...how far can you take me?
John: (chokes on doughnut)
Me: Oh my god! Dude! Are you okay?!
(The car begins to swerve with John's increasingly violent choking. I strike his back a number of times in an attempt to dislodge the doughnut piece. John vomits all over the dashboard and expels the doughnut.)
John: (slaps his hand down on the puke covered dash) Woooooo! Now that right there is what my daddy called the old "Goodman car wash." And I ain't talking about by biological pappy either.
Me: Wait, did you just reveal to me that you are, in fact, John Goodman, the actor, and that you have some sort of daddy fetish?
John: You're darn tootin'! I like to treat the world like it's an AOL chat room. No faces, no names, and no way in hell am I going to spare you any details of my sexual depravities. So you just better buckle up and enjoy the ride, Mr....Mr. what's your name anyway?
Me: First off, I both see your face and know your name. Secondly, my name is Corey.
John: Well shoot, I meant to give you my screen name, not my real name, Corey. Give me a second here.
(John proceeds to pull out a pen and piece of paper and write his screen name down on it. He hands me the slip.)
Me: Wow. 420DogTurdSmoker69 That's a mouthful.
John: You should say that while smoking on a meaty dog turd! Hehehehehehe. But seriously, I'm proud of that screen name. You have no idea how fast the numbers 420 and 69 go.
Me: Tell me more, John Goodman.
John: Well, in this newfangled day and age when you need a username for every goddamn website you sign up for, you tend to want to get the prime real estate. You know, getting that really cool username that let's everyone else know you're top dog. Like PrimeRealEstate69 or 420Top69Dog. Problem is every Bo and Cletus worth their weight in ass pennies wants to have some permutation of CoolGuy42069. Them numbers get snatched up real quick. I'm more nervous than a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs when I sign up for a new username. You ain't a man if you don't got them numbers, son.
Me: I see. So John....I mean 420DogTurdSmoker69, now that you have totally alienated me with your weird theories on internet username propriety, how about we move on to a more mundane subject?
John: Another stick in the mud. Y'all hitchhikers are as boring as cookies without Xanax.
Me: You mean, you've done this before?
John: All the time. Hell, I'm supposed to be on set right now for a new movie I'm doing called Fire Under the Magnolia Bush, a Southern Gothic, Steampunk romance set in the Reconstruction era.
Me: Isn't it a magnolia tree?
John: Listen, son, I ain't one to care much for particulars. Furthermore, anytime you can say the word "bush" you go for it. That's why I always drink Busch beer, for the puns you see.
Me: Just crackin' open a big old Busch and diving right in.
John: That's the spirit! I had hoped you turn yourself around. Most of you hitchhiking fellas aren't much for repartee when I first pick you up, but by the time I'm done with you you're greased as hog...dialogically speaking of course.
Me: Well, I do feel remarkably at ease for sitting next to a man who has confessed his sexual proclivities and spoke about greasing me up like a pig within the first 10 minutes of me meeting him.
John: Don't flatter yourself, son. This sort of colloquy is just par for the course with old 420DogTurdSmoker69. Why just last week I picked up a woman, and told her how I am physically unable to get off without someone calling my a "shoebie."
Me: Like from Rocket Power?
John: Yep. I reckon it has something to do with the seminal vesicle resonating to the precise pitch and timbre of the word "shoebie." Of course, maybe that's just a hold over from my days as a traveling sexual anatomy instructor for teens.
Me: No way! My father was once a traveling sexual anatomy instructor for teens too!
(John slows down the car to almost a halt. He turns to me and with an expression so grave that his face literally turned into a graveyard, John stares me down. Reaching out his hand I recoil in horror and press myself up against the passenger side window. John grabs the door handle and opens the door.)
John: Get the fuck out!
Me: Joh...420DogTurdSmoker69, the car is still moving I..I..
John: Boy, if you don't get out of here right now...
(Just then a station wagon pulls in front of us. Two kids are sitting in the back, staring at 420DogTurdSmoker69 and me. They stick out their tongues and make what appear to be racially charged gestures about Asian Americans. John slams the door closed furiously and grips the wheel with both hands. He revs the engine and rams into the back of the station wagon. The children are terrified as the station wagon picks up speed and begins to pull away from us. John follows in pursuit.)
Me: What the fuck is going on?!
John: Let me tell you a story, son.
(420DogTurdSmoker69's eyes are glazed over. He no longer looks at me as he speaks.)
John: Far as I know, there are only two traveling sexual anatomy for teens instructors left alive. Me and your pappy. You know why that is?!
Me: Increasing education budgets?
John: Nope, it's because your pappy sold us all out.
(John reaches into the back and produces a bag. He sits it in his lap.)
John: It was back in 78. Business was good, and teens were giggling every time I said the word penis. However, the government was trying to hunt us down, but we were always a Perineum ahead. We thought we were invincible....
(The kids in the station wagon in front of us begin to pretend to play tiny violins. John growls and slams on the gas.)
John: Then the government started taking us out one by one. I didn't know what was happening at first, but when your father called me up and asked me where my next assignment was I put it all together. Son of a bitch is lucky I never saw him again.
Me: Yeah, my dad is kind of a dick. Sorry.
John: I ain't got time for apologies.
(John reaches into the bag on his lap and pulls out a rolled up poster. He unfolds it revealing an anatomical diagram of a female vagina. He presses the poster up against the windshield facing out and rolls down his window. John slams on the gas and closes the distance between us and the station wagon. He puts his left arm out the window and points to the poster.)
John: LABIA MINORA!!!!!
(The kids begin to laugh. John smiles and crashes into the back of the station wagon causing an explosion that engulfs us and the station wagon. Blood, steel, and flame bend together. Nothing in the wreckage is recognizable except for the laminated poster of a female vagina.)
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
The Self Spin Doctor
What I had not known was that for the entirety of my life I had smelt the 26th year. It came to me in flashes or wafts, many of which I can no longer remember. Others stuck with me: In fourth grade when I hid at the bottom of the ball pit and pretended I was a sarlacc, in middle school when the girl I kissed on a dare puked, and in college every time I showed off my mangina. The smell was always the same though varying in strength. It was a bit like a well washed butt hole, not stinky per se but I knew where the hell my nose was. At least I thought I knew. The scent was not a prognostication, nor did it bear any sense of foreboding. All that I knew for sure was that this scent was somehow a part of me, kind of like a undescended third ball.
Then came my 26th birthday. I awoke alone perspiring heavily as if I had spent the night curled up beneath a sweaty titty. For a moment I did not notice it, and then it hit me. Much like the hell fire to which the damned may never become accustomed, the 26th year stench pervaded everything, unrelentingly fucking my prudish olfactory senses. The smell was garish and rather rank but not altogether unpleasant. There were notes of lavender, rosemary, and pretentious hipster foodyism. If smells could be instagrammed I would have been an internet celebrity.
At first I tried to live my life as I once had, ignoring the smell as best I could. I went to work, hung out with my friends, insulted DJs, and made lewd gestures to dogs. Yet, whenever I slowed down, the smell would catch up to me, settling into to every pour of my body. I began to ask those closest to me whether or not they could smell it; they could not. I broadened my search asking friends of friends, acquaintances, animals, and even coworkers. I eventually sought the advice of spiritual leaders. A priest told me it was merely the B.O. from the eternal embrace of Christ. A rabbi chased me out of his office proclaiming the smell to be the gaseous emanations of a vengeful dybbuk. I consulted with high school goths around the country, each giving me different interpretations ranging from the supernatural to the sexual (the most plausible being that I somehow fucked an astral projection of Stevie Nicks leaving my dick swathed in a permanent pussy stank). It got to a point where I would accost a stranger over the wrinkling of her or his nose. It was to no avail, however. It seemed that I was to be the sole proprietor of this solipsistic stench.
The funky aroma's persistence was maddening; it began to affect me in subtle and unforeseen ways. I grew increasingly isolated, anxious, and emotional. I even joined a menopause support group and was then kicked out for being too moody. Worst of all my social ineptitude grew exponentially. I lacked more empathy and social awareness than drunk Hitler at a JDate mixer. It was like going through puberty all over again, except this time I had Asperger's and a twitter account. Because of all this I lost my job and many of my friends. My mother even began sending me insulting texts like "You're a stupid shit ass" and "My humming birds think you're fat!" I was disconsolate.
Only three months into the 26 year stench and I was ready to end it all. To help me decide I joined a Japanese suicide forum, speaking with strangers at length about the relative merits of different forms of suicide. In the process I befriended a 38 year old widow who wanted to be crushed to death by thousands of copies of her favorite Manga series and a 16 year old who was home schooled by magicians. Consulting these and other sorrowful types, we determined that either fan death or suicide by cop was the most posh course of action. Thus confirmed, I set out to plan my own death.
The whole process was simple really. Equipped with a gallon jug of barbicide, some hair clippers, numerous hair gels, a bottle of talcum powder, and a fake gun, I would head to Times Square and take a bunch of hostages. Once there, I would start giving my hostages terrible hair cuts until the police arrived. At some point during the hostage negotiations I had planned to turn my gun on the cops and watch as they riddled my odoriferous body with bullets. A fitting end and one that I looked forward to with relish. However, things did not go as planned.
Walking into Times Square and decorated with the accouterments of barberity, I surveyed the crowd and anxiously picked my first victim, a 20 something yuppie woman sporting David Byrne-esque shoulder pads. All of the sudden the 26 year stench flared up beyond comprehension, swathing me in a choking miasma of heretofore unknown proportions. Reaching for my gun, I plotted which haircut to bestow upon this woman: mullet, bowl cut, devil's lock, or, if I had the time, cornrows? Only a pace or two behind the lady, she stopped abruptly and swiveled her head from side to side. I too stopped and clutched my gun. Whipping her head around she looked at me long and hard. Her nose twitched and her eyes lit up.
"I thought I smelled barbicide! You're one of those guys who give free hair cuts, right?" I nodded sullenly. "Good. Make me look like a lesbian Donald Trump with postpartum depression." Somehow I knew exactly what that meant and began to trim this woman's hair. Cutting, coiffing, and crimping, I found myself lost in the process and started up a conversation with this woman. Her name was Angelica Linares, a quick witted and ambitious Uruguayan with facial tattoos who fancied herself a "self spin doctor." Incredulous and captivated, I inquired further. Angelica explained that a self spin doctor was the middle ground between therapist and PR person, analyst and image consultant, a sort of self-marketing masseuse who gave your ego a happy ending. That's when I decided to hold off on the whole killing myself thing.
Angelica became a close friend and consultant to me, advising me in all manners of my personal and professional life. Her advice was trenchant and applicable: wear shorter short shorts, stop addressing everyone as "Dave", find me opium, get that one Black Flag tattoo, cut a whole in your fanny pack so you can put your dick through it, watch more rom coms, and, most importantly, create a popular smut tumblr. However, despite our fantastic rapport, I still withheld from her the the darkest of my secrets, the 26 year stench. The smell had become more oppressive than ever, something to which Angelica was slowly becoming attune. Perhaps it was my frequent paroxysms of choking or my constant referencing of skunk furries, but eventually Angelica forced the issue.
"Why the fuck do you keep acting like you're in the bathroom of the Crohn's disease ward at a Dallas BBQ?!" Though I had been frightened by the prospect of revealing the 26 year stench to Angelica, her acknowledgement of my behavior made me feel unaccountably well. For the first time someone had noticed the smell, though without smelling it. In blog form I confessed to her my curse. Responding via a series of images on tumblr, Angelica related that my situation reminded her of an old Uruguayan legend, "el hombre que se convirtio en pedo." According to the myth, there was once a man that was plagued by a smell which only he could recognize. After a slow and occasionally hilarious descent into insanity, the man vowed to discover the source of this smell. He wandered the earth for 30 years, a peripatetic saint to the olfactory gods. He supplicated the most sacred shrines of stench across the globe: guano caves in Nigeria, sulfur mines in New Zealand, cow farms in Texas, and even performed cunnilingus on the world's stinkiest vagina (a distinction held by a woman, Mildred MacDuff, who notoriously used tampons cut from the mud stained jersey of Aleister Crowley's occult rugby team).
Like many myths, "el hombre's" search concluded in tragedy when a vengeful spirit stripped him of his corporeal form, leaving "el hombre" nothing but his own stench to comfort him for the rest of eternity. Creepily, Angelica added that once as a child she thought she had encountered this fetid phantasm. Though interesting, the tale left me more crestfallen than ever, providing only the vague hope that I might someday torment others with my smell rather than myself.
Still, Angelica continued to analyze and spin my predicament. Bandying about such trending terms as "Spiritual Anal Bleach" and "Superego Hair Plugs," Angelica encouraged me to return to the life my stench made me abandon. However, each attempt I made only pushed me farther away from my old life and closer to the stench. I began to eat less and smoke more. I bought twenty eight smoke machines and filled my apartment with them. I lingered in smokey bars, gaseous industrial factories, and flatulent Brooklyn flats. In all things I sought vapor and smell.
It was around this time that my body began to change. Though I lost weight, my frame seemed expanded. A smokey pallor overtook my once brnzed skin. My nose grew and my lung capacity reached Michael Phelps bong hit proportions. None of this seemed alarming to me, however. In truth, I was not aware of these changes until one day when sitting with Angelica my hand passed through my coffee cup. Thrown into a fit by my (trans)apparent rarefaction, I rushed home. For hours I stood in the mirror marveling at my new form, all the while taking deeper and deeper inhalations of the 26 year stench. I closed my eyes and with every breath understood the rank fragrance was coming from somewhere inside of me, but was also enveloping me. No longer able to open my eyes or move, I waited cocooned in what felt like a breezy porta potty. After a duration of time somewhere between translating every season of Friends into Latin and the time it would take to collect every piece of ZZ Top paraphernalia, I awoke without form.
So there you have it. I am now a stinking cloud of effluvium, a sentient fart. My existence is slightly better now than when I was a corporeal being. I no longer have to take the subway or have awkward elevator conversations. Moreover, I can drape myself over someone and make them smell like a pair of Al Pacino's pussy eating dentures. It's hilarious. Of course, being unable to interact with humans can be kind of a drag. I miss Angelica. I wonder how she would spin this one?
At first I tried to live my life as I once had, ignoring the smell as best I could. I went to work, hung out with my friends, insulted DJs, and made lewd gestures to dogs. Yet, whenever I slowed down, the smell would catch up to me, settling into to every pour of my body. I began to ask those closest to me whether or not they could smell it; they could not. I broadened my search asking friends of friends, acquaintances, animals, and even coworkers. I eventually sought the advice of spiritual leaders. A priest told me it was merely the B.O. from the eternal embrace of Christ. A rabbi chased me out of his office proclaiming the smell to be the gaseous emanations of a vengeful dybbuk. I consulted with high school goths around the country, each giving me different interpretations ranging from the supernatural to the sexual (the most plausible being that I somehow fucked an astral projection of Stevie Nicks leaving my dick swathed in a permanent pussy stank). It got to a point where I would accost a stranger over the wrinkling of her or his nose. It was to no avail, however. It seemed that I was to be the sole proprietor of this solipsistic stench.
The funky aroma's persistence was maddening; it began to affect me in subtle and unforeseen ways. I grew increasingly isolated, anxious, and emotional. I even joined a menopause support group and was then kicked out for being too moody. Worst of all my social ineptitude grew exponentially. I lacked more empathy and social awareness than drunk Hitler at a JDate mixer. It was like going through puberty all over again, except this time I had Asperger's and a twitter account. Because of all this I lost my job and many of my friends. My mother even began sending me insulting texts like "You're a stupid shit ass" and "My humming birds think you're fat!" I was disconsolate.
Only three months into the 26 year stench and I was ready to end it all. To help me decide I joined a Japanese suicide forum, speaking with strangers at length about the relative merits of different forms of suicide. In the process I befriended a 38 year old widow who wanted to be crushed to death by thousands of copies of her favorite Manga series and a 16 year old who was home schooled by magicians. Consulting these and other sorrowful types, we determined that either fan death or suicide by cop was the most posh course of action. Thus confirmed, I set out to plan my own death.
The whole process was simple really. Equipped with a gallon jug of barbicide, some hair clippers, numerous hair gels, a bottle of talcum powder, and a fake gun, I would head to Times Square and take a bunch of hostages. Once there, I would start giving my hostages terrible hair cuts until the police arrived. At some point during the hostage negotiations I had planned to turn my gun on the cops and watch as they riddled my odoriferous body with bullets. A fitting end and one that I looked forward to with relish. However, things did not go as planned.
Walking into Times Square and decorated with the accouterments of barberity, I surveyed the crowd and anxiously picked my first victim, a 20 something yuppie woman sporting David Byrne-esque shoulder pads. All of the sudden the 26 year stench flared up beyond comprehension, swathing me in a choking miasma of heretofore unknown proportions. Reaching for my gun, I plotted which haircut to bestow upon this woman: mullet, bowl cut, devil's lock, or, if I had the time, cornrows? Only a pace or two behind the lady, she stopped abruptly and swiveled her head from side to side. I too stopped and clutched my gun. Whipping her head around she looked at me long and hard. Her nose twitched and her eyes lit up.
"I thought I smelled barbicide! You're one of those guys who give free hair cuts, right?" I nodded sullenly. "Good. Make me look like a lesbian Donald Trump with postpartum depression." Somehow I knew exactly what that meant and began to trim this woman's hair. Cutting, coiffing, and crimping, I found myself lost in the process and started up a conversation with this woman. Her name was Angelica Linares, a quick witted and ambitious Uruguayan with facial tattoos who fancied herself a "self spin doctor." Incredulous and captivated, I inquired further. Angelica explained that a self spin doctor was the middle ground between therapist and PR person, analyst and image consultant, a sort of self-marketing masseuse who gave your ego a happy ending. That's when I decided to hold off on the whole killing myself thing.
Angelica became a close friend and consultant to me, advising me in all manners of my personal and professional life. Her advice was trenchant and applicable: wear shorter short shorts, stop addressing everyone as "Dave", find me opium, get that one Black Flag tattoo, cut a whole in your fanny pack so you can put your dick through it, watch more rom coms, and, most importantly, create a popular smut tumblr. However, despite our fantastic rapport, I still withheld from her the the darkest of my secrets, the 26 year stench. The smell had become more oppressive than ever, something to which Angelica was slowly becoming attune. Perhaps it was my frequent paroxysms of choking or my constant referencing of skunk furries, but eventually Angelica forced the issue.
"Why the fuck do you keep acting like you're in the bathroom of the Crohn's disease ward at a Dallas BBQ?!" Though I had been frightened by the prospect of revealing the 26 year stench to Angelica, her acknowledgement of my behavior made me feel unaccountably well. For the first time someone had noticed the smell, though without smelling it. In blog form I confessed to her my curse. Responding via a series of images on tumblr, Angelica related that my situation reminded her of an old Uruguayan legend, "el hombre que se convirtio en pedo." According to the myth, there was once a man that was plagued by a smell which only he could recognize. After a slow and occasionally hilarious descent into insanity, the man vowed to discover the source of this smell. He wandered the earth for 30 years, a peripatetic saint to the olfactory gods. He supplicated the most sacred shrines of stench across the globe: guano caves in Nigeria, sulfur mines in New Zealand, cow farms in Texas, and even performed cunnilingus on the world's stinkiest vagina (a distinction held by a woman, Mildred MacDuff, who notoriously used tampons cut from the mud stained jersey of Aleister Crowley's occult rugby team).
Like many myths, "el hombre's" search concluded in tragedy when a vengeful spirit stripped him of his corporeal form, leaving "el hombre" nothing but his own stench to comfort him for the rest of eternity. Creepily, Angelica added that once as a child she thought she had encountered this fetid phantasm. Though interesting, the tale left me more crestfallen than ever, providing only the vague hope that I might someday torment others with my smell rather than myself.
Still, Angelica continued to analyze and spin my predicament. Bandying about such trending terms as "Spiritual Anal Bleach" and "Superego Hair Plugs," Angelica encouraged me to return to the life my stench made me abandon. However, each attempt I made only pushed me farther away from my old life and closer to the stench. I began to eat less and smoke more. I bought twenty eight smoke machines and filled my apartment with them. I lingered in smokey bars, gaseous industrial factories, and flatulent Brooklyn flats. In all things I sought vapor and smell.
It was around this time that my body began to change. Though I lost weight, my frame seemed expanded. A smokey pallor overtook my once brnzed skin. My nose grew and my lung capacity reached Michael Phelps bong hit proportions. None of this seemed alarming to me, however. In truth, I was not aware of these changes until one day when sitting with Angelica my hand passed through my coffee cup. Thrown into a fit by my (trans)apparent rarefaction, I rushed home. For hours I stood in the mirror marveling at my new form, all the while taking deeper and deeper inhalations of the 26 year stench. I closed my eyes and with every breath understood the rank fragrance was coming from somewhere inside of me, but was also enveloping me. No longer able to open my eyes or move, I waited cocooned in what felt like a breezy porta potty. After a duration of time somewhere between translating every season of Friends into Latin and the time it would take to collect every piece of ZZ Top paraphernalia, I awoke without form.
So there you have it. I am now a stinking cloud of effluvium, a sentient fart. My existence is slightly better now than when I was a corporeal being. I no longer have to take the subway or have awkward elevator conversations. Moreover, I can drape myself over someone and make them smell like a pair of Al Pacino's pussy eating dentures. It's hilarious. Of course, being unable to interact with humans can be kind of a drag. I miss Angelica. I wonder how she would spin this one?
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
The Sorrows of Young Big Dog
Dearest Baberham Lincoln,
Thank you for returning my porn watching jacket to me. No other article of clothing holds such importance for my daily routine, perhaps other than my masturbation scarf. I write to you now in a state of distress. Since my return to Florida, the land of abounding insanity, much has changed. The beauty of it's nature and the savageness of it's heat have begun to encompass me and they threaten to eclipse all that I am. Whether by some ancient curse upon the land or the bath salts in the water I cannot be certain, but my perversions have been stirred anew. Just the other day I chanced upon a young woman playing Settlers of Catan with her friends. A brilliant strategist, the maiden had gained total control of the game. I watched as she built road upon road enveloping her foes in a cloacal autobahn. Already titillated, I was then brought to the brink by a stunning trade wherein she exchanged one wool for three wood. In turn, I exchanged one facade of human dignity for one wood and I masturbated furiously. I already regret telling you that.
-Big Dog
Dearest Baberham Lincoln,
My search for a job is over! Though I regretfully leave behind my tenure at #funemployment, I have great hopes for my new position. I am now the head H.R. guy at a porn production company called General Genitals. My duties include reading resumes, interviewing new actors and actresses, and solving sexual harassment disputes within the company (these generally involve wayward ejaculate). I read a resume of some interest the other day that I will reproduce for you here:
Qualifications -
Fun loving, Great interpersonal skills, 7 inch asshole dilation, Problem solving, 15 words per minute while using butt to type, Squirt at a velocity of 12 fps (enough to kill a cat...this has been tested)
Experience -
- Big Dog
Dearest Baberham Lincoln,
Things have taken a turn for the worse. My boss, famed as the Vince McMahon of perversity, has taken an interest in my dog. He says that if I want to keep my job I must relinquish my dog to him. It feels as if I am somehow living in a first draft of Indecent Proposal if it were written by a dog. I have asked Charlton Barkley's opinion on this a number of times, but he merely stares back at me. His silence belies a terrible secret. This is the hardest pain to abide.
-Not So Big Dog
Dearest Baberham Lincoln,
I have become woebegone to the point of disturbing the people around me. The other day a woman crop-dusted me with a megaphone in order to cheer me up. People are actually altering their daily routines to arrest my melancholy! I fear lest these gestures become increasingly grand. If someone were to organize a flash mob for my sake or get me a speaking role on Mad Men, I just might kill myself.
- Big Dog
Dearest Baberham Lincoln,
Will my sorrows know no end? I feel like a dying swan in puberty, my swan song marred by the cracking of my voice, punctuated by the occasional bursting of my pimples, and confused by my constant erection. There is an unrelenting sickness of the soul within me, much like gonorrhea. Would you blame a man on his deathbed for taking his own life?
- Big Dog
Dearest Baberham Lincoln,
Today I lost all my money. As is my wont, I spent the afternoon watching and betting on child boxing. The five to seven age group is my favorite. Similar to college sports, these kids don't play for money; they play for pride...and candy. I wagered my upcoming paycheck on a certain Samantha Velasquez, a hard-hitting six year old who had cut weight to contend in the ultra-ultra-ultra light weight division. She put up a fight, scrapping, juking, and tattletaling her opponent to tears. Nevertheless, she went down in the 8th round to an obscene uppercut. Watching her fall, I too fell into the irrevocable realization that I cannot endure this life any longer. I shall carry the memory of your sweet tush with me as I pass into the void. Goodbye.
- Big Dog
Thank you for returning my porn watching jacket to me. No other article of clothing holds such importance for my daily routine, perhaps other than my masturbation scarf. I write to you now in a state of distress. Since my return to Florida, the land of abounding insanity, much has changed. The beauty of it's nature and the savageness of it's heat have begun to encompass me and they threaten to eclipse all that I am. Whether by some ancient curse upon the land or the bath salts in the water I cannot be certain, but my perversions have been stirred anew. Just the other day I chanced upon a young woman playing Settlers of Catan with her friends. A brilliant strategist, the maiden had gained total control of the game. I watched as she built road upon road enveloping her foes in a cloacal autobahn. Already titillated, I was then brought to the brink by a stunning trade wherein she exchanged one wool for three wood. In turn, I exchanged one facade of human dignity for one wood and I masturbated furiously. I already regret telling you that.
-Big Dog
Dearest Baberham Lincoln,
My search for a job is over! Though I regretfully leave behind my tenure at #funemployment, I have great hopes for my new position. I am now the head H.R. guy at a porn production company called General Genitals. My duties include reading resumes, interviewing new actors and actresses, and solving sexual harassment disputes within the company (these generally involve wayward ejaculate). I read a resume of some interest the other day that I will reproduce for you here:
Qualifications -
Fun loving, Great interpersonal skills, 7 inch asshole dilation, Problem solving, 15 words per minute while using butt to type, Squirt at a velocity of 12 fps (enough to kill a cat...this has been tested)
Experience -
- Head Guzzler for Cum Guzzlers I-III and V-VII
- Fluffer for Big Bears Don't Cry
- Crowned "bleacher fellatio queen" at nephew's 6th grade dance
- Big Dog
Dearest Baberham Lincoln,
Things have taken a turn for the worse. My boss, famed as the Vince McMahon of perversity, has taken an interest in my dog. He says that if I want to keep my job I must relinquish my dog to him. It feels as if I am somehow living in a first draft of Indecent Proposal if it were written by a dog. I have asked Charlton Barkley's opinion on this a number of times, but he merely stares back at me. His silence belies a terrible secret. This is the hardest pain to abide.
-Not So Big Dog
Dearest Baberham Lincoln,
I have become woebegone to the point of disturbing the people around me. The other day a woman crop-dusted me with a megaphone in order to cheer me up. People are actually altering their daily routines to arrest my melancholy! I fear lest these gestures become increasingly grand. If someone were to organize a flash mob for my sake or get me a speaking role on Mad Men, I just might kill myself.
- Big Dog
Dearest Baberham Lincoln,
Will my sorrows know no end? I feel like a dying swan in puberty, my swan song marred by the cracking of my voice, punctuated by the occasional bursting of my pimples, and confused by my constant erection. There is an unrelenting sickness of the soul within me, much like gonorrhea. Would you blame a man on his deathbed for taking his own life?
- Big Dog
Dearest Baberham Lincoln,
Today I lost all my money. As is my wont, I spent the afternoon watching and betting on child boxing. The five to seven age group is my favorite. Similar to college sports, these kids don't play for money; they play for pride...and candy. I wagered my upcoming paycheck on a certain Samantha Velasquez, a hard-hitting six year old who had cut weight to contend in the ultra-ultra-ultra light weight division. She put up a fight, scrapping, juking, and tattletaling her opponent to tears. Nevertheless, she went down in the 8th round to an obscene uppercut. Watching her fall, I too fell into the irrevocable realization that I cannot endure this life any longer. I shall carry the memory of your sweet tush with me as I pass into the void. Goodbye.
- Big Dog
Sunday, May 5, 2013
In Praise of Blue Balls
In a candid interview over some scones which he described as "insipid pustules of dust," celebrated author and noted Anglophile Henry James commented on the nature of a very peculiar and masculine physical phenomenon. "Sometime during my mid-thirties I was working on a novel of great scope but little swag. I was painfully aware of its deficiencies at the time, yet I could not bring myself to edit it. I would write endlessly, grinding out sentence after sentence, chaffing under the weight of my paragraphs, and humping my typewriter. After some such session, I would find myself afflicted in mind, body, and spirit by a certain malady, an unrelenting ache transfixed deep within my person. It was around this same time that I took up with a comely lass. Smart as a whip and exceptionally beautiful, this maiden was nevertheless a rather garish prude and would flaunt her continence as if it were an exposed nip. However, in our dalliance we were given to moments of intimacy that might besmirch the purity of a such an avowed Victorian. Yet, whenever we stood on the brink of coitus (and what a brink it was!) she would become profoundly demure and delicately usher me away from her gaping ax wound. Instead we would return to furious dry humping, persecuting our genitals with a grinding worthy of tectonic plates. When it was all said and done, I would be stricken with a pain eerily similar to those moments after my paroxysmal bouts of writing, though slightly more akin to having an egg beater churn up my balls. I do not doubt that these irritations spring from a similar place, an abyssal void of unfulfilled fruition. Though the pain is great, it is only in these moments that I am truly inspired. In fact, the majority of my oeuvre has been written under the auspices of these balls of blue. Now, if you will excuse me, I must see a young woman about sitting on my cock for the next three hours."
These "balls of blue" to which Henry James so fondly referred are or course the modern "blue balls," and their reputation has suffered much since his time. Owing to the quotidian complaints of teenagers and other deranged types, blue balls have become synonymous with sexual frustration. In so far as they are a product of an absence of male sexual release this may be true, but such a perspective fails to capture the essence of this miraculous testicular holocaust. The lack of a defined physiological purpose other than a general prohibition against the wanton smashing of genitals belies a deeper meaning and function for blue balls, a meaning which defies physiological explanation and ultimately points to a supernatural or divine emanation. James' perspicacity touched on this. Moved by Mr. James and my own experiences with blue balls, I set out on what would end up being a life altering journey in search of the true meaning behind blue balls.
Though no evidence whatsoever exists to corroborate my claims of divine or supernatural origin, many have speculated on the issue. Dr. Vincent Blackforth, a leading expert on vicissitudes of the male member, declined to speak to me. However, his secretary, one Danny Danberg, had much to say on the matter. Citing his experiences with his current and previous boyfriends, Mr. Danberg conjectured that blue balls are "probably just God's way of saying 'get a room!'" Though enlightening, Danny's explanation failed to convince this ball hog. Looking for a secular perspective, I turned to my psychologist, Brenda. Drawing from her psychoanalytic and circus backgrounds, Brenda postulated the existence of a collective unconscious of ball pain. There, within the nebulous plane of shared memory, "thousands of carnies eat hard boiled eggs and dance to the rhythmic slapping of balls. The ring leader, a pudendal psychopomp in the form of a pizza with a dick in the center and nipples for toppings, orchestrates a massive war, pitting side against side, gonad against gonad. Thus aligned, both sides rush at one another clashing in a sea of testicles, much like the infamous "wall of death" at a slayer concert."
After speaking with Brenda at some length I was still no closer to the truth. Furthermore, I realized it best to end our professional relationship and seek a psychologist that was over 13 years old. With no leads to speak of, I resorted to a new low; I went to the library. There among the throngs of perverts and milquetoast-er-strudels, I scoured dusty tomes for any hint of an answer. Eventually, I came upon a reference in a medieval manuscript to a certain Umayyad Caliph who was said to be afflicted by constant blue balls. According to the source, this ruler had achieved some kind of divine awareness after spending 45 days and nights grinding with his multitudinous harem. The trail went cold from here, however, as I could find no further reference to this testicular tyrant. I decided then and there that the only course of action left to me was to travel to Spain to hunt for anything pertaining to this forgotten Caliph.
Arriving in Granada, I made my way to the Spanish countryside in search of some record of this man. Hobnobbing with Andalusian locals across the scorched landscape, I spoke of "el rey de los huevos azules." Perhaps it was my garbled Spanish or my constant recitation of the word "huevos," but each time I was received with indifference and hostility. At wit's end and nearly destitute, I took to mixing sangria and Xanax during the siesta. Two days before my return home I found myself lying down face first at a local tavern. Wallowing in my misery and a stupor of collegiate proportions, a beautiful woman picked me up off the floor. She sauntered to the jukebox and put on the R. Kelly song "Bump N' Grind" (incidentally every jukebox in Spain has the entire R. Kelley discography on it). What ensued would have put the combined booty dancing of every high school prom for the last 15 years to shame. Needless to say, my genitals looked like bloody grits after the affair. The pain was excruciating and the woman gone without a trace.
Sitting in the squalid tavern and fastening the remains of my balls to my pubis, I became aware of a faint illumination off in the distance. I stepped out of the bar and began to walk, with each step my mind grew clearer, my soul calmer, and my tweets wittier. I came upon a hill with a cave set into it. On closer inspection the light was a pale blue color and seemed to be emanating from two orbs within the cave. With trepidation and wonder I entered.
The blue orbs which had drawn me hence danced around the blackness of the cave. I reached out to touch them but then they withdrew further into the darkness, leading me deeper and deeper. For an eternity I followed them, my mind spinning with thoughts both serene and terrible. At long last the orbs stopped, perching themselves upon the blanched bones of the lost Caliph. With one arm raised and the other touching the butt of a skeleton bent over in front of him, the Caliph stood locked into an eternal booty dance. Watching them and taking notes on how I might best improve my own booty dancing technique, the cave flashed with a blinding light.
4000 miles away and 11 days later I awoke. To this day I am uncertain of what transpired. All that was left to me was a strange dream filled with booties of varying thickness and a disembodied voice. The voice spoke of immortality, nirvana, and it's favorite episode of Seinfeld. Whether it was the voice of the Caliph, Henry James, God, or some other schmuck, I do not know. Regardless, it was the blue balls that brought me there and it is through them that I shall return. Until then...happy grinding.
These "balls of blue" to which Henry James so fondly referred are or course the modern "blue balls," and their reputation has suffered much since his time. Owing to the quotidian complaints of teenagers and other deranged types, blue balls have become synonymous with sexual frustration. In so far as they are a product of an absence of male sexual release this may be true, but such a perspective fails to capture the essence of this miraculous testicular holocaust. The lack of a defined physiological purpose other than a general prohibition against the wanton smashing of genitals belies a deeper meaning and function for blue balls, a meaning which defies physiological explanation and ultimately points to a supernatural or divine emanation. James' perspicacity touched on this. Moved by Mr. James and my own experiences with blue balls, I set out on what would end up being a life altering journey in search of the true meaning behind blue balls.
Though no evidence whatsoever exists to corroborate my claims of divine or supernatural origin, many have speculated on the issue. Dr. Vincent Blackforth, a leading expert on vicissitudes of the male member, declined to speak to me. However, his secretary, one Danny Danberg, had much to say on the matter. Citing his experiences with his current and previous boyfriends, Mr. Danberg conjectured that blue balls are "probably just God's way of saying 'get a room!'" Though enlightening, Danny's explanation failed to convince this ball hog. Looking for a secular perspective, I turned to my psychologist, Brenda. Drawing from her psychoanalytic and circus backgrounds, Brenda postulated the existence of a collective unconscious of ball pain. There, within the nebulous plane of shared memory, "thousands of carnies eat hard boiled eggs and dance to the rhythmic slapping of balls. The ring leader, a pudendal psychopomp in the form of a pizza with a dick in the center and nipples for toppings, orchestrates a massive war, pitting side against side, gonad against gonad. Thus aligned, both sides rush at one another clashing in a sea of testicles, much like the infamous "wall of death" at a slayer concert."
Arriving in Granada, I made my way to the Spanish countryside in search of some record of this man. Hobnobbing with Andalusian locals across the scorched landscape, I spoke of "el rey de los huevos azules." Perhaps it was my garbled Spanish or my constant recitation of the word "huevos," but each time I was received with indifference and hostility. At wit's end and nearly destitute, I took to mixing sangria and Xanax during the siesta. Two days before my return home I found myself lying down face first at a local tavern. Wallowing in my misery and a stupor of collegiate proportions, a beautiful woman picked me up off the floor. She sauntered to the jukebox and put on the R. Kelly song "Bump N' Grind" (incidentally every jukebox in Spain has the entire R. Kelley discography on it). What ensued would have put the combined booty dancing of every high school prom for the last 15 years to shame. Needless to say, my genitals looked like bloody grits after the affair. The pain was excruciating and the woman gone without a trace.
Sitting in the squalid tavern and fastening the remains of my balls to my pubis, I became aware of a faint illumination off in the distance. I stepped out of the bar and began to walk, with each step my mind grew clearer, my soul calmer, and my tweets wittier. I came upon a hill with a cave set into it. On closer inspection the light was a pale blue color and seemed to be emanating from two orbs within the cave. With trepidation and wonder I entered.
The blue orbs which had drawn me hence danced around the blackness of the cave. I reached out to touch them but then they withdrew further into the darkness, leading me deeper and deeper. For an eternity I followed them, my mind spinning with thoughts both serene and terrible. At long last the orbs stopped, perching themselves upon the blanched bones of the lost Caliph. With one arm raised and the other touching the butt of a skeleton bent over in front of him, the Caliph stood locked into an eternal booty dance. Watching them and taking notes on how I might best improve my own booty dancing technique, the cave flashed with a blinding light.
4000 miles away and 11 days later I awoke. To this day I am uncertain of what transpired. All that was left to me was a strange dream filled with booties of varying thickness and a disembodied voice. The voice spoke of immortality, nirvana, and it's favorite episode of Seinfeld. Whether it was the voice of the Caliph, Henry James, God, or some other schmuck, I do not know. Regardless, it was the blue balls that brought me there and it is through them that I shall return. Until then...happy grinding.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Ghost in the sHELLO!
I was twenty six when I started my relationship with Julia. She was more or less your average twenty something trying to make it in New York. A Southern transplant with dreams of acting, having a cute lifestyle, and smoking weed with celebrities, Julia was gregarious and charming. Recalling it now, I have no idea why she had any interest in me. Especially since I am quite sure that through a mutual friend she had heard the story of how I once declined a blowjob in favor of finishing the Jimmy Neutron movie. She was undoubtedly regaled with more stories of my foibles too, including but not limited to: the time I got a friend's dog high and tea-bagged it, the time that I made a mold of my penis using a make-your-own-dildo kit and gave it to a friend for her birthday, and the time that I tried to ice skate using my friend's boxers which were stained with skid marks.
Nevertheless, she approached me at a party and we hit it off. Well, perhaps that is jumping the gun a bit. She seemed to like me; I, however, was struck with doubt and serious trepidation. Julia was rather vapid, not in a personal or intellectual sense, but in a corporeal one. Julia was a ghost.
Now, I don't reckon myself a bigot; however, a childhood full of Scooby Doo and X-Files nurtured in me a healthy skepticism when it came to supernatural beings. For all I knew, Julia was actually somebody's creepy uncle dressing up as a ghost in order to scare me out of my apartment so he could buy the land and open up a vintage sex toy emporium. It's happened before. Even if she wasn't, I was as green as ectoplasm when it came to spectral dating. What if I offended her (do you have any idea how many "Boo" puns I tell)? What if I couldn't please her sexually? What if she wanted to haunt me?
Despite all this, Julia and I embarked upon a long friendship-cum-relationship-cum-affair-cum-cum. Things were not easy at first. We had to overcome the many obstacles familiar to interdeath relationships: the intolerance of a prejudiced society, the lack of shared physical sensation, my obsession with ghost yoga, and, most importantly, our differing opinions on the movie film Ghost (A movie I considered to be a cinematic triumph, but Julia lambasted as a vulgar appropriation of ghost culture). Still, we endured and those very points of contention which had once threatened to tear us apart worked to strengthen our relationship.
Things were great for a spell. Julia opened me up to an entire world of ethereal experiences I had never known before. We're talking ghost booze, ghost rolly backpacks, ghost lacrosse, and even ghost butt plugs. For my part, I tried to remind Julia of the finer points of life before death, i.e. unremitting suffering. However, just like a drunk novelist's charming tale about a pedophile, shit was about to get uncomfortable.
It is difficult to pin point when all the trouble started. Some said it was Julia's developing addiction to seltzer water and masturbating on chatroultette. Others claimed it was my obliviousness and general lack of enthusiasm for Ghost Food Not Ghost Bombs (Julia's favorite cause). Regardless, it all came to a head one night in late July. Julia had gone to a party while I stayed at home. Spun on adderall and a Black Snake Moan quintuple feature, I endeavored to wait up for my beloved phantom menace.
Sometime around 4 AM Julia returned home sloppy and blitz on a variety of ghost pills that would give pause even to the illegitimate child of Kesha and Hunter S. Thompson. I confronted her. In a series of escalating insults and emotional revelations, Julia and I had it out. She accused me of being an unsympathetic loser with a terrible butt. I brought up her self destructive behavior and our foundering sex life. "You never possess me anymore! Are you possessing other dudes on the side?!" I never got my answer. Crying and yelling Julia vanished. To this day, I do not know what became of Julia. Yet, occasionally I feel a chill in the air and find the majority of my personal belongings floating in my toilet.
Nevertheless, she approached me at a party and we hit it off. Well, perhaps that is jumping the gun a bit. She seemed to like me; I, however, was struck with doubt and serious trepidation. Julia was rather vapid, not in a personal or intellectual sense, but in a corporeal one. Julia was a ghost.
Now, I don't reckon myself a bigot; however, a childhood full of Scooby Doo and X-Files nurtured in me a healthy skepticism when it came to supernatural beings. For all I knew, Julia was actually somebody's creepy uncle dressing up as a ghost in order to scare me out of my apartment so he could buy the land and open up a vintage sex toy emporium. It's happened before. Even if she wasn't, I was as green as ectoplasm when it came to spectral dating. What if I offended her (do you have any idea how many "Boo" puns I tell)? What if I couldn't please her sexually? What if she wanted to haunt me?
Despite all this, Julia and I embarked upon a long friendship-cum-relationship-cum-affair-cum-cum. Things were not easy at first. We had to overcome the many obstacles familiar to interdeath relationships: the intolerance of a prejudiced society, the lack of shared physical sensation, my obsession with ghost yoga, and, most importantly, our differing opinions on the movie film Ghost (A movie I considered to be a cinematic triumph, but Julia lambasted as a vulgar appropriation of ghost culture). Still, we endured and those very points of contention which had once threatened to tear us apart worked to strengthen our relationship.
Things were great for a spell. Julia opened me up to an entire world of ethereal experiences I had never known before. We're talking ghost booze, ghost rolly backpacks, ghost lacrosse, and even ghost butt plugs. For my part, I tried to remind Julia of the finer points of life before death, i.e. unremitting suffering. However, just like a drunk novelist's charming tale about a pedophile, shit was about to get uncomfortable.
It is difficult to pin point when all the trouble started. Some said it was Julia's developing addiction to seltzer water and masturbating on chatroultette. Others claimed it was my obliviousness and general lack of enthusiasm for Ghost Food Not Ghost Bombs (Julia's favorite cause). Regardless, it all came to a head one night in late July. Julia had gone to a party while I stayed at home. Spun on adderall and a Black Snake Moan quintuple feature, I endeavored to wait up for my beloved phantom menace.
Sometime around 4 AM Julia returned home sloppy and blitz on a variety of ghost pills that would give pause even to the illegitimate child of Kesha and Hunter S. Thompson. I confronted her. In a series of escalating insults and emotional revelations, Julia and I had it out. She accused me of being an unsympathetic loser with a terrible butt. I brought up her self destructive behavior and our foundering sex life. "You never possess me anymore! Are you possessing other dudes on the side?!" I never got my answer. Crying and yelling Julia vanished. To this day, I do not know what became of Julia. Yet, occasionally I feel a chill in the air and find the majority of my personal belongings floating in my toilet.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Thespians and Wrestlers
The curtain rose on what Reginald Philson thought was surely going to be a disaster. A respected theater critic and longtime proponent of hobo derision, Reginald arrived at Body Slam: The Musical bearing with him the accouterments of a scathing review: one monocle for the inspection of costumes and stage design, one hyper-caffeinated octuple espresso shot in order for him to focus on his analysis, one notebook and two pens, one black, one red, the black to write notes on the play, the red to make wry comments about his original notes, five warheads for their peculiar ability to make Reginald scowl in a way he was no longer physically capable of due to his life-long affinity for that particular countenance - these five warheads were to be allotted out through the course of the play or taken all at once as a grand gesture of his distaste in the production - and finally one pair of gloves to be put on when he clapped in order to muffle the sound of his applause.
His instruments arrayed, Reginald sat in the front row holding his pen to his notebook with surgical focus. The stage was completely dark. Reginald peered into the blackness only to be temporarily blinded as four pillars of flame appeared. The flames arose from the four corners of a wrestling ring, revealing an announcer. He spoke, proclaiming the main event and ushering in the contestants. Each man had his own unique entrance, each sauntering to the stage, each indulging in a series of lewd gestures, and all accompanied by theme songs of their own choosing (they were both, however, Kid Rock songs).
Scribbling hastily, Reginald began to pick apart the play. He decried the pyrotechnics as dangerous, he blasted the announcer as a defective tit and the wrestlers as effete maggot dicks. He wrote of the ring that it looked as if it were some prototype for a concentration camp. With cramping hand and wilting wit, Reginald leaned back, hoping to be inspired by this theatrical atrocity.
In the ring, the two foes set forth on elaborate musical soliloquies. The first, one Jeremiah Johnson, (wrestling name Stank Finger) a trailer park saint and admirer of butts, lamented his womanizing ways and checkered past, which he described as being "like a checker board fucked a leopard and gave birth to a monstrous half board game/half animal with more squares than a man could know what to do with." For him, wrestling was an art, the beauty of which was capable of assuaging his tormented soul. His competitor, a certain Delonte Parnell, (wrestling name Da Nurse) lashed out against a society which marginalized him and also Sears for not letting him use the $73 left on his expired gift card. A radical activist through and through, Delonte nevertheless had to hang up his revolutionary cap in favor of a nurses uniform and wrestling mask in order to pay the medical bills of the agoraphobic, OCD, IBS, diabetic, and anorexic Faulknerian man-child that was his uncle.
Winded and dismayed from their own soliloquizing both men took defensive stances at opposite ends of the ring. Unconsciously Reginald leaned forward. The bell rang, but the wrestling did not begin. Delonte and Jeremiah instead stood up straight, careening their necks to survey the imaginary crowd. The announcer clambered back into the ring. "Fight!" he said. "You must fight! If not for yourselves, then for me! And if not for me, then for Brian! He's a really good dude." Unfazed the two wrestlers stood motionless. The announcer continued, "Come on! It's Brian's birthday for god's sake!" Still they did not move. "Well, if not for Brian, than for them" the announcer spread his arms and with an exaggerated gesture he indicated the crowd.
Stank Finger walked slowly over to the announcer and put his hand on his shoulder. "There's no one there" he whispered. Whipping his head around frantically, the announcer scanned the crowd. He paused looking out across the audience. The announcer seemed to be staring past the stage, past the fourth wall, even past the many sphincters of the true audience, right into Reginald's soul. The announcer collapsed to his knees and grabbed his head, shaking and weeping uncontrollably. Da Nurse removed his mask and put on his stethoscope, sauntering over to Stank Finger he placed the listening end upon his chest. Titling his head, Da Nurse listened for a heart beat. He removed the stethoscope from his ears and looked into Stank Finger's eyes. They nodded in unison and then embraced. Suddenly the lights were cut. Reginald feared that it might be some kind of terrorist attack designed to strike at the very heart of this nation, i.e. community theaters.
That was, however, not the case. Instead, the lights came back on and a bunch of people dressed up in large heart costumes came out dancing to the Hilary Duff hit "Beat of my Heart." With intricate and often perilous choreography, the hearts, whose arms were subsumed in their massive costumes, pranced around the stage, kicking and attempting to do jazz hands. All the while, Stank Finger and Da Nurse chased them down. With body slams, power bombs, clotheslines, and boots to the face, the two wrestlers eviscerated the assembled host of hearts, leaving some apparently dead. Again the lights cut out.
Reginald chewed on both pens in dire anticipation. He heard much movement on stage, but could not see what was going on up there. Finally, the lights came up on a very different scene. A middle-aged man with a night cap slept, tucked into a large bed in a small bedroom. The door at the end of the bedroom burst open, revealing another middle-aged man carrying a tray with breakfast on it. He walked slowly over to the sleeping man, placing the tray on the ground before touching his leg and saying, "Richard. Richard, wake up."
Richard sat up startled. He grabbed the other man by the arms and said, "Oscar, I've just had the most marvelous dream! It was a vision for a new play!" Oscar shook with delight. "Ohhh, what will you call this vision of yours?" Richard stroked his chin vigorously and then snapped his fingers. "Oklahoma!" The curtain fell.
Reginald sprang to his feet as if he had been shocked. He clapped, wept, jumped, and hollered as if possessed. Blowing snot rocket upon snot rocket onto the stage as if they were bouquets of flowers, Reginald attempted to integrate what he had just witnessed into his critical mind. With a running time of 18 minutes, it was perhaps the shortest production he had ever seen. A revisionist history of theater encapsulated in a dream cliche with entirely anachronistic elements of contemporary wrestling. Reginald could not think. Compelled he tore his note book in half and, still weeping with joy, he pulled out his five remaining warheads. Unwrapping each of them, Reginald dropped trou and shoved all five up his urethra in an act of penance...or something.
His instruments arrayed, Reginald sat in the front row holding his pen to his notebook with surgical focus. The stage was completely dark. Reginald peered into the blackness only to be temporarily blinded as four pillars of flame appeared. The flames arose from the four corners of a wrestling ring, revealing an announcer. He spoke, proclaiming the main event and ushering in the contestants. Each man had his own unique entrance, each sauntering to the stage, each indulging in a series of lewd gestures, and all accompanied by theme songs of their own choosing (they were both, however, Kid Rock songs).
Scribbling hastily, Reginald began to pick apart the play. He decried the pyrotechnics as dangerous, he blasted the announcer as a defective tit and the wrestlers as effete maggot dicks. He wrote of the ring that it looked as if it were some prototype for a concentration camp. With cramping hand and wilting wit, Reginald leaned back, hoping to be inspired by this theatrical atrocity.
In the ring, the two foes set forth on elaborate musical soliloquies. The first, one Jeremiah Johnson, (wrestling name Stank Finger) a trailer park saint and admirer of butts, lamented his womanizing ways and checkered past, which he described as being "like a checker board fucked a leopard and gave birth to a monstrous half board game/half animal with more squares than a man could know what to do with." For him, wrestling was an art, the beauty of which was capable of assuaging his tormented soul. His competitor, a certain Delonte Parnell, (wrestling name Da Nurse) lashed out against a society which marginalized him and also Sears for not letting him use the $73 left on his expired gift card. A radical activist through and through, Delonte nevertheless had to hang up his revolutionary cap in favor of a nurses uniform and wrestling mask in order to pay the medical bills of the agoraphobic, OCD, IBS, diabetic, and anorexic Faulknerian man-child that was his uncle.
Winded and dismayed from their own soliloquizing both men took defensive stances at opposite ends of the ring. Unconsciously Reginald leaned forward. The bell rang, but the wrestling did not begin. Delonte and Jeremiah instead stood up straight, careening their necks to survey the imaginary crowd. The announcer clambered back into the ring. "Fight!" he said. "You must fight! If not for yourselves, then for me! And if not for me, then for Brian! He's a really good dude." Unfazed the two wrestlers stood motionless. The announcer continued, "Come on! It's Brian's birthday for god's sake!" Still they did not move. "Well, if not for Brian, than for them" the announcer spread his arms and with an exaggerated gesture he indicated the crowd.
Stank Finger walked slowly over to the announcer and put his hand on his shoulder. "There's no one there" he whispered. Whipping his head around frantically, the announcer scanned the crowd. He paused looking out across the audience. The announcer seemed to be staring past the stage, past the fourth wall, even past the many sphincters of the true audience, right into Reginald's soul. The announcer collapsed to his knees and grabbed his head, shaking and weeping uncontrollably. Da Nurse removed his mask and put on his stethoscope, sauntering over to Stank Finger he placed the listening end upon his chest. Titling his head, Da Nurse listened for a heart beat. He removed the stethoscope from his ears and looked into Stank Finger's eyes. They nodded in unison and then embraced. Suddenly the lights were cut. Reginald feared that it might be some kind of terrorist attack designed to strike at the very heart of this nation, i.e. community theaters.
That was, however, not the case. Instead, the lights came back on and a bunch of people dressed up in large heart costumes came out dancing to the Hilary Duff hit "Beat of my Heart." With intricate and often perilous choreography, the hearts, whose arms were subsumed in their massive costumes, pranced around the stage, kicking and attempting to do jazz hands. All the while, Stank Finger and Da Nurse chased them down. With body slams, power bombs, clotheslines, and boots to the face, the two wrestlers eviscerated the assembled host of hearts, leaving some apparently dead. Again the lights cut out.
Reginald chewed on both pens in dire anticipation. He heard much movement on stage, but could not see what was going on up there. Finally, the lights came up on a very different scene. A middle-aged man with a night cap slept, tucked into a large bed in a small bedroom. The door at the end of the bedroom burst open, revealing another middle-aged man carrying a tray with breakfast on it. He walked slowly over to the sleeping man, placing the tray on the ground before touching his leg and saying, "Richard. Richard, wake up."
Richard sat up startled. He grabbed the other man by the arms and said, "Oscar, I've just had the most marvelous dream! It was a vision for a new play!" Oscar shook with delight. "Ohhh, what will you call this vision of yours?" Richard stroked his chin vigorously and then snapped his fingers. "Oklahoma!" The curtain fell.
Reginald sprang to his feet as if he had been shocked. He clapped, wept, jumped, and hollered as if possessed. Blowing snot rocket upon snot rocket onto the stage as if they were bouquets of flowers, Reginald attempted to integrate what he had just witnessed into his critical mind. With a running time of 18 minutes, it was perhaps the shortest production he had ever seen. A revisionist history of theater encapsulated in a dream cliche with entirely anachronistic elements of contemporary wrestling. Reginald could not think. Compelled he tore his note book in half and, still weeping with joy, he pulled out his five remaining warheads. Unwrapping each of them, Reginald dropped trou and shoved all five up his urethra in an act of penance...or something.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Cult Calling -
Ring, Ring!
Donnie: Hello? Mom?
Mom: Donnie! I'm so glad I got in touch with you.
Donnie: What's going on, mom? I don't have a lot of time right now.
Mom: Well, your father and I just wanted to tell you about our trip to Germany. Also, we miss you.
Donnie: I miss you too, mom, but can't this wait? I'm supposed to be helping with the ritual.
Mom: You and your rituals! Can't the synchronized drinking of lethal poison wait a minute for your poor mother?
Donnie: No, mom, it can't! The overseer is all over my ass today. I already have two dress code violations! Not to mention that I accidentally mixed the blood of the innocent with the blood of a deranged hooker. The overseer says we may not even be able to perform the ritual today because of me.
Mom: Ohh my, I never thought this cult would be so strict. It sounds like YOU were the one who went to Germany!
Donnie: Not cool, mom! Nazi jokes are offensive and worst of all not topical!
Mom: Call down, sweetie. I meant nothing by it. I had a lovely time in Deutschland with your father. The sun was hot, the beer cold, and the frauleins busty.
Donnie: This is exactly why I joined a cult, mom. To get away from you and your irreverent humor. I don't have time for this.
Mom: Well, you could have just went to college like all the other kids. But ohh wait, you didn't have "time" in high school to study.
Donnie: I didn't go to college because I didn't want to! Cults are way better than colleges anyway!
They provide the networking opportunities of a fraternity, the vocational training of ITT, they have a great theater program, and all at a fraction of the cost! Ohh and I got a scholarship! You should be thanking me that you haven't gone broke from paying for my school!
Mom: Your father and I won't be thanking anyone when we are living in a nursing home and we have to beg the neighbors' son for money. He's going to be a lawyer, you know.
Donnie: Lawyers don't get to summon demons, mom.
Mom: I don't know what good a demon will do you when you're out in the street.
Donnie: The overseer says that once we summon the evil demiurge Asag the streets will run with the blood of the innocent.
Mom: Who is this overseers who knows so much? Has he even met this "Asag?"
Donnie: He is a she, mom, and she knows because it was all foretold in the Annals of Silius the Depraved.
Mom: Ohhhhhh, I see. This is about a girl.
Donnie: It's not like that....
Mom: You're just like your uncle! You have a priestess fetish!
Donnie: Stop it! No, I don't!
Mom: Fine, just don't come running to me when she wants to use your taint shavings as an ingredient for the mind-numbing gruel.
Donnie: Mom, I really have to go.
Mom: Wait a minute. Your father wants to talk to you.
Dad: Donnie?
Donnie: Hi Dad.
Dad: Donnie, we're going to be switching our phone plan. Your sister wants unlimited texting so we're changing to Sprint.
Donnie: Okay.
Dad: We're going to have to trade out your current phone for a different model. You've got two choices. One is one of those flippy phone things and the other one has a touch screen. The guy at Radio Shack told me that touch screens are the big thing these days.
Donnie: Sure, that's fine, dad. Whatever.
Dad: The touch screen phone is $30 more expensive, though.
Donnie: I really don't care, dad. Either one is fine.
(Strange chanting)
Donnie: Shit, they're starting the ritual. I have to go now, dad.
Dad: Wait!
Donnie: What, dad?
Dad: It's your auto insurance. Your premiums are going to go up unless you speak with the insurance agent.
(Blood curdling scream)
Donnie: Shit! I'm missing the sacrifice!
Dad: Donnie, before you go I have to tell you one last thing.
Donnie: Yes?!
Dad: It's your taxes. You're going to have to do them on your own this year.
Guttural Voice: Tra amd uk rikomesae ek mesr ik!
(Screaming and laughing)
(click)
Dad: Donnie? Donnie? - (to mom) I didn't even get to tell him about the all the ketamine we've been doing recently.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
Celebrity Match Up!
Directions: Match the celebrity with the historical atrocity which most closely encapsulates his or her personality!
1. Tim Allen A. The Children's Crusade (1212)
2. Ginuwine B. The Sepoy Rebellion (1857)
3. Hayden Christensen C. The Bay of Pigs Invasion (1961)
4. Guy Fieri D. The Ems Dispatch (1870)
5. Kenan and Kel E. The Third Great Awakening (come on, America!)
6. Shanon Doherty F. The Asiatic Vespers (First Mithridatic War 88 B.C.E)
7. January Jones G. The Second Defenestration of Prague (1618)
8. Orson Welles H. The Whiskey Rebellion (1791-1794)
9. Tyler Perry I. Thuggee Murders (1356)
10. Kesha J. The First Sino-Japanese War (1894-1895)
Answers will be posted next week! Stay tuned!
PS - Hint: Orson Welles is the physical manifestation of the Whiskey Rebellion.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
The Antisocial Olympics
Charlton: Thank you and welcome back to the Antisocial Olympics. I'm Charlton O'HannahMontannaHan and inside me is my co-announcer Mike Grabowski.
Mike: I think you mean "alongside", Charlton.
Charlton: Haha, just some wishful thinking, Mike. Anyway, we've had some bloody outstanding competition thus far and I think we're in for some more today.
Mike: Yes sir, there have been hermits, shut-ins, cat ladies, recluses, loners, introverts, pariahs, trolls, lone wolfs, misanthropes and the occasional jilted Elijah Wood. And boy, have they been antisocial!
Charlton: Indeed, but two challengers in particular have really stood above the rest. I'm speaking of course about Chad Bagwell of America and Ivanna Licanus of Belarus.
Mike: You betcha, Charlton. Ivanna was the consensus favorite going in and she has really proven her ability to alienate herself throughout this competition. She really outdid herself when she started singing Kate Bush while plucking her bush hairs during the Food Ordering Challenge. I got flashes of the 85 Bears when she did that.
Charlton: A truly remarkable feat! But let us not forget Chad Bagwell, who came into this contest as a relative unknown. He started slow, but really distinguished himself during the Crowded Bus event when he cocooned himself in a blanket and was miraculously able to wedge himself behind the brake pedal of the bus, thereby endangering the lives of all aboard.
Mike: Sometimes you have to kill people if you want to be alone.
Both: Hahahahahaha!
Charlton: Right you are, Mike.
Mike: Anywhooo, I think we off to our fan favorite competition: the Loner Free for All.
Charlton: This an historic event. 20 contestants from 20 countries all in one room, all not talking with one another and interacting as little as humanly possible. It can be rather savage, don't you think?
Mike: Ohhh sure, it's gonna be as unsocial as eating a deep dish pizza alone on a Saturday night with no toppings and no beer either. This is the true proving ground for loners. We've had some memorable matches over the years, eh Charlton?
Charlton: Mike, if you only knew how I...
Mike: Like remember that time Klaus Brieman paid people to kidnap him and lock him in a room? All so he wouldn't have to interact with anyone?
Charlton: (cough)...(throat clear)...of course...He would have won the gold that year, but he hasn't been seen since.
Mike: Well, looks like they're ready to get things going down there.
Charlton: Yes, the contestants are all taking their positions now. Each person staring away from one another in a circle. When the referee blows his whistle un-sociability will be the name of the game.....And they're off!
Mike: Looky here at Brian of Canada. He's running to the corner, getting into the fetal position, and sucking his thumb! An old school tactic and one that is sure to creep out just about everyone.
Chartlon: Too true, Mike. Unfortunately I think we're going to need to see a bit more creativity from him if he really hopes to make some headway in this event. Ahh, but look here! Kefilwe of South Africa, she is pulling out something from her pockets. Bloody hell! It's lye! She's blinding herself!
Mike: What technique! What grace! And the judges are loving it!
Charlton: Wait a minute...Ohh dear, it seems that Daiki of Japan is going over to her! He's asking her if she is okay! This is truly a terrible turn of events.
Mike: You hate to see human compassion get in the way of glory, Charlton.
Charlton: I very much doubt they will be able to overcome the huge point deficit incurred.
Mike: Now look at this, Pierre of France is getting naked. And boy does he have an erection!
Charlton: Monsieur throbbing member is true to form, Mike. Wait, what's this?! He is pulling out some kind of bottle. Great Scot! It's Viagra and he's taking the whole bottle!
Mike: That's about as much Viagra as it took for me to have sex with my ex-wife.
Both: Hahahahaha!
Charlton: (Puts hand to ear piece) I'm being contacted by one of our analysts. According to her, Pierre took roughly 45 pills which calculates to approximately a 22.5 hour erection. That's well beyond the purview of this event. I know what I'll be doing after all this is over...
Mike: I'm not exactly sure what you're talking about, but that's okay, Charlton. Wait, it seems like Ivanna is making her move. She's pulling out something from her fanny pack. Ohh dear, it's a knife! She's making her way over to Pierre and, oh my god, she is cutting his dick off! What quick thinking! Ivanna sure is something special.
Charlton: Deranged, misanthropic, and eastern European, Ivanna has all the trappings of a champion. The event is not over yet, though, and things are getting rather chippy out there, wouldn't you say?
Mike: Well, Ivanna is waving around the vivisected dick of another competitor, so yes I would say it is definitely chippy out there. Goy of Bolivia is adding to the tension by screaming about how all DJs are fascist and how computer companies make viruses so people will buy more computers.
Charlton: A shrewd competitor indeed, Mike. Nobody wants to hear his boring rants, even if he does have a point about that last one.
Mike: We have yet to see anything out of Chad Bagwell of America, Charlton. He is running out of time; if he is going to make a move it had better be soon.
Charlton: I think you may have spoken too soon, you sweet piece of man. It appears as if Chad is pulling out his smart phone. He's doing something with it. He's holding it up. Can we get a close up of the phone?
Mike: Ohh gosh, Chad seems to have hacked Facebook! He's shutting it down! Ohh the humanity! How the fuck am I going to share Mike Ditka quotes with the world now?!
Charlton: Truly remarkable. Chad is so antisocial that he would prevent other people from interacting with one another, let alone himself. An historic play by the young upstart.
Mike: And that's the game. We go now to the judges.
Charlton: Looks like there is some serious deliberation going on. A regular row, innit?
Mike: I have no idea what that means.
Charlton: And we have a consensus! Ivanna takes the gold, Chad takes the silver, and Pierre the bronze.
Mike: Ohh boy, what an event! Up next are the heats for the 500 meter human neglect sprint. Stay tuned!
Mike: I think you mean "alongside", Charlton.
Charlton: Haha, just some wishful thinking, Mike. Anyway, we've had some bloody outstanding competition thus far and I think we're in for some more today.
Mike: Yes sir, there have been hermits, shut-ins, cat ladies, recluses, loners, introverts, pariahs, trolls, lone wolfs, misanthropes and the occasional jilted Elijah Wood. And boy, have they been antisocial!
Charlton: Indeed, but two challengers in particular have really stood above the rest. I'm speaking of course about Chad Bagwell of America and Ivanna Licanus of Belarus.
Mike: You betcha, Charlton. Ivanna was the consensus favorite going in and she has really proven her ability to alienate herself throughout this competition. She really outdid herself when she started singing Kate Bush while plucking her bush hairs during the Food Ordering Challenge. I got flashes of the 85 Bears when she did that.
Charlton: A truly remarkable feat! But let us not forget Chad Bagwell, who came into this contest as a relative unknown. He started slow, but really distinguished himself during the Crowded Bus event when he cocooned himself in a blanket and was miraculously able to wedge himself behind the brake pedal of the bus, thereby endangering the lives of all aboard.
Mike: Sometimes you have to kill people if you want to be alone.
Both: Hahahahahaha!
Charlton: Right you are, Mike.
Mike: Anywhooo, I think we off to our fan favorite competition: the Loner Free for All.
Charlton: This an historic event. 20 contestants from 20 countries all in one room, all not talking with one another and interacting as little as humanly possible. It can be rather savage, don't you think?
Mike: Ohhh sure, it's gonna be as unsocial as eating a deep dish pizza alone on a Saturday night with no toppings and no beer either. This is the true proving ground for loners. We've had some memorable matches over the years, eh Charlton?
Charlton: Mike, if you only knew how I...
Mike: Like remember that time Klaus Brieman paid people to kidnap him and lock him in a room? All so he wouldn't have to interact with anyone?
Charlton: (cough)...(throat clear)...of course...He would have won the gold that year, but he hasn't been seen since.
Mike: Well, looks like they're ready to get things going down there.
Charlton: Yes, the contestants are all taking their positions now. Each person staring away from one another in a circle. When the referee blows his whistle un-sociability will be the name of the game.....And they're off!
Mike: Looky here at Brian of Canada. He's running to the corner, getting into the fetal position, and sucking his thumb! An old school tactic and one that is sure to creep out just about everyone.
Chartlon: Too true, Mike. Unfortunately I think we're going to need to see a bit more creativity from him if he really hopes to make some headway in this event. Ahh, but look here! Kefilwe of South Africa, she is pulling out something from her pockets. Bloody hell! It's lye! She's blinding herself!
Mike: What technique! What grace! And the judges are loving it!
Charlton: Wait a minute...Ohh dear, it seems that Daiki of Japan is going over to her! He's asking her if she is okay! This is truly a terrible turn of events.
Mike: You hate to see human compassion get in the way of glory, Charlton.
Charlton: I very much doubt they will be able to overcome the huge point deficit incurred.
Mike: Now look at this, Pierre of France is getting naked. And boy does he have an erection!
Charlton: Monsieur throbbing member is true to form, Mike. Wait, what's this?! He is pulling out some kind of bottle. Great Scot! It's Viagra and he's taking the whole bottle!
Mike: That's about as much Viagra as it took for me to have sex with my ex-wife.
Both: Hahahahaha!
Charlton: (Puts hand to ear piece) I'm being contacted by one of our analysts. According to her, Pierre took roughly 45 pills which calculates to approximately a 22.5 hour erection. That's well beyond the purview of this event. I know what I'll be doing after all this is over...
Mike: I'm not exactly sure what you're talking about, but that's okay, Charlton. Wait, it seems like Ivanna is making her move. She's pulling out something from her fanny pack. Ohh dear, it's a knife! She's making her way over to Pierre and, oh my god, she is cutting his dick off! What quick thinking! Ivanna sure is something special.
Charlton: Deranged, misanthropic, and eastern European, Ivanna has all the trappings of a champion. The event is not over yet, though, and things are getting rather chippy out there, wouldn't you say?
Mike: Well, Ivanna is waving around the vivisected dick of another competitor, so yes I would say it is definitely chippy out there. Goy of Bolivia is adding to the tension by screaming about how all DJs are fascist and how computer companies make viruses so people will buy more computers.
Charlton: A shrewd competitor indeed, Mike. Nobody wants to hear his boring rants, even if he does have a point about that last one.
Mike: We have yet to see anything out of Chad Bagwell of America, Charlton. He is running out of time; if he is going to make a move it had better be soon.
Charlton: I think you may have spoken too soon, you sweet piece of man. It appears as if Chad is pulling out his smart phone. He's doing something with it. He's holding it up. Can we get a close up of the phone?
Mike: Ohh gosh, Chad seems to have hacked Facebook! He's shutting it down! Ohh the humanity! How the fuck am I going to share Mike Ditka quotes with the world now?!
Charlton: Truly remarkable. Chad is so antisocial that he would prevent other people from interacting with one another, let alone himself. An historic play by the young upstart.
Mike: And that's the game. We go now to the judges.
Charlton: Looks like there is some serious deliberation going on. A regular row, innit?
Mike: I have no idea what that means.
Charlton: And we have a consensus! Ivanna takes the gold, Chad takes the silver, and Pierre the bronze.
Mike: Ohh boy, what an event! Up next are the heats for the 500 meter human neglect sprint. Stay tuned!
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
The Ancient Comedian: Part One -
It was a dull and pathetic crowd that greeted Sarah that night. If greeted is the right word, more like undulated. The collective dumpiness of the onlookers seemed to form a solitary mass, unified in it's torpor. Still, she took the mic with as much grace as she could. "I think we need to come up with some more imaginary characters for kids to believe in" she began. "You know, like Santa or the Tooth Fairy. Not because children should have a more magical childhood, but because children deserve more opportunities to have their dreams shit on in front of them when they find out what they believe in isn't real." Nothing. Not even the usual scoff of disapproval from Brenda, the old Jewish lady who came down to the club just to discourage people from doing comedy after her husband left her for a VHS copy of Jeff Dunham's stand up special.
"I think this character should be the Tampon Goblin" she continued. "Now hear me out. The Tampon Goblin is a hideous, snaggletoothed, cave dwelling pervert that once a month comes out of his cave seeking used tampons. Now you tell your kids about the Tampon Goblin and let them know that if they leave their bloody tampon in their shoe at night, the tampon goblin will come and take the tampon and leave a shrimp cocktail as a treat. Cause all kids love shrimp cocktails! Anyway, after years of shrimp cocktails one morning your kids wake up to find nothing but a bloody tampon in their shoes. When they inevitably come running down the stairs,their eyes filled with tears and their mouths unfilled with shrimp, you simply laugh and say the Tampon Goblin never existed. The whole time you have just been selling their bloody tampons to Japanese business men to buy weed! and you laugh as they walk to school in bloody shoes."
This time the crowd reacted but not with a laugh. Sarah dropped the mic, aghast as the crowd slurped and shook in unison, like some kind of giant frat boy abomination taking a huge beer bong. She ran backstage. Hoping to speak with one of her fellow comedians about what the fuck was happening, Sarah was confronted by a new horror. All the comedians that had gone up that night were now stricken with some unknown illness. Deathly pale and thin, her peers sat on couches or lay crumbled up on the floor. Some kind of black ooze seeped from their orifices. Sarah thought to make a poop joke, but was arrested when one of the comic's eyes exploded. She ran over to Mike, the obese, John Belushi-esque gross out comic. "MIKE!" she screamed shaking him. Mike lifted his head for a moment and looked into her eyes. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but immediately began puking black ooze all over himself, primarily on his own dick, before slumping back down.
Sarah began to yell for help, but the only reply was the farting noises made by the puss-filled comics. She thought to go back out on stage to see if there was anyone left that might help her. As she approached the stage from the back, a flesh-colored blob parted the curtain. No doubt some hideous extension of the frumpy aberration, Sarah stepped back. The chubby tentacle seemed to sniff the air, then slowly began to reach out toward Sarah. She screamed and ran for the backdoor.
Throwing the door open, Sarah found herself in the filthy alley where she and the other comedians used to smoke weed and make fun of one another for having fewer collective sex partners than the amount of websites you can access in North Korea. Just then a car pulled up to the end of the alley and rolled down its window. An unknown figure from within called to her, "Get in!" The passenger side door of the car opened. Sarah approached slowly, but kept her distance. "Who are you?" she queried. "Quicky, there isn't much
time" he bellowed in return. Sarah hesitated, she then turned to go the other way. Just then the fleshy mass broke through the backdoor and spilled out into the alley. Seeking her, the blob began to crawl creating a seemingly infinite number of fat rolls as it turned. Sarah turned back and ran to the car. The mysterious strange drove off with her by his side.
"Okay, what the fuck was that thing and who the fuck are you?" Sarah demanded. The strange man looked at her, put on a pair of sun glasses, and kept driving. Almost immediately after putting the sun glasses on the man side-swiped a parked car. He took off the sun glasses. "Sorry, I guess the world isn't prepared for me to be that cool yet." He looked at her again and grinned. "My name is Trevin Dunder and that thing you just saw might be the end of the world." "Wait a second," Sarah replied "your name is Trevin Dunder? That's awful. It honestly may be the worst name I have ever heard." Trevin shook his head. "Yeah, I know. Both of my parents were fucking comedians."
"Anyway, what the hell was that giant Guy Fieri lookalike back there and what does it have to do with this whole 'end of the world' thing you're talking about." Trevin stared ahead, paying her no attention. Putting his foot on the gas, he accelerated past the speed limit. "Trevin? Trevin! Answer me," Sarah demanded. Trevin picked up the sunglasses again, moving them up towards his head in one swift motion. Sarah slapped them out of his hand. "Okay, okay" Trevin said staring back at her, "what you just witnessed was the work of reptoids." "Reptoids?"Sarah replied incredulously. "Yes," Trevin said "and not the sexy kind either."
"These are a trans-dimensional race of lizard people bent on conquering our world. The Marlon Brando blob you saw was merely the beginning of the invasion. They have clearly invented some kind of mutagen that turns people into hideous Michael Moore type entities." Sarah laughed. "Okay, enough with the fat jokes. Why weren't I or the the other comedians infected?" Trevin slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to full hault. "Don't you see! It's comedy! The reptoids can't stand it, it's like water to those aliens in Signs but much more plausible! Clearly they were unable to infect you because you were doing your set." Trevin put his foot on the gas again and resumed driving. Sarah stroked her chin and thought to herself, "I knew that Tampon Goblin joke was gold!"
Trevin and Sarah drove in silence for sometime. Eventually, Sarah's natural inquisitiveness returned. "But why did you rescue me?" Trevin replied, "I was told to." "By who?" Sarah shot back. All of the sudden Trevin stopped the car and parked it by the side of the road. He looked at Sarah and then pointed to an isolated mansion in the distance. "All you questions will be answered when we get inside. Follow me." Trevin threw the car door open and began walking with a swift pace toward the place. Sarah followed.
Trevin and Sarah stopped outside doors of the mansion. Sarah marveled at the intricate engravings set into the door. Life like portraits of 80's and 90's comedic actors stared back at her. Pressing her hand to the door, Sarah sought out the contours of Adam Sandler's smirking face and the corpulent girth of Chris Farley's belly. Trevin knocked twice and a lispy, yet cherubic voice issued from the other side of the door. "Whooo is it??" Trevin replied, "Alllllllrighty then!" The doors opened.
Following Trevin in, Sarah found herself surrounded by six figures, each hooded and draped in tie-dye robes. The doors closed abruptly and Sarah turned to Trevin. "I swear if you have pulled my into some Eyes Wide Shut shit I'm going to rip your dick off!" One of the persons stepped forward toward Sarah and removed his hood. "Welcome, Sarah Brickenhause. Before you stands the Guardians of Comedy and this is our sanctuary." He gestured to the other members of the group who de-hooded themselves in succession. "My name is Quincey Krakrecwele and I have brought you here because the fate of comedy...and the world depends on you."
Sarah began to laugh, "You can't be serious?" Quincey stared right into her eyes, "I'm deadly serious!" All the other Guardians began to laugh maniacally. "Silence!" Quincey shouted at them. They all stopped laughing but for the fat girl in the back whose laugh turned into a deep and painful cough. Quincey turned around, "Goddammit, Diana! You really need to chill out on the weed smoking!" Diana doubled over and covered her mouth, muffling her coughs. "Sarah," Quincey continued "you are the final piece, the key to awakening the ancient one and saving the planet."
"The Ancient One?" Sarah questioned irrelevantly "Yes," Quincey replied "the very first comedian and the only one funny enough to defeat the reptoid threat." Quincey threw his hand out and then swung it forward, gesturing for one of the Guardians to step forward. Bearing a large tome, the Guardian walked toward Sarah and opened the book. "And lo, at their darkest hour, they shall find a New York comedian of little talent who shall have maybe one or two decent jokes, but certainly not enough for an entire set. Yet it shall be she who completes the circle, she who shall unite the Guardians of Comedy and restore the Ancient One." The Guardian closed the book and stepped back. Quincey looked to Sarah once again, "And so it is written! Now come, we must begin the ritual; there is little time!" The Guardians began to file towards the back of the room where a staircase spiraled down to a lower level of the mansion. Sarah did not follow and turned to Trevin. Sounding plaintive she spoke, "This is all too much. It feels as if I'm stuck between a science fiction novel and a cult." Trevin shrugged "Go with cult; better uniforms." Trevin headed toward the stairs and Sarah proceeded after him.
At the bottom of the spiral staircase was a room ordained with nothing but a large central sarcophagus. The Guardians of Comedy stood arrayed around the tomb. Watching as they descended, Quincey addressed them "Come take your place within the octagon." Sarah and Trevin placed themselves in the formation. Quincey continued, "Now, if we are to awaken the Ancient One, we must first speak the sacred jokes in succession. Each of you will be given a specific and venerable joke domain according to which you must wisecrack." Quincey pulled several sheets of paper and began handing them around.
"FUCK!" One of the Guardians called out. "I get stuck with fart jokes again!" Quincey snapped back at him, "If you do not wish to tell the jokes then you may simply fart a lot." The aggrieved Guardian nodded. Quincey continued handing out the joke domains. One Guardian jumped for joy "YES! Zingers!" Another kvetched, "Knock-Knock Jokes, are you serious?!" Eventually he made his way to Sarah. Quincey presented her with the paper and she took it unwillingly. Unfolding the piece of paper, Sarah was confronted with one word "PUNS."
Quincey took his position again within the octagon with the sepulcher at the center. "Now, on my signal, I want you all to begin reciting jokes in line with your specific joke domain. Do not worry about them being good or stolen. Remember, the Ancient One hasn't had a laugh in over 4,000 years. I'm pretty sure Carlos Mencia could make him shit his pants at this point." Quincey then lifted up his arms and the assembled host began to crack wise. Sarah was at first stunned by the cacophony of scatological humor, bad slapstick routines, poor setups, and failed punch-lines. Yet, she regained her composure and initiated a pun cascade.
Why are lawyers like cats?
They like to get their clause in everything!
Atheism is a non for prophet institution!
You're punbelievable!
Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.
Who's the newest actor/instrument tearing up Hollywood?
Tuba Gooding Jr.
Sarah began to wince from the puns, reeling from their stupidity. She dropped to one knee and held her chest. Quincey yelled, "Keep going!" After mustering up her strength, Sarah continued with the pun avalanche. Just then the room began to glow an iridescent red. A bone-chilling cackle arose from the tomb and the lid began to shift. The Guardians of Comedy gasped together as a chubby hand emerged from the sepulcher.
"I think this character should be the Tampon Goblin" she continued. "Now hear me out. The Tampon Goblin is a hideous, snaggletoothed, cave dwelling pervert that once a month comes out of his cave seeking used tampons. Now you tell your kids about the Tampon Goblin and let them know that if they leave their bloody tampon in their shoe at night, the tampon goblin will come and take the tampon and leave a shrimp cocktail as a treat. Cause all kids love shrimp cocktails! Anyway, after years of shrimp cocktails one morning your kids wake up to find nothing but a bloody tampon in their shoes. When they inevitably come running down the stairs,their eyes filled with tears and their mouths unfilled with shrimp, you simply laugh and say the Tampon Goblin never existed. The whole time you have just been selling their bloody tampons to Japanese business men to buy weed! and you laugh as they walk to school in bloody shoes."
This time the crowd reacted but not with a laugh. Sarah dropped the mic, aghast as the crowd slurped and shook in unison, like some kind of giant frat boy abomination taking a huge beer bong. She ran backstage. Hoping to speak with one of her fellow comedians about what the fuck was happening, Sarah was confronted by a new horror. All the comedians that had gone up that night were now stricken with some unknown illness. Deathly pale and thin, her peers sat on couches or lay crumbled up on the floor. Some kind of black ooze seeped from their orifices. Sarah thought to make a poop joke, but was arrested when one of the comic's eyes exploded. She ran over to Mike, the obese, John Belushi-esque gross out comic. "MIKE!" she screamed shaking him. Mike lifted his head for a moment and looked into her eyes. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but immediately began puking black ooze all over himself, primarily on his own dick, before slumping back down.
Sarah began to yell for help, but the only reply was the farting noises made by the puss-filled comics. She thought to go back out on stage to see if there was anyone left that might help her. As she approached the stage from the back, a flesh-colored blob parted the curtain. No doubt some hideous extension of the frumpy aberration, Sarah stepped back. The chubby tentacle seemed to sniff the air, then slowly began to reach out toward Sarah. She screamed and ran for the backdoor.
Throwing the door open, Sarah found herself in the filthy alley where she and the other comedians used to smoke weed and make fun of one another for having fewer collective sex partners than the amount of websites you can access in North Korea. Just then a car pulled up to the end of the alley and rolled down its window. An unknown figure from within called to her, "Get in!" The passenger side door of the car opened. Sarah approached slowly, but kept her distance. "Who are you?" she queried. "Quicky, there isn't much
time" he bellowed in return. Sarah hesitated, she then turned to go the other way. Just then the fleshy mass broke through the backdoor and spilled out into the alley. Seeking her, the blob began to crawl creating a seemingly infinite number of fat rolls as it turned. Sarah turned back and ran to the car. The mysterious strange drove off with her by his side.
"Okay, what the fuck was that thing and who the fuck are you?" Sarah demanded. The strange man looked at her, put on a pair of sun glasses, and kept driving. Almost immediately after putting the sun glasses on the man side-swiped a parked car. He took off the sun glasses. "Sorry, I guess the world isn't prepared for me to be that cool yet." He looked at her again and grinned. "My name is Trevin Dunder and that thing you just saw might be the end of the world." "Wait a second," Sarah replied "your name is Trevin Dunder? That's awful. It honestly may be the worst name I have ever heard." Trevin shook his head. "Yeah, I know. Both of my parents were fucking comedians."
"Anyway, what the hell was that giant Guy Fieri lookalike back there and what does it have to do with this whole 'end of the world' thing you're talking about." Trevin stared ahead, paying her no attention. Putting his foot on the gas, he accelerated past the speed limit. "Trevin? Trevin! Answer me," Sarah demanded. Trevin picked up the sunglasses again, moving them up towards his head in one swift motion. Sarah slapped them out of his hand. "Okay, okay" Trevin said staring back at her, "what you just witnessed was the work of reptoids." "Reptoids?"Sarah replied incredulously. "Yes," Trevin said "and not the sexy kind either."
"These are a trans-dimensional race of lizard people bent on conquering our world. The Marlon Brando blob you saw was merely the beginning of the invasion. They have clearly invented some kind of mutagen that turns people into hideous Michael Moore type entities." Sarah laughed. "Okay, enough with the fat jokes. Why weren't I or the the other comedians infected?" Trevin slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to full hault. "Don't you see! It's comedy! The reptoids can't stand it, it's like water to those aliens in Signs but much more plausible! Clearly they were unable to infect you because you were doing your set." Trevin put his foot on the gas again and resumed driving. Sarah stroked her chin and thought to herself, "I knew that Tampon Goblin joke was gold!"
Trevin and Sarah drove in silence for sometime. Eventually, Sarah's natural inquisitiveness returned. "But why did you rescue me?" Trevin replied, "I was told to." "By who?" Sarah shot back. All of the sudden Trevin stopped the car and parked it by the side of the road. He looked at Sarah and then pointed to an isolated mansion in the distance. "All you questions will be answered when we get inside. Follow me." Trevin threw the car door open and began walking with a swift pace toward the place. Sarah followed.
Trevin and Sarah stopped outside doors of the mansion. Sarah marveled at the intricate engravings set into the door. Life like portraits of 80's and 90's comedic actors stared back at her. Pressing her hand to the door, Sarah sought out the contours of Adam Sandler's smirking face and the corpulent girth of Chris Farley's belly. Trevin knocked twice and a lispy, yet cherubic voice issued from the other side of the door. "Whooo is it??" Trevin replied, "Alllllllrighty then!" The doors opened.
Following Trevin in, Sarah found herself surrounded by six figures, each hooded and draped in tie-dye robes. The doors closed abruptly and Sarah turned to Trevin. "I swear if you have pulled my into some Eyes Wide Shut shit I'm going to rip your dick off!" One of the persons stepped forward toward Sarah and removed his hood. "Welcome, Sarah Brickenhause. Before you stands the Guardians of Comedy and this is our sanctuary." He gestured to the other members of the group who de-hooded themselves in succession. "My name is Quincey Krakrecwele and I have brought you here because the fate of comedy...and the world depends on you."
Sarah began to laugh, "You can't be serious?" Quincey stared right into her eyes, "I'm deadly serious!" All the other Guardians began to laugh maniacally. "Silence!" Quincey shouted at them. They all stopped laughing but for the fat girl in the back whose laugh turned into a deep and painful cough. Quincey turned around, "Goddammit, Diana! You really need to chill out on the weed smoking!" Diana doubled over and covered her mouth, muffling her coughs. "Sarah," Quincey continued "you are the final piece, the key to awakening the ancient one and saving the planet."
"The Ancient One?" Sarah questioned irrelevantly "Yes," Quincey replied "the very first comedian and the only one funny enough to defeat the reptoid threat." Quincey threw his hand out and then swung it forward, gesturing for one of the Guardians to step forward. Bearing a large tome, the Guardian walked toward Sarah and opened the book. "And lo, at their darkest hour, they shall find a New York comedian of little talent who shall have maybe one or two decent jokes, but certainly not enough for an entire set. Yet it shall be she who completes the circle, she who shall unite the Guardians of Comedy and restore the Ancient One." The Guardian closed the book and stepped back. Quincey looked to Sarah once again, "And so it is written! Now come, we must begin the ritual; there is little time!" The Guardians began to file towards the back of the room where a staircase spiraled down to a lower level of the mansion. Sarah did not follow and turned to Trevin. Sounding plaintive she spoke, "This is all too much. It feels as if I'm stuck between a science fiction novel and a cult." Trevin shrugged "Go with cult; better uniforms." Trevin headed toward the stairs and Sarah proceeded after him.
At the bottom of the spiral staircase was a room ordained with nothing but a large central sarcophagus. The Guardians of Comedy stood arrayed around the tomb. Watching as they descended, Quincey addressed them "Come take your place within the octagon." Sarah and Trevin placed themselves in the formation. Quincey continued, "Now, if we are to awaken the Ancient One, we must first speak the sacred jokes in succession. Each of you will be given a specific and venerable joke domain according to which you must wisecrack." Quincey pulled several sheets of paper and began handing them around.
"FUCK!" One of the Guardians called out. "I get stuck with fart jokes again!" Quincey snapped back at him, "If you do not wish to tell the jokes then you may simply fart a lot." The aggrieved Guardian nodded. Quincey continued handing out the joke domains. One Guardian jumped for joy "YES! Zingers!" Another kvetched, "Knock-Knock Jokes, are you serious?!" Eventually he made his way to Sarah. Quincey presented her with the paper and she took it unwillingly. Unfolding the piece of paper, Sarah was confronted with one word "PUNS."
Quincey took his position again within the octagon with the sepulcher at the center. "Now, on my signal, I want you all to begin reciting jokes in line with your specific joke domain. Do not worry about them being good or stolen. Remember, the Ancient One hasn't had a laugh in over 4,000 years. I'm pretty sure Carlos Mencia could make him shit his pants at this point." Quincey then lifted up his arms and the assembled host began to crack wise. Sarah was at first stunned by the cacophony of scatological humor, bad slapstick routines, poor setups, and failed punch-lines. Yet, she regained her composure and initiated a pun cascade.
Why are lawyers like cats?
They like to get their clause in everything!
Atheism is a non for prophet institution!
You're punbelievable!
Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.
Who's the newest actor/instrument tearing up Hollywood?
Tuba Gooding Jr.
Sarah began to wince from the puns, reeling from their stupidity. She dropped to one knee and held her chest. Quincey yelled, "Keep going!" After mustering up her strength, Sarah continued with the pun avalanche. Just then the room began to glow an iridescent red. A bone-chilling cackle arose from the tomb and the lid began to shift. The Guardians of Comedy gasped together as a chubby hand emerged from the sepulcher.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Killin' the Academy
In the year 2015, a terrorist attack was staged at the Academy Awards, killing 90% of the A-List actors, 83% of the B-List actors, and 100% of the C-List actors who were all attempting to sneak in. Now, in this post-apocalyptic America, millions upon millions have taken up acting in order to try and fill the void of our once beloved stars.
Industry and agriculture have all but ceased. Power has degenerated, leaving local warlords and petty acting coaches to fight gangland style over territory. Para-military improv troupes patrol the towns, accosting passersby and forcing them to shout out ideas for their next skit. Community theaters, once regarded as the dregs of the acting world, now function as seats of theatrical justice. The accused watch as the community theater actors perform cheap and histrionic reenactments of their crimes, generally followed by steam-punk renditions of Oklahoma. Those persons with constitutions strong enough to endure these trials(most commit suicide during intermission), face one of two sentences: death or forced labor making sets and costumes for the community theater.
The landscape is further marred by paparazzi who wander aimlessly, abjuring food and sleep in the hopes of finding the next big star. Inexorable and seemingly immortal packs of paparazzi swarm their victims, feasting upon their acting talents with camera lenses. Only the quick and those able to mask their acting talents survive.
The almighty dollar no longer holds sway in these lands. Many forms of currency now proliferate, including acting lessons, scripts, a role in a movie that somebody's cousin is directing, and props. The most coveted of all, however, is celebrity gossip. Tidbits and rumors are traded on street corners like drugs and in huge forums like stocks on Wall Street. Rappers interested in "makin' it rain" recite a litany of celebrity news. The prevalence of so-called "blood gossip" is rampant as people kill one another for factoids as mundane as a celebrities' true taint length or knowledge of which Harry Potter book they found most erotic.
Not even human conversation is an escape in this bleak land of performance. Dialogue has been replaced by soliloquy and aside to a nonexistent audiences. Often, people approach one another, staring longingly into one another's eyes and tacitly begging for human interaction. Yet, as if addicted or perhaps possessed, these lonely souls take the opportunity to launch into grand monologues about the nature of death or about how the 90's were far and away the best decade.
Even the family, the backbone of America society, has collapsed. Mothers watch as their children starve while they conserve all their breast milk for that "one big role." Fathers prostitute their sons, waving all their rights just for a chance to be featured in the next Salo remake. Children murder their parents while they sleep on the off chance that the mental trauma caused by the experience may unlock some innate acting ability within them.
The Holy Church of Method Acting is all that remains of organized religion. It's members are often so dedicated to the Church's creed that they never come out of character.
Industry and agriculture have all but ceased. Power has degenerated, leaving local warlords and petty acting coaches to fight gangland style over territory. Para-military improv troupes patrol the towns, accosting passersby and forcing them to shout out ideas for their next skit. Community theaters, once regarded as the dregs of the acting world, now function as seats of theatrical justice. The accused watch as the community theater actors perform cheap and histrionic reenactments of their crimes, generally followed by steam-punk renditions of Oklahoma. Those persons with constitutions strong enough to endure these trials(most commit suicide during intermission), face one of two sentences: death or forced labor making sets and costumes for the community theater.
The landscape is further marred by paparazzi who wander aimlessly, abjuring food and sleep in the hopes of finding the next big star. Inexorable and seemingly immortal packs of paparazzi swarm their victims, feasting upon their acting talents with camera lenses. Only the quick and those able to mask their acting talents survive.
The almighty dollar no longer holds sway in these lands. Many forms of currency now proliferate, including acting lessons, scripts, a role in a movie that somebody's cousin is directing, and props. The most coveted of all, however, is celebrity gossip. Tidbits and rumors are traded on street corners like drugs and in huge forums like stocks on Wall Street. Rappers interested in "makin' it rain" recite a litany of celebrity news. The prevalence of so-called "blood gossip" is rampant as people kill one another for factoids as mundane as a celebrities' true taint length or knowledge of which Harry Potter book they found most erotic.
Not even human conversation is an escape in this bleak land of performance. Dialogue has been replaced by soliloquy and aside to a nonexistent audiences. Often, people approach one another, staring longingly into one another's eyes and tacitly begging for human interaction. Yet, as if addicted or perhaps possessed, these lonely souls take the opportunity to launch into grand monologues about the nature of death or about how the 90's were far and away the best decade.
Even the family, the backbone of America society, has collapsed. Mothers watch as their children starve while they conserve all their breast milk for that "one big role." Fathers prostitute their sons, waving all their rights just for a chance to be featured in the next Salo remake. Children murder their parents while they sleep on the off chance that the mental trauma caused by the experience may unlock some innate acting ability within them.
The Holy Church of Method Acting is all that remains of organized religion. It's members are often so dedicated to the Church's creed that they never come out of character.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Top 10 Orgasm Calls
1. I'm a morning person!!! I'm a morning person!!! Tell me you are morning person!!!
2. (Utter Silence)
3. NOOOOOOOOO!
4. End scene. (slam dick in clapboard)
5. Oops...
6. I think we need to talk about our relationship!
7. Puppy, puppy! (English for the Spanish 'Papi')
8. :[ (Pull out cellphone and use series of emoji)
9. I'm afraid of intimacy! I'm afraid of intimacy!
10. I think you're amazing! You are a smart, graceful, beautiful, and powerful woman and I really hope that I am giving you spectacularly satisfying sex right now!
2. (Utter Silence)
3. NOOOOOOOOO!
4. End scene. (slam dick in clapboard)
5. Oops...
6. I think we need to talk about our relationship!
7. Puppy, puppy! (English for the Spanish 'Papi')
8. :[ (Pull out cellphone and use series of emoji)
9. I'm afraid of intimacy! I'm afraid of intimacy!
10. I think you're amazing! You are a smart, graceful, beautiful, and powerful woman and I really hope that I am giving you spectacularly satisfying sex right now!
Local Man Inspired after Discovering Dog/Child Equally Swayed by Trail of Snacks
Between the dismal boredom of work and unwelcome familial obligations, Jeff Praeter, 41, would often lay an elaborate network of cheerios across his house forming a grand obstacle course to be followed by his dog, Charlton Barkley, also 41. "I like to call it the 'Trail of Tears'" Jeff said. "Though, come to think of it, the name is probably insensitive." Charlton barked seemingly in agreement. With an intricacy and peculiarity similar to a Rube Goldberg Machine, Jeff's cheerios trails allowed him an escape from the tyranny of his one and only son, Jefred Donlin, age 5. "Laying the trails is a form of meditation that helps me to drown out Jefred's shitty attitude; watching Charlton complete the run is more rewarding than being a father will ever be" Jeff explained.
Jefred lives most of his sycophantic existence with his mother, Jeff's ex-wife, and carries his glaring Oedipal complex with him wherever he goes. No time is this more apparent than when separated from his mother and foisted upon Jeff. "Mommy feeds me and loves me. I miss her. When I'm with Daddy I cry" Jeffred relates. Jeff, the straight shooter, as he likes to refer to himself, retorted, "This piece of shit just can't get over the fact that I boned the woman he loves; taking her to the meat suite, bringing her to the boneyard, you know." This strained father-son relationship was the source of much consternation for Jeff, until an unexpected discovery yesterday which seems to hold an answer for their failing rapport.
Following his usual Sunday afternoon routine, Jeff locked up Charlton in preparation for his epic quest. A cheerio trail of grand proportions, Jeff designed perhaps his cruelest and most challenging course to-date. Broken glass, dangerous exotic animals, and malevolent traps all awaited the runner of this particular gauntlet. When asked about his inspiration Jeff quickly noted "those zany 80's car race films" and "Jackass" as the progenitors of his harrowing trail. Tinkering with the several legs of the course, Jeff was nearly ready to release Charlton when entitled, childish wonderment came into play.
In an utterly unexpected move, Jefred launched himself into the cheerio challenge. Eating cheerio after cheerio, the usually un-intrepid Jefred faced countless dangers for those sweet, wheaty sphincters. "I never thought the little fucker could do something like this" Jeff conceded. "I think he handled the fire pit and the swinging axes with grace, though his time leaves much to be desired. Still," Jeff added while injecting his son with a dose of anti-venom, "I think we're going to need to work on the poisonous snake gallery." Jefred selfishly declined to comment after the race, pointing to his swollen face and bloated belly full of cheerios.
The great promise of Jefred's performance lies in the possibility of mending his relationship with his father and Charlton. Jeff admitted that, while Jefred has not yet and may not ever prove his contrition, he is taking a step in the right direction. His greatest hope being that Jefred will regularly attempt the course and be able to compete with Charlton in a "head-to-head style death race."
Beginning at the Beginding
Here it is...
My unanticipated, not awaited, and soon to be forgotten comedy blog! It warms the cock of my cockles for you to be reading this. Surely, in a number of years, I will go down as one of the greatest bloggers of all time along with Danny "Duplex" Gilbert, McDaul Wilson, and that guy who pretended to be a Iranian lesbian activista. So, pat yourself on the back, give yourself a hug, bend over and let your neighbor touch your taint, and revel in the fact that you are a part of internet history so momentous that people won't even be talking about this after their 30 second post masturbation shame session!!
Anyhow, I am dedicating this blog to my longer form comic pieces, those things which cannot be defined in 140 characters or in pictures of people giving their friends a pair Arabian sun-goggles. These things may be obtuse, they may be confusing, they may cause localized temporal disturbances (fucking chrontion particles!), hell, I don't even know what's going to happen!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_fictional_elements,_materials,_isotopes_and_atomic_particles
So, I exhort you! Use your mind's eye; imagine I am serenading you, I saunter over to you, jingling my janky man bits as I walk. I press my excessive belly hair up against your face, the hairs are all up in your nose. You are disgusted, but intrigued as the mellifluous melodies of this one Adema/Lana Del Rey mash-up my cousin made escape my lips. You are overwhelmed and think that perhaps you have somehow been written into a terrible piece of fan fiction. YOU HAVE! You whisper "take me" into the fleshy abyss of my bellybutton, it seems to echo for an eternity. Still entranced by my manly lint pit, I grab you by the shoulders and sit in your lap, my bony butt causing you significant pain. I lean down and whisper in your ear "it's all a metaphor for comedy, bro."
Follow me on twitter @ChrisBlex
My unanticipated, not awaited, and soon to be forgotten comedy blog! It warms the cock of my cockles for you to be reading this. Surely, in a number of years, I will go down as one of the greatest bloggers of all time along with Danny "Duplex" Gilbert, McDaul Wilson, and that guy who pretended to be a Iranian lesbian activista. So, pat yourself on the back, give yourself a hug, bend over and let your neighbor touch your taint, and revel in the fact that you are a part of internet history so momentous that people won't even be talking about this after their 30 second post masturbation shame session!!
Anyhow, I am dedicating this blog to my longer form comic pieces, those things which cannot be defined in 140 characters or in pictures of people giving their friends a pair Arabian sun-goggles. These things may be obtuse, they may be confusing, they may cause localized temporal disturbances (fucking chrontion particles!), hell, I don't even know what's going to happen!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_fictional_elements,_materials,_isotopes_and_atomic_particles
So, I exhort you! Use your mind's eye; imagine I am serenading you, I saunter over to you, jingling my janky man bits as I walk. I press my excessive belly hair up against your face, the hairs are all up in your nose. You are disgusted, but intrigued as the mellifluous melodies of this one Adema/Lana Del Rey mash-up my cousin made escape my lips. You are overwhelmed and think that perhaps you have somehow been written into a terrible piece of fan fiction. YOU HAVE! You whisper "take me" into the fleshy abyss of my bellybutton, it seems to echo for an eternity. Still entranced by my manly lint pit, I grab you by the shoulders and sit in your lap, my bony butt causing you significant pain. I lean down and whisper in your ear "it's all a metaphor for comedy, bro."
Follow me on twitter @ChrisBlex
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