Archive for August, 2009


mama’s got a case of the headaches

Hey moron! Tired of folks walking all over you your whole life? Treating you like you’re some kind of idiot? Then you need an education- ever since the pilgrims and Indians came together to form Voltron, that’s the way it’s been in this great land of ours. Come register for the adult education program here at Mount Rose College and get your pathetic life together, for crying out loud. I mean, just look at you, you fat slob. You can’t get promoted at work because you aren’t qualified to do anything other than lift boxes. Your kids don’t have any respect for you because you can barely spell your own name, much less help them with their calculus homework. Your wife won’t go down on you anymore because she- well actually, it’s because your semen tastes terrible. Try laying off the hot pastrami and drink a glass of pineapple juice once in a while. See, if you had taken our course in Human Sexuality, you’d know that. It’s taught by that creepy old guy at the end of the bar, and he knows his way around a woman- just ask your wife; he “consoled” her a couple years back during your trial separation. So come on down and begin that first step to a better life, shit-for-brains! We’re located in the old closed-down Mount Rose movie theater, just look for the back entrance with the taped lock.


you can have my grandma when you pry her out of my cold, dead gun

“Remove the candidate’s hood, Lord Grimlar. The reason why you have been summoned here today is because in our wisdom, we have been keeping an eye on you. As you know, the Secret Order of the Iron Dragon is made up only of men of the heartiest stock and purest character. The privileges of membership in our group include brotherhood, access to the unseen annals of power untold, and your pick of basically any girl on campus. You see, anthropologists have long known that competition for mates was aggressive among our caveman ancestors, and while the females of the species were most likely to select the strongest of the males, they were obviously getting some action on the side from some of the weirder, creepier cavemen, or else the weird and creepy gene would have died out thousands of years ago. So once these stuck-up girls realize our evolutionary advantage, we’re gonna be eyebrow-deep in panties around here, and you could be on the ground floor. Having watched you, Jason Heffnagle, we have determined that the qualities we seek in a member are potentially present in you. But before we allow you into our inner circle, you must complete a list of qualifications intended not only to test your loyalty, but your mettle. First, you must provide a PowerPoint presentation on how to get into the Dean’s private dining room where he entertains educational dignitaries, so we can sneak in with a Sharpie and and draw dicks on all the paintings. Second, you must survive a romantic encounter with our mascot Annie, who awaits you on the other side of that hole in the wall. And finally, you must invent a working pair of X-Ray glasses, so we can more accurately scout out which incoming freshman girls will make the best breeding counterparts. Rise and answer: are you up the the task, Jason Heffnagle?”

“Listen up. If you don’t untie me in ten seconds, I’m coming back here with all the other members of the rugby team, and we’re gonna stomp each and every one of you morons into the ground.”

“Fine, have it your way. but I’m taking your turn with the goat.”


in space, no one can hear you stealing cigarettes out of your mom’s space-purse

All right, quiet everyone; let’s all take our seats. Okay, this month’s meeting of the Young Inventors Club is now in session. Thanks to everyone for providing an especially great collection of inventions this month. So, without any further ado, let’s begin:

David, I was very impressed with your device. It reads your pulse during autoerotic asphyxiation, then if you die during the act, it completely incinerates your body.  That way, the family member who discovers you sees only a pile of ash, and doesn’t have to have their last memory of you be “choking while choking.” Very compassionate.

Sharon, I didn’t think you could improve on the video phone you brought in last month, but you have. This program, which alters the background so it looks like you’re someplace besides the horse track while talking to the loan officer at the bank about your mortgage, is the perfect touch. 

Brandon, to be honest, I don’t know if a McDonald’s that serves breakfast all day is an invention, per se, but this is one gorgeous scale model you’ve built here. Kudos to you!

Finally, one of our own has been singled out for recognition. Roger, these men in sunglasses and dark suits are here to see you about your cold fusion replicator. They say you’ve been nominated for a very special secret award and want you to get into their car, no questions asked, just get in the fucking car.


hot barely-legal walrus action

So George Bush’s ambassador to the UN thinks it was reckless for President Clinton to go to North Korea to get our journalists out of hard labor camp. Combine the only-a-vampire-could-have-this-opinion with the fact that he was kind of a dick while making his case on NPR today, and I suddenly have a great idea about what we should do the next time we’ve got hostages overseas: offer the captors Bolton in exchange for our folks. The North Koreans would be salivating at the possibility of using his mustache as a road grader.

Ironic that most of the anti-negotiation posturing is coming from the folks whose primary spank material seems to be a poster of Ronald Reagan singlehandedly ending the Cold War by engaging in talks with Mikhail Gorbachev, a poster which is conveniently tacked onto their bedroom ceilings.


things ain’t been the same since that meteor landed in my backyard and i dry-humped it

He wakes up some mornings half-convinced that he’s cured. He rubs his eyes and stares at the alarm clock, trying to persuade himself that the digital numbers look a little fuzzier, signifying mercifully that he’s gone back to his old bespectacled self again: no more worrying, except about normal stuff. No more obsessing over the lunar schedule. So long to handcuffing himself to the radiator every few weeks. Maybe he can even rebuild his social life, secure in the knowledge that no one will discover his secret, because he finally won’t have one.

But, inevitably, those last few vestiges of his dreams -of freedom- thin out and disappear like  a vapor because he knows there’s no cure. And somehow, he wouldn’t want there to be. He’s aware (understatement of the year) that he’s capable of some seriously terrible things, but weirdly, that knowledge, plus a greatly improved physique, have given him the self-confidence that somehow escaped him in adolescence despite a list of academic achievements that inexplicably didn’t equate to high social standing. Since the Change, though, he thinks he could probably be a pretty prolific dater if he wasn’t so afraid of blacking out one night and tearing some nice girl’s throat out. 

Sure, his condition sometimes alleviates stress (it did feel good to turn his boss’s lexus into a convertible), but it generates much more, and the only way he can exercise what little control he has over it is by a) wearing the amulet, and b) staying in a routine; keeping an even keel. So it’s off to get ready for the day. He’s going to have to wear long sleeves today because the marks where the cable ties cut into his wrists still haven’t healed yet. That, and the shower’s clogged again. Great.

August 2009