Archive for August, 2010


stilt dance party

You guys, the craziest thing happened to me recently. I was testing out the latest prototype for a toaster oven that works in the bathtub, when suddenly a bright light appeared before me. I felt drawn to it, closer and closer, swimming in air as if I were an astronaut in zero gravity, for what felt like days. Once I arrived, I was told that my talents were needed on earth for a while longer, but before being sent back I was allowed to take a quick tour for free, with the understanding that once I returned I would casually mention this amazing little corner of the universe whenever possible as long as it didn’t upset the natural flow of conversation, to help drum up a little business for them. I awoke face down in the water, surrounded by floating charred pizza bagel fragments, grateful for this new lease on life.

Heaven is truly a wonderful place, with streets paved with gold, faucets that run with champagne, and toothpaste that doesn’t taste weird when mixed with champagne. Every night is steak finger night, unless you want something else, in which case the staff will be happy to whip up something special for you. Sub sandwich? Done. Heaven also boasts the universe’s only known weed dealer to get a perfect thirty-point rating from Zagat’s. Oh, and humans get slightly higher status than angels, despite the fact that the angels have been there a lot longer, so you have this built-in class of schmucks to feel superior to, right off the bat. It’s like they thought of everything. You might even call it a little slice of heaven on earth, except for the fact that it’s in heaven.

Yes, lots of people will be in heaven, even people you don’t like. For example, your aunt that forwards you all those emails in all caps electric blue comic sans font about the President being a secret Muslim terrorist? Not only will she be in heaven, she has dibs on a fucking sweet rent-controlled place with a breathtaking view of all the pagans suffering in hell (you should probably get in good with her; she might let you house sit). And remember that family that used to come in every week in their Sunday best to the Chili’s where you worked in college and tipped like 5% because the dad had to ask to have his tea glass refilled once? Well, only the dad will be in heaven, as the family perished in a fiery car crash before the two little girls had a chance to accept Jesus as their personal lord and savior, and the mom once made out with a girl at a party in high school.

We must all make sure we don’t waste our few allowable bad needs on minor chickenshit transgressions that don’t bring us much satisfaction, for at the end of our lives, our good deeds must outnumber our bad ones. For example, I made actual eye contact with my doorman today, which no doubt put a couple of points in the “entry permitted” side for me in God’s Great Ledger. It may be a struggle to maintain this harmonious balance for the rest of my life, but I’m up for the challenge, as I truly cannot wait to return to my eternal reward. Now, if someone will please hold my helmet for me, for my next trick I’m going to ride this unicycle down Danger Mountain.


whatever happened to those pics eddie murphy took of the crowd in delirious?

Listen, I really appreciate you taking the time to find the least unflattering light here in the studio. I realize that it’s an unfortunate combination to have both a complexion so pale as to be considered translucent and the kind of stringy, oily hair that is a Class III fire hazard, so the significant effort you’re putting forth is not going unnoticed. Heck, I didn’t realize that video dating services even still existed, much less offered this level quality of service, or I’d have been in here long ago. Well, it still would have taken me a while to work up the courage to come in and do this. See, every time I experience even moderate amounts of stress, I get this uncontrollable rash all over my crotch that I can’t seem to stop scratching. Fortunately, I had a few cocktails in the parking lot to steel my nerves, but we’d better get this show on the road, as I usually black out and suffer a spell of frenzied vomiting about 30 minutes after my eighth beer. So, I guess we’ll commence taping once that red light on the camera shuts off, huh? Oh. Here goes, then!

Hi there, ladies; my name is Clarence, and I’m finally ready to re-enter the dating world after a very tumultuous 8-year relationship with my high school sweetheart. I didn’t initially know what attracted her to me, but upon reflection I suspect she enjoyed the fact that the gaping chasm separating our respective grades of attractiveness enabled her to treat me poorly without much fear of recourse.  I would have gladly spent a night in a coffin full of creepy old baby doll parts just for the privilege of buying a raffle ticket in which the grand prize was one of her used Kleenex, so it didn’t seem all that unreasonable when she insisted on putting a towel over the seat every time I got into her car, even after I had just showered.

It wasn’t easy to get over her, and I admit I went through a pretty difficult period after realizing she wasn’t coming home. I spent  several weeks trying to master the dark arts, attempting to conjure a spell that would send the moon crashing into the earth to destroy us all, and my failure to accomplish even that meager task only worsened my depression. Thankfully, I found redemption by switching careers, taking newfound joy in my job as a camera operator, making bootleg copies of movies by sneaking a video camera into the theater. Every day brings a new challenge in discovering where the bulge in my pants made by the camera would be least likely to provoke suspicion among the ushers and ticket takers.

Though I’ve been through a lot, I feel like my experience made me a better potential mate, as I now realize the importance of affording your lover at least a baseline level of dignity, so they can grow as a person. It is in that spirit that I pledge to always wear my “I’m With Stupid” t-shirt with the arrow facing away from you.


i play one on tv

Hey, partner, the next drink’s on the house. If you don’t mind me saying so, friend, you look like you’re carrying a pretty heavy load. Anything you wanna talk about? Because let me tell you, as the owner and proprietor of a bar located directly across the street from an anger management clinic, I’ve heard it all, and everything told to me remains in complete confidence. I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone. For example, see that guy in the blue shirt playing pool? The first time he came in, he was all stressed out, kinda like you. He told me his court-appointed counselor couldn’t understand where he was coming from, so I lent him my ear for a while. Turns out he had been at the grocery store, stuck behind some old man trying to pay for a bag of Werther’s Originals with his library card when he just snapped. The manager came over to calm him down, so he yelled, “food fight!” and threw an unopened can of peas at a pregnant lady’s face. You wouldn’t trust just anyone with a story like that, which is why I never told a soul. Or the fella over there with the orange jacket. He got so mad about the quality of the magazines in his doctor’s office that he took out a Sharpie and wrote “fuck you” on a quarter and swallowed it right there in the waiting room, just to see the look on that doctor’s face after he pumped his stomach and read the quarter. That admission went directly into the ol’ safe, never again to fall on human ears. Of course, the angriest patron I ever had is right behind you pushing a broom, as I finally felt bad enough for him and gave him a job. See, he was once a promising actor, but he made a deal with the devil when he agreed to appear in a line of underwear ads. I tried to advise him to do summer Shakespeare instead, but he said he needed the money. Of course, he had to spend most of that money on a special custom mirror, since he was no longer able to look at himself in a regular one after the humiliation of having his face plastered all over the enormous bus ads reading “Gary’s: the Underwear For Guys With Super Small Wangs.” He had a lot of anger built up over that, but once he completes his treatments across the street, he should be able to interact socially with other humans again, sometimes without even having to wear a muzzle. Now, how about that drink? Hurry up and decide; I need to go into the back and scream into a towel for a couple of hours.


guns don’t kill people, roving hordes of chainsaw-wielding hellbeasts do

Well, well, well; who do we have here? I’ve been expecting you, old friend. You see, while there aren’t many advantages to having spent so much time inside your head, one of the few is the fact that I can predict your every move in this deadly chess game we’ve been playing for years now. It became particularly easy to stay several moves ahead of you once it became clear that your predictability is exceeded only by your idealism. So you can see how I was able to deduce the plan brewing in your naive 17 year-old brain to construct a time machine to come and kill your 35 year-old self once you started to suspect what an incredible asshole you would one day become.

I am impressed that you were able to pull yourself away from your drum circles and pleading with passersby in the street to sign your Greenpeace petitions long enough to master time travel, but what a pity that you wasted the technology to this end, rather than profiting from it. Better you had employed that brainpower to further the unending quest for power and wealth that will propel your future self to the top of his- your? my? our? oh, it doesn’t matter- profession, and all the attendant spoils, like these outrageously expensive alligator shoes.

You’re only making it more difficult for yourself. Put down the gun and embrace your future as a cutthroat son of a bitch who will crush anyone in your path. Don’t struggle, as I once did, with the slow erosion of the ethics of your youth on your way to the top; make peace with it, as I have. My actions in public so often elicit exclamations of, “Nice going, asshole!” that the phrase has lost most of its intended meaning for me, for I have learned that when you’re an asshole, the going is always nice, because assholes always win. Don’t blame me, my young patchouli-scented former self; blame the capitalistic society that created me by superficially discouraging asshole behavior, while simultaneously rewarding it in ways that far exceed any penny-ante admonition from an elderly woman I might steal a cab from on any given rainy day. In fact, I think I may have my name changed to reflect that, thereby completing the transformation from the unrealistic expectations of my young ignorance. Yes, that would look nice on a business card: “Nice Going Asshole, Attorney at Law”. Now, if you’ll please stand still while I press this button underneath my desk, I believe you have a date with a trap door and the ravenous, man-eating alligators waiting for you underneath it. They came with the shoes.

August 2010
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