Archive for February, 2010


together at last

The long-awaited collaboration between Kenny Rogers and Slayer drops this week:


i owe handicapped people everywhere an apology for what i just did to one of their bathroom stalls

“All right, Jenkins, I don’t think anybody harbors any illusions as to why we’ve called you in here today. The brass here at Grandma’s Little Clementine OrangesCorp hired you last year because- and nobody’s arguing this- goddammit, you’re the best there is at what you do. And let’s face it: without the considerable skill set you bring the table, our stock wouldn’t have gone up 18% last year. You’ve made a lot of very important people here very happy. As you know, our mission statement is ‘providing idea-based citrus solutions for a changing global marketplace’. But our shadow mission statement, as you learned last week when you were initiated into our corporate inner circle with a blood oath and a secret handshake, is ‘getting every man, woman, and child in America hooked on little clementine oranges, and then, when the technology is ready in five years, injecting the oranges with mind-reprogramming nanorobotics that will turn the citizenry into a nation of slaves at our disposal forever and ever.’ Now, no one’s questioning your methods, or your loyalty to both of our equally important mission statements, but I’ve been going over some of your expense reports lately, and frankly, I don’t see how they pertain to the important work you do here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for starters, you hired REO Speedwagon to play at your birthday party. And not only that, you pulled the top scientists from our robotics division off Project Q and had them build a guitar-playing android to replace Gary Richrath, the guitarist from the band’s ‘classic lineup’. Then there’s this receipt for a box of authenticated game-worn Michael Jordan jerseys, along with a signed affadavit from your assistant stating that you’ve just been using these to blow your nose on once, then throwing them away.  Also, who authorized you to offer a personal-services contract to a plus-size exotic dancer named Ample Pie?”

“Well, Murphy, I want you to trust me, so I’m going to trust you with something I haven’t shared with a lot of people. You see, my success here at Grandma’s Little Clementine OrangesCorp is driven by a childhood of abject poverty, one in which my parents had to institute an across-the-board 5 percent pay cut for our estate’s kitchen staff, just to be able to afford to send me to the second-best prep school in town. I did some gangsta-ass shit to survive in that jungle, and I never learned how to turn the switch off that instinct. For example, you know Johnson from human resources? Well, on the elevator ride up here, I strangled him for his egg salad sandwich. I guess what I’m saying here is that this is just the way I’m wired.”

“All right, Jenkins. Thank you for your honesty. I think I speak for all of us here on the board when I say that we’re prepared to take the bad with the good. Keep up the good work.”  

“Oh, and just a heads-up: on my next expense report there’s gonna be an ice sculpture that I’ll be having commissioned for my assistant’s funeral. Nobody dimes on Jenkins!”


diary of a caveman

The hunters drove us from our watering hole again today. We gatherers have an agreement with the hunters to share goods equally, but more and more often our partnership appears to be tilting disproportionately in their favor. The hunters still demand from us the choicest berries, but the meats they offer in return seem to be of a quality that diminishes further with each passing trading day. Last time, the hunters tried halfheartedly to convince Grok that the lips and assholes of their slain beasts were some exquisite delicacy, knowing that if Grok offered even the slightest protest, their persuasive abilities could be bolstered quite effectively by simply brandishing their spears and clubs.    

A spear, of course, would be of little practical value in the hands of a gatherer, as we find ourselves in our undesirable station with plenty of justification (among our numbers can be found several failed hunters, who draw the harshest verbal barbs from their sneering former brethren each trading day). We would be even less useful with a club, as evidenced by our lack of success with the females who gather berries alongside us. I simply can’t bring myself to club one of my peers over the head, regardless of any perceived disparity of physical strength between us. Instead, my preferred method of seduction is to treat our tribe’s women with respect, listening to their anecdotes and doing them occasional favors of service, but this inevitably leads to their telling me that they don’t want to risk our great friendship by mating with me. Next thing I know, one of the hunters is dragging them off by the hair to begin a relationship characterized by its terribly imbalanced power dynamic, in which the male of the species is forever rearranging the terms to benefit his own needs at the female’s expense. If only these females could see that everything they’re looking for in a mate is tantalizingly close by, gathering berries practically under their noses in fact, I would have much more confidence in the future of our race, as I suspect that generations from now it will require brains as well as brawn to win the day in our ongoing battle to conquer our menacing environs.

Such is life for the gatherer, firmly entrenched here on the second tier of human evolution. From the time I wake and take my morning shower, in which I stand underneath a wooly mammoth as he sprays water onto me from his trunk, then invariably turns toward some unseen imagined audience and mutters, “it’s a living,”  I seem to be disrespected or slighted every step of the way. My only solace is my cave paintings, into which I have invested much of the little free time I can spare. The time spent honing my craft temporarily takes my mind off my loneliness, but increasingly often I find myself painting pictures of naked females, then staring at these crude renderings while I masturbate myself to sleep, rarely completing the task due to the dry, hardened callouses on my hand, which I fear are my only enduring keepsake of this unsatisfying career of foraging for scant nourishment through the unforgiving brambles.

Continue reading ‘diary of a caveman’


never pick a fight with a guy wearing purple pants

Many years ago, in a quiet village, there lived a young squire, assigned to a heroic knight. Despite the squire’s slow learning and lack of any discernible skill, the knight was duty-bound to the young man, and felt protective of his squire since everywhere the knight went, he heard the laughter of the other villagers, at the boy’s ineptitude. It was a well-known fact that the only reason the boy had been assigned to the knight was because the boy’s father was a very successful merchant. Indeed, one of the few things that could bring both nobleman and commoner together was a boisterous retelling of a tale from the ever-growing legend of the lad’s incompetence.

The knight spent weeks trying to invent a test that his squire could pass so that the villagers would stop ridiculing him, until one day, as if by God’s providence, he heard a faint whimpering sound of distress coming from a cave. The knight climbed down from his steed, lit a torch and entered the cave to find a giant ogre inside tending to a badly injured foot. The ogre said to the knight, “Dear sir, please draw your sword and end my agony forthwith, lest I a suffer another sleepless night with this wound which will not heal.”

The knight had slain many ogres, but could not dishonor himself by felling one who was hurt. Instead, he reasoned with the monster. “Friend, I will go into my village and return with a balm for your wounded foot if you will do for me one favour.” Once the ogre agreed, the knight knew he had an errand for his squire that even the boy could not foul up. The ogre would pretend to terrorize the village, and the knight would send his squire to chase the ogre away, ensuring his apprentice’s status as a hero.

Finally the day arrived and the ogre ran rampant through the village, making a loud din and frightening the villagers, but careful not to actually hurt anyone. The knight sent his squire to confront the ogre, sure that the boy would finally develop the courage to complete the task, and even let the boy wear his own armor for the occasion. The boy rode his mount into the village, but once he arrived, he climbed off the horse too close to where a blacksmith was stoking a fire to ply his trade, and the squire’s cape (which he had stubbornly insisted on wearing, despite it being strictly decorative and to be worn only on formal occasions) caught fire. The lad ran screaming through the village, and as he ran, the flames grew wilder and wilder, spreading to the village’s huts, and before long, the entire village was ablaze and most of the villagers perished. The knight rescued the boy and took him far away before the few surviving villagers could regroup and come seeking their revenge. Giving the young man all the alms that he had, the knight told him, “You have besmirched me and your home, and I fear for your very life. Please run as far away as you can, and disguise your appearance so that no one can recognize you and avenge the irreparable harm you did today.”

The young boy took the knight’s advice, and disguised himself and ran. And that’s why even to this very day, John Stossel has a moustache.


i’ve seen a million faces, but i really haven’t rocked that many of them

Hey man, you got a minute? Look, don’t be a dick; I just want to give you my band’s demo CD. We’re called Necrofury, but we’re considering changing the name since we’ve been moving in a more melodic direction lately. Now, before you throw it away, you should realize that this is about more than music. See, this jerkwater town needs a better scene. Think about how we all spend our weekends: pretending to have car trouble out on a desolate stretch of road, then kidnapping the first person that stops to help and mocking their tears as we make them dig their own grave at gunpoint. With a vibrant music scene, we can develop a sense of community and an identity outside of being featured semiannually on Dateline thanks to our nickname of “the Bermuda Triangle of Highway 48”. So just take a listen and share it with anyone else you know. For example, if your dad is a big record executive, during dinner maybe you could spread the good word about Necrofury over the intercom that you usually use to ask to pass the salt across your football field-length dining room table. If you like what you hear, sync it to your iTunes, then blog it to your friendster account and livejournal it to your pager. What are you afraid of, you pussy? Just listen to it. It’s not like our music is gonna make your urine smell like Lucky Charms or anything. Or don’t; see what I care. Just do whatever with it, even if that means throwing it frisbee-style like Oddjob and sawing off a statue’s head (which would be pretty awesome, I admit).

February 2010