A Holloween Conversation

I bumped into a guy in a sheet this Holloween...

me: What are you supposed to be?
guy: A ghost.
me: Ah... The ghost of who?
guy: Don't taunt the dead.

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.

Transcription of a Dear John Letter I Found

Dear John,

Now that I have gotten my FRAGGLE ROCK - THE COMPLETE FIRST SEASON DVDs back from you, our relationship is officially over. I feel weird writing this letter out, but for some reason I am locked out of my e-mail account and we both know you need to pay your cell phone bill and FINALLY get that thing turned back on. I am very attached to you and I hate to do this, but after you being so drunk at the Burger King, I can never EVER look at you the same as before. All I see is an asshole who gave me a bruised arm eating chicken fries -- AND NOT SHARING! You never once asked me to share anything with you. ASSHOLE!! But in my final gesture of love which I am now ceasing, I feel like I should tell you the following things: 1) I never actually needed that abortion -- I just pocketed the cash. I had gotten fired from the SuperFresh and was too embarassed to tell you and I needed money really bad so I came up with that plan and lied and it was horrible. Which I guess is a second lie 2) that I had never told you about getting fired. and then 3) is when I would tell you I was going to work at the SuperFresh when I had actually been fired, I was actually going over to Chuck's place and we'd smoke grass and a couple of times we had sex. With a condom! 4) I always hated that "our song" was the Black Eyed Pea's "Let's Get Retarded". That song sucks and the Black Eyed Pea's suck. That's the only rap CD you own and you are pathetic. The next guy I date is going to have better taste in music and I guess that will have to make up for him having a smaller penis, Long John. :) Now that I think about it you are probably happy about the whole abortion lie since you are a devout little Catholic and now you won't have to go to hell THOUGH I'M SURE YOU'LL FIND SOME OTHER WAY IN! But I should get going. I will miss you and miss seeing your face when you read this letter. You can keep my fucking travel Connect Four. I don't need that shit back and don't you try to use giving it back to me as an excuse to come by my apartment cause I'm telling you now I DON'T WANT IT. And don't look to get the engagement ring back I've already pawned it so I can buy grass from Chuck.

Love, NO MORE!
Hillary

The Race for Mayor of Toilettown

And so the candidates debated.

"I will bring better funding to our schools," said Candidate One.
"I will fix the lampposts on Main St.," exclaimed Candidate Two.
"I will get the goose droppings off our public golf course," shouted Candidate One.
"I will invest public dollars into training parrots to deliver our mail," yelled Candidate Two while flailing his arms wildly.

And the populous thought long and hard...

"I will revive the heart-attacked monkey in the city zoo," said Candidate One.
"I will stop letting Tom Baxster's kids smoke grass behind the abandoned church," exclaimed Candidate Two.
"I will stop letting myself smoke grass behind the abandoned church," shouted Candidate One.
"Free haircuts for all registered voters!" yelled Candidate Two while juggling three balls in one hand.

And so thusly the populous continued to ponder...

Until from far off, just over the horizon, a odd-looking stranger in an all white suit swaggered into town. He strut right down Main St. tipping his hat to all the young ladies, not even minding that many of the lampposts had long been broken by the doped up kids of Tom Baxster throwing rocks at them.

He stepped right up to the podium, pushing both candidates aside, and brought a hush over the stirring, wide-eyed crowd.

"And let this proclimation ring throughout this fair city," the stranger said. "If you elect me mayor, I will change the name of Toilettown to Pleasantville."

And without saying but another word, this odd-looking stranger from a far off place won the race for the mayor of Toilettown in a landslide...


EPILOGUE: He was crooked and stole all the town's money.

The Second Stand of the Steak Salesman

He sat there thinking.

Yes, Wally had failed once before, but fate is a dirty game. Here he was with a large surplus of raw meat that he had again purchased at low, low prices. Surely, he and his wife could not eat all this themselves before it went bad -- especially with his wife living at her sister's since leaving him after the first steak selling fiasco.

But Wally had learned a word in school once... and that word, was perseverance. True, it was a word that had foiled him before, knocking him out of the fifth grade spelling bee, but that bitch wasn't going get him twice... like his wife.

Throwing steak after steak into a satchel, Wally walked down to the street, confidence hastening each step, a wry smile slathered across his face like a foregone peach cobbler.

People may have forgotten me in the past, he thought, but those bastards will come to remember the name Wally Shitgiggles, yet.

"Meat for sale! Meat for sale!" he screamed with vigor.

But a permanent-pressed man in his million euro suit stopped to gawk. Wally had seen this man before. "Ha!" the man laughed. "'Tis once again a Friday during lent and here we find ourselves living in a futuristic society where all peoples have come to adhere to ultra-conservative Catholocism and it's strange ideals."

Bastard, thought Wally. Why is that asshole always here?

And so it is true, that Wally failed once again.

The Story of My Life As a Virgin: In Three Brief Chapters

Chapter One
I was born in the small coal mining town of Bethlehem, PA.

Chapter Two
I never got laid.

Chapter Three
I died one cold winter's night having been impaled by a gardening hoe at the age of 76.

the end.

A Conversation from a Dream I Just Had...

The following conversation is loosely based on a dream I awoke from not too long ago:

(I sit down in the front row of a theater next to a small child wearing a suit and tie.)

ME: Woah! That guy has a HUGE penis!
KID IN SUIT'S MOTHER (leaning over to me): Would you refrain from that talk! You're sitting next to my son!
ME: Oops. Sorry.

(a silence.)

KID IN SUIT (quietly turns to me): So you like that guy's rod?
ME: What?
KID IN SUIT: Bet you like his rod so much 'cause you have a small chubby.
ME: What?!
KID IN SUIT: Have you seen your small chubby recently? I bet you haven't seen anything down there in a while, huh?
ME: I am perfectly happy with the size of my penis.
KID IN SUIT'S MOTHER: Will you be quiet! Your sitting next to a small child!!
ME: But he-- Sorry.

(a silence.)

KID IN SUIT: So how's that small chubby of yours?
ME: Dude, you are one sick little kid.
KID IN SUIT: I'm not the one with the size problems.
ME: And the word "chubby" is totally lame. I didn't know my subconscious even knew to refer to the penis as a "small chubby". I wonder if there is some Frued-like bullshit going on here.
KID IN SUIT'S MOTHER: If you curse one more time I am going to get the manager!!
ME: Why don't you shut up your filthy little kid, bitch!!
KID IN SUIT'S MOTHER: That's it!! I'm getting the manager!!
ME: Oh, good one. Well, screw you 'cause I got my own manuever! I'll just wake up!!

(I attempt to wake up, but I cannot. This is not a dream. This really happened to me. So the manager came back, and escorted me out of the theater thus missing whatever I had happened to go there to see.)

And then I woke up...

Critics Already Deem Sean Preston Federline's Debut Album Too Commercial

Years before his debut single has even been recorded, the infant son of Britney Spears and Kevin Federline is already being panned by critics.

"So much crying," says E! Television's Donna Shinestein. "Tracks like the Ying Yang Twin's Whisper Song are an interesting, unique take on the hip-hop genre. All I've seen Sean Preston do so far is suck on Britney's teat. I mean, come on, who hasn't thought of trying that. It's old news."

The helpless baby has yet to respond, but Ron Masterson, president of Jive Records, who signed the child in his third trimester, spoke on his behalf. "When we made the decision to advance an unborn fetus $2.5 million, we made a commitment to stand behind him as he grows as an artist and a human being. We believe in nurturing our artists, spoon feeding them mashed peas, allowing them to find their voice over the term of their contract."

The album, which has an expected release date of Spring 2018, is tentatively titled: "Who Cares?"

A Good Day For Teddy Bear

When Emily played, Teddy Bear was her best companion: tea at high noon, slumber parties at night. But when Emily went off to school, Teddy Bear came alive! wandering about the house and having a good ol' teddy bear time.

One Autumn morning, shortly after Emily took the big yellow bus off to school, Teddy Bear opened his teddy bear eyes scampering about while no one could see until he stumbled upon Emily's stash of weed. Boy did Teddy Bear get stoned that day!!

The Story of the Onion

"I have an idea," the old man proclaimed. "Let us eat this onion as a celebration of peace!"

And so they did, one at a time, bite down into that tasty onion.

Until a younger man proclaimed, "Fuck this! Let's eat this delicious apple instead -- still as a celebration of peace -- but now, not so putrid tasting."

And so they tried the eating of the apple.

"This is much better," the masses cheered. "This young man shall be our new king!"

And so he was. And the old man watched on in horror, for he knew...

"An apple...?! That is, a forbidden apple! And God hath proclaimed that those who taste of such a forbidden apple shall be smitten by He!"

So the masses waited... possibly by watching reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond. And yet God did not smite them, instead blessing them as it rained golden dubloons for a fortnight.

And the old man watched onward, as the villagers bought new Lexus hybrid sports utility vehicles, and he thought to himself, Well, I'm an ass.

Things Overheard on the Subway

This is a conversation I overheard on the subway:

Tall Guy: Whoa!
(Tall Guy squeezes through the door as it shuts.)
Tall Guy: Is this the G train?
Asian Guy: Huh?
Tall Guy (slightly louder): G train?!
Asian Guy: No.
Tall Guy: Shit. Which train am I on?
Asian Guy: You're not on a train.
Tall Guy: What? That seems ridiculous.
Asian Guy: The world is a ridiculous place.
(Tall Guy pauses. Looks at his script.)
Tall Guy: This dialogue is ridiculous!
Me: Keep reading it or I'm not taking off your shackles.
Tall Guy: Why'd I even come to this Denny's in the first place...

newsflash: President Does Not Actually Exist

There has been a lot of talk recently about whether or not the president really exists. I know for a fact he does not. Yesterday, I was home in Washington, DC and I took a tour of the White House... something that I haven't done since I was in middle school and liked playing with my teddy bears. But this is not about teddy bears; it is about the president -- who does not exist. He used to exist. I know this because the teddy bear is actually named after a president. But I digress.

On this White House tour, they showed us the presidential bedroom. I asked, where is the president? They said, "He is working in the Oval Office." But when we went to the Oval Office the door was locked. Do you know why it was locked? I'll tell you why! Because the president doesn't frickin' exist!