Ben & Joe's Worst Vacation Ever

Ben: Why you have to be like that, man?
Joe: What are you talking about?
Ben: Dude, can you not speak in questions for once? I'm serious here.
Joe: Ben, look, I don't mean to be a "dick", but I really don't know what you are all hung up about.
Ben: Why did you put "dick" in quotations marks?
Joe: What?
Ben: You put the word "dick" in quotation marks?
Joe: How would you know-- (changes his mind) So what if I did?
Ben: So what if you did?
Joe: Yeah.
Ben: I'll tell you what, if I catch you aggressively punctuating on my ass again, I'll cut you.
Joe: Ooh... You'll "cut" me...
Ben: That's it, bitch!

[Ben takes a slice out of Joe's neck with a blade.]

Joe: Son of a bitch!!
Ben: Eee...
Joe: Oh my god!! Ow!! OW!!!
Ben: I'm--
Joe: You really cut me. That really, really hurts!
Ben: I'm sorry.
Joe: I'm going to have to go to the freakin' hospital!
Ben: I didn't think I'd actually cut you. I thought it was just a dumb story.
Joe: Now! I need to go to the hospital now!
Ben: I--
Joe: I'm freaking bleeding to death!! Holy shit!! Holy! Holy shit!!!
Ben: (crying) I thought it was just some dumb story Mike was writing. I didn't realize you'd get hurt.
Joe: Well I am hurt! You see the danger in pretend violence?!

[Ben thinks long and hard.]

Ben: Eh... You know what... Not really.
Joe: Oh, you don't?
Ben: (getting aggressive) No, I really don't.
Joe: Mike, give me a gun.
Ben: Huh?
Joe: I'm going to teach you a lesson. Mike, let me have a gun.
Mike: (powerful like the voice of God) I don't know, Joe.
Joe: Give me a freaking gun, Mike. I know you have one, you suicidal nut.
Mike: Fine. I'll write you in a stinking gun. But no more name calling; it makes me depressed, which in turn makes me suicidal.

[Joe pulls out a gun, aims at Ben's heart.]

Joe: Now I'm going to teach you a lesson about pretend violence.
Ben: Unfortunately, you forgot about my super-power -- my ability to, at any moment, morph into a gay porno mag.
Joe: Huh-zuh-zah?!?

[Joe pulls the trigger. Ben morphs. A bullet-riddled copy of Inches Magazine plummets to the ground. Joe looks at the mess he has made.]

Joe: Well this is the worst vacation ever.

[Joe looks around. There is nothing much more to be done. His neck wound, which at one point appeared to be life threating, has clotted rather quickly. With nothing better to do, he grabs the porno magazine off the ground and begins to page through it.]

Mike: (powerful like the voice of God) You must share!


[ED'S NOTE: The names Ben and Joe were chosen more out of laziness than out of an attempt to satire certain peoples who the author of the peice may happen to know. ...well, that is except for Ben, who's well known abilities to morph into gay porno magazines seemed applicable to the peice.]

after careful deliberation...

I've put a lot of thought into this and I've finally decided that the best newspaper headline I could ever read would be...

"HILARY DUFF SHOOTS PRESIDENT, TURNS GUN ON SELF"

My Favorite Book

"This is my favorite book," I said.
"That's not a book, asshole," he replied. "That's a waffle!"
"Fuck you!" I said.
And out of spite, I proceeded to read my waffle.

...so many typographical errors.


But this is the story it told me...

The Home Team

The pitcher was halfway through his wind-up when the manager stormed from the dugout.

The batter quickly called time out, stepping out of the box, the pitcher nearly falling over having been brought to such a sudden halt.

Umpire and manager converged just beside the on-deck circle, the number two batter inching towards them in attempt to overhear conversation.

The manager gave the umpire an intense stare. "What's going on here?" he snapped. "We're the home team."

The umpire scratched his head. He tried to play it cool. "Wait... Where are we again?"

The manager rolled his eyes. "The moon."

"Oh, right," the ump played off. "You're the Lunar Tigers." He chuckled, "It was a long flight."

An awkward silence overtook the stadium as the teams swithced positions, but it wasn't long before lefty Rod Wakerman hung a first pitch slider to Bill Baxley -- which the lead-off hitter proceeded to bunt over 920 ft. for the very first interplanetary home run.

The Glass of Chardonnay

She tossed her head back with laughter, her hair flipping off her soulders only to float softly back to place like a duck filled with helium being thrown from a jetliner slowly caosting back to the oceans from whence it came.

I knew now she certianly enjoyed my company. Heck, I'd been saving this humorous anecdote -- the one where the camp counselor called my boss's office to inform him his child had died when it was actually my son who had drown in that canoeing accident -- all night; if it hadn't gone over well, I'd be very hard up for conversation. So finally I let my guard down and comfortably moved into my "B" material: primarily consisting of my hatred of Eskimos, American Indians, you know, native North American races. Wait 'til she hears of my distrust of the Aztecs!

She smiled, her lips tightly grabbing at their center, but soon they would be grabbing at my penis, I said aloud.

Her interest in me waned. I should really get back to serving the other customers, she said something to the effect of.

"Oh them," I laughed. "Have another glass of Chardonnay."

We both glanced around: there were no other customers. Caught in her lie, and clearly a tad bit of a lush, she took a seat and I poured her a glass.

She sighed, "This job is not for me."

"Why not just finish your engineering PhD?" I inquired. "I don't know why they kicked you out of Brown to begin with. Throwing paint on a panda, everyone's thought of it."

"I hate China. Communist bastards," she scowled.

But there was silence... And then I swear I saw her cry.

When I was a child, I used to wait for the bus by an old wooden fence that was tilted at a very precarious angle, probably having been hit by a car in accident at some point within the previous few years. For a child, it made quiet a wonderful nook that could shelter me from the rain, if need be, after Mother had dropped me from her car. But when the wind whipped up, even just a little, those devious raindrops would be slung in on an angle pelting me mercilessly. As I watched Kerrisa's tears fall, I recalled that little nook, and I felt every tear that wet her cheek with the same sting I felt on my face from those clever little raindrops who realized they could fall without falling directly to the ground.

"When the shuttle returns from orbit, do you think he'll come visit me?"

"Your father's a great guy," I replied with a comforting smile.

But she wasn't so sure. She stood. "Well, now I guess I really should get back to the other customers."

Sure enough, a blind woman had entered with her seeing eye dog (who oddly resembled Jesus) and Miami Dolphins now second-string running back Ronnie Brown.

I called after her: "You forgot your glass of Chardonnay!"

Oh that sweet laugh as she said, "You realize that's a Pinot Noir. It's red for God's sake!"

And as she walked out of my life, I stared at that glass of Chardonnay.

And it was. It was red.

The Worst Place to Hide Your Soup

Wally stared at the crotch of his Wrangler jeans, now deeply soaked through as if he had massively pissed himself. Onlookers stared at him with wide-eyes and captured smirks. Somewhere on the periphery, surely, someone was pointing: here was a man caught in the depths of what could only be one of his most embarrassing moments. Others, the pointers thought, would want to see his discomfiture -- this most unsavory of pickles -- and, seeking to displace their own insecurities, these fine gawkers were more than happy to direct the rest who stood in need of a sordid chuckle.

Wally looked about, unable to gain enough composure to put words to the situation. His mind raced; his cheeks rapidly flushed. He again turned his gaze crotchward, and thought to himself, Well that was the worst place to hide my soup.

How to Survive Off of Three Cans of 7-Up

Day 21
Our ascent to the top of Mount Kilimanjaro has become troubling and difficult to spell. A mountain goat, once thought of as the noblest of the goats, has eaten all of our provision. Alas, the calories of but three cans of 7-Up must sustain us for the remainer of our journey back to base. Obviously, our goal of scaling this mighty giant has been scrapped; unfortunately, survival is now our only simple yet arduous task left to conquer.

Day 22
Dr. Youngblood cries like an infant -- our passionate homosexual mountain love affair, now replaced with his less friendly suggestion that I instead fuck "myself". Filled with heartbroken rage, I am begining to think I may withhold from him my knowledge of the three unopened cans of fresh 7-Up. Though never having tasted the soft drink myself, according to what I recall as a boy from ads I used to joyfully watch during the Saturday morning cartoons, 7-Up beverages are both thirst-quenching and have a lemony-lime refreshment -- an effervescence, if you will. This is a pleasure I no longer think my companion and former lover deserves to share.

Day 23
I have killed Dr. Youngblood, feasting on his flesh for survival. Maybe I killed him out of hunger, maybe I killed him out of rage, most likely I killed him because any more 7-Up and I surely would have never ceased of vomitting. That beverage is not fit to ail human thirst let alone sustain human life. I mean, even Sprite gets old after a while, but there is something in 7-Up's secret formula that is nauseating -- possibly even madness inducing. I may soon pour the rest of the devil's piss water out and succumb to my fate.

Day 24
Now, I am sure to die. If future generations should read this, tell my wife I loved. Tell my daughter she was my world. Tell my son to avenge my death by striking back at the ones who could not save me -- the makers of 7-Up brand soda-pop -- for it was this undrinkable swill that prevented me from having the strength necessary to forge the final three miles back into camp. Oh the misery. But oh the happiness to die without the taste of 7-Up in my mouth.