AN OPEN LETTER TO WHOEVER KEEPS STEALING MY LUNCH FROM THE BREAK ROOM REFRIDGERATOR

You're like a real-life Yogi Bear, swiping "pic-a-nic" baskets from the hard working Rangers in Jellystone Park.

But that's not fair to Yogi. He was lovable and misunderstood. You're just a lazy dipshit with no morals and an inverted penis.

Just so you know, I'm trying to figure out a way to stuff bumble bees in my lunch so they sting your face when you open the bag. So stay tuned for that.

Or maybe I'll steal something of yours. Maybe your filthy Starter jacket that smells like Campbell's soup, or your extensive collection of child pornography. How would that make you feel? And how do I know so much about you?

It takes a special kind of penny-sniffing megatard to steal food from coworkers, and when I finally piece this little mystery together, the only thing you'll be snacking on is Boo Boo's perineum.

See you in hell,
John Q. Public

 

We all think the generations below us are confused, depraved, and going nowhere fast. But when Seventeen magazine sent me an advance-copy of next month's issue, those sentiments were shockingly confirmed. Click to enlarge:

Lou was getting smaller, arms akimbo like somebody let the air out of a big, fat, juicy iron lung

Ugly Guys.mp3

mind_you_own.mp3

prison.mp3

put_it_in.mp3

kaos_demo.mp3

I am on vacation, friend. Here's a new hit song for you to listen to over and over until I get back and share all the information i get from my consultation at the werewolf communities which i got invited to. visit. See ya later

BIID (Farewell To Arms)

Dear Mother and Father,

I am running away from home. Why? Because you guys are pricks. Power Wheels are generally safe barring the occasional battery fire, and they save a person my size a great deal of time gallivanting about the yard. Timmy Kipple has a Power Wheel.

Speaking of whom, did you notice how many people were at Poochy's Buffet for his birthday party? About 100. That's because his parents purchased embossed invitations, which you prohibited me from doing for economic reasons. The Times New Roman typeface on my invitations was embarrassing and niggardly, and unbefitting of a young man with discriminating taste.

Also, I refuse to remain a second class citizen deprived of icing for his Pillsbury Toaster Strudels. It's not really that much sugar, and the plain strudel is too goddamn dry. Oh and you can forget about that six-month-old box of strawberry Pop-Tarts. It's like... who do I have to blow around here to get a moist strudel? Tell me and I'll blow them.

Last but not least, how many times must I visit the grave of grandma Nurples? I never met the bitch. She never knew I existed. Dragging me along is a big fat waste of time and only makes me resent graveyards and skeletons.

So anyway, this is the last you'll hear from me, idiots. I stuffed a bindle with the leftover strudel icings and I intend to eat them in one or two sittings. Don't put out an Amber alert.

-- Brandon

Animals I have milked VS. Animals I would milk

Cow - Milked
Goat - Milked
Alpaca - Would Milk
Koala - Milked
Lemur - Milked
Wallaby - Would Milk
Angora Rabbit - Would Milk++
Sloth - Milked
Marmoset - Would Milk++++

Peggy Panda's Hook-up List

Steve the Squirrel - I would let him french me / touch my breast OVER THE SHIRT
Pete the Pelican - I would let him touch my breast under the shirt / finger me
Dan the Donkey - I would let him french me / finger me / maybe give him HJ if he gets a mane-cut
Tim the Tiger - I would do anything he wants LOL / would give virginity / anal /.... SO CUTE!

RIP Professor Emeritus Sir Bankwell Brokely Esquire III
1921-2010

The professor's slippery fingers pried a button from his hundred-dollar moehair suit and fetched a cigarette, because he knew the house-fire or the cigarettes were going to kill him sooner or later. It was the house-fire that did it, though. (Ommmmm Namah Shivaaaaaaa)

Let's remember the man.

His career was kind of distinguished. Despite a staggering lack of interest and a trick deck stacked three stories tall against him, he forged the Piss-Ant Genome Mapping Project. He even let me count the piss-ants as he dropped them from tweezers into a pyrex beaker. ...Memories...

"TWO!" ..spit shooting from our trembling, trembling mouths...

Last summer I helped him move from one small laboratory in downtown Shanksville to another across the street, and while we were struggling with a bench that he initially described as "more awkward than heavy," we began to ponder some very deep and metaphysical questions. What if life is just a big dream and someday we'll all wake up in a different universe with different sensations and lubricants?

"If life is a dream," he said, "and I've spent the dream conducting experiments on piss-ants, then I'm going to choke a toddler when I wake up."

Brokely's father was a Sergeant in the sixth Barbary War. His mother dressed in riddles and adhered to a strict diet of curried twigs and bumble bees. Of their nine children, eight lost a prolonged, if not extremely short, battle with wet tail.

The professor is survived by his apprentice, that is, myself, and maybe a handful of notebooks filled with musings and sketches that I'm lucky enough to be in possession of and will make public as soon as feasible. A sample:

If I could be a ship
I'd be one in a bottle  

No wind to break my clip
No crew to set my throttle  

And if my glass should break... OK... there's a guy coughing in the coal shaft next to mine and it's not just a normal cough that you can ignore and work around. It's like a wimpy, persistent cough that sounds intentionally annoying and unproductive. Just get it out of your system, guy. Cough hard a couple times and end it. None of this piddly-ass "mmmbuuhhh...mmmbuuhhh...mmmbuuuuuh...mmmbuuuuhhh"  nonsense. Cough like a man. Loud and clear and authoritative. A cough that commands respect and applause even, or at least a good eulogy when you die from dust pneumonia.

- Professor Emeritus Sir Bankwell Brokely Esquire III

Julie couldn't sleep, so she hitched her wagon to an invisible star and prayed for it to take her some place good. She started rolling through suburban Jerksville very late at night and she kept rolling faster until everything looked crooked and wonkity. Then she rolled some more.

She rolled past circus caravans with waving bearded ladies, and she rolled past Wienermobiles and nitro-burning funny cars and Indians on silver horses. She rolled through the Iron Age and the Bronze Age and the Formica Age. She rolled through inner space and middle space and outer space, and she rolled through the stuff that floats just beyond outer space which happens to be 100% pure honey.

That's when Julie's wagon got stuck.

She took her shoes off and stepped out into the hot sticky middle of it. She walked for miles and saw lots of pretty smiling barefoot girls trapped in the honey like prehistoric mosquitoes frozen in amber. She walked until her legs stopped working, and she was so exhausted and completely happy that she finally fell asleep and sank into the honey, and was never heard from again. And that's why honey is sweet.

BOB: "Say, Chuck... I'm getting married again this September and I want you to be a pallbearer at the wedding! ...BADDA BING!"

CHUCK: "I'd love to help you out, but I would have to find a pet sitter... for my wife! ...BADDA BANG!"

BOB: "You know, my ex-wife called the other day begging for child support. So I broke my son's leg and sent her a crutch!"

CHUCK: "BADDA BOOM!"

BOB: "BADDA BOP!"

CHUCK: "It's always fun riffing with you, Bob. We oughta take this show on the road again -- tour the comedy circuits, see the country and so forth."

BOB: "Yeah I'd love to, but I have a 500-foot restraining order against my ex-wives, and in most cases I could only dig six feet deep! ....BLAMMO!"

CHUCK: "Hee hee."

BOB: "Of course if we do tour the country, we'll have to bring a good chef. I'm not saying my fiancée is a bad cook, but every meal she prepares causes my colon to prolapse and protrude three inches from my rectum! ...BUFFO!"

CHUCK: "Ha, yeah. So anyway, what else is new with you?"

BOB: "Well I just saw my astrologist."

CHUCK: "Is that so?"

BOB: "Yeah he said the reason things didn't work with my ex-wife is because I'm a Gemini and she's a fucking cunt!  ...ZINGO!"

CHUCK: "Yeah, zingo... Listen I gotta go."

BOB: "No problem, Chuck. But hey... if you happen to run into my ex-wife, make sure you back up and do it again! Until she's dead, Chuck! Completely dead! Make sure you kill her! ...Because we don't get along, her and I! "

CHUCK: "Badda bing?"

BOB: BADDA ZANG!"

Boris Hemlock was a cruel and selfish man. He trudged aimlessly through life, leaving a zig-zaggy trail of bad vibes in his wake.

One drunken night, many years ago, Boris stumbled down a dark street near the Cockadoodle marina, drawn like a bug to the noisy blinking lights that said "FORTUNES" & "SMOKED LUNG FISH"

"Fish sounds just fine," he thought. So he corrected his course and it was full speed ahead.

The door of an old thatched hut sprang open as he approached and a very old gypsy took his coat and instructed him to sit before he could think twice about it. She cut a deck of tarot cards with a silver dagger and began to deal them out.

"You've been a bad man, Boris."

"How do you know my name?"

The gypsy dealt another card.

"There is much you have to learn, and you've squandered so many opportunities to be good. But I will extend to you this offer: Leave this place and apologize to three people you've wronged, and I will give you the reward you deserve. However, if you continue down the path of darkness, all the misery of the world will be revealed to you."

Boris was amused and extremely hungry for fish, but he accepted the offer on selfish grounds. A reward for just three apologies?

"No problem," Boris laughed, grabbing his coat and leaving the gypsy with her dagger and cards.

Several days later, Boris returned to the gypsy hut, having completed the task and eager to accept his reward.

The gypsy welcomed him inside and read his cards again. "I see here that you did not complete the task, Boris. You are still a selfish man."

"Perhaps, but I did just what you said," Boris insisted. "I apologized three times. First I visited my mother and said, 'Mother, I'm sorry you're an ugly witch.' Next I visited my brother and said. 'Brother, I'm sorry I didn't drown you in the tub when we were boys.' Finally I visited my ex-wife and said, 'Woman, I'm sorry I blackened the world by bringing your rotten kids into it.'"

Boris sat back in his chair, beside himself with pride.

The gypsy did not like being tricked, but she was a woman of her word and made good on her promise. She picked up her dagger and gave Boris the reward he deserved.

"Hey Chuck. Want me to show you an easy way to do that?"

"No, thank you."

"It's much easier than what you're doing."

"Nope, I'm fine. But thanks."

"Just let me show you my way and if you still like your way better, then go nuts with it. By all means."

"Listen..... will you shut up? Do you know how many potatoes I've peeled in my life? It's gotta be up in the thousands. I don't need any help with it."

"But what I'm saying is you've peeled thousands of potatoes the hard way. I feel sorry for you. All I'm trying to do is teach you a fun and fancy short-cut."

"Jesus Christ... Okay, yeah.... show me the miracle method of peeling potatoes, wise master."

"Here... hand me a potato."

"Here."

"Thanks. Now all you gotta do is....oh... hold up, my phone's ringing.... Yyyyello? ... Really??... OK....I don't think so, why? ....Fine. Goodbye."

"Who was that?"

"I gotta run. Sniff you later, Chuckles."

What I gotta do is chill and get back into the swing. Like five years ago me and some friends spent New Year's eve at the McKean Tavern. This miserable whore with huge bags under her eyes was chatting me up, so I gave her the old "I'm not from around here" routine, trying to shake her off. I assumed she was cruisin' for a midnight smooch. Twenty minutes into things she says, "When my boyfriend gets here he's gonna kick your ass." So I says... "But why?" and she walked away. A couple hours later she's passed out in a booth with her boyfriend who I assumed wasn't real but he was real.... and 3 feet tall, TOPS. I should've fought him. That's my only regret in life so far. CHILL... chill... I'm reverting. No not reverting. I don't know what that means. You gotta go by the weight, not by the time you spend filling up the jug.

Then Gravity Took Over.mp3

Who's Coming Along?.mp3

"Nobody," an unseen Gordon McGirk muttered to himself as he pushed some beautiful tomatoes down his socks. Gordon was scruffy and homeless and had a dog named Duke. They lived together in the alcove of a department store that burned down during the Tacoma dirt fires. He was glad to find Barbara's garden. Duke liked it too. They walked back to the alcove as the sun was going down.

"You aren't gonna let me down tomorrow, are ya boy?" Gordon grabbed Duke's face and fed him a tomato. "You gotta win for your old man! You got to, Duke! Just one more time and we can ditch this shit hole!"

-------

When Gordon woke up, Duke was missing. They always ate breakfast together, so where the hell was he? Gordon stumbled around town asking folks if they saw a German Shepherd. Nobody did. Goddamn... Duke had a fight to win! Gordon needed a couple hundred dollars! This was supposed be the big one!

-------

"Henry! There's a strange dog eating our tomatoes! I mean.. the community's tomatoes!" Barbara swatted the flowery curtain aside and pressed her face against the kitchen window.

"What?!" Mr. Coy shouted back.

"There's a dog in the garden! He's eating it!"

Henry grabbed a rolling pin and put a colander on his head for protection. When Duke heard the screen door slam shut it spooked him. He was too damn fast and possessed by something unnatural. Duke sunk his fangs into Henry's soft old-person throat. Barbara watched from the kitchen and reached for the phone while Duke ripped her poor husband apart.

-------

The homeless, you need to understand, live within a special caste system. The filthiest hobo in the world might be held in very high regard for his sage wisdom. Or he might not. But Leonard Stroop was a hobo sage and a problem solver and everybody knew it. So, strapped for ideas and sweating bullets, Gordon paid Leonard a visit at the creek behind Saint Smithers Medical Facility & Pork Sausage Distillery. He wanted his dog back. Or a whole bunch of money.

-------

-------

Back in town, Gordon's consultation with Leonard Stroop the hobo sage went surprisingly well. Leonard, draped in bubble wrap and newspapers (business section) and speaking from inside a slatted sausage extruder box, described a woman nearby who had recently become the beneficiary of a large sum of money, owing to an insurance policy paid in full after her husband's extensive autopsy. Gordon recognized the address, but the sweetest detail was the widow's sudden change of world view. No longer did she see the good in people. She locked down her garden and even distrusted banks with her new fortune. Somehow Leonard knew all of this, and also where she kept the money, that is, behind a loose tile in the master bathroom.

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The night of the robbery, Gordon slicked his hair back and pinned his pants together and darted around the alcove in a nervous drill of self-preparation. He was ready. He slipped a jack-knife in his shoe in case things got hairy.

"Whoa.. whoa..."

"What?"

"What's that on your neck, baby?"

Barry twisted up his face and rubbed his neck and shivered.

"Oh...ow!!... Oh yeah..."

"Yeah, the red lines. That looks like it hurts."

"It does, Barbara."

"How did that happen?"

"Well... I was on the elevator at work and this gal tried to get on while the doors were closing. My hands were full so I couldn't hold the door open for her."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. So I stuck my head through the gap while the doors were closing."

"Oh my God!"

"The lady was freaked out by it."

"Jesus... I imagine so."

"She wouldn't get on the elevator. It started closing again and she still wouldn't get on. So I stuck my head through the gap again."

"Again? ...Why?"

"What else could I do?"

"Let it close."

"But there was the lady there."

"And did she get on the elevator?"

"What do you mean?"

"...Nothing... Nevermind."

"So by the fourth or maybe seventh time I realized she wasn't going to get on the elevator and I was late anyhow and getting light-headed, so I got off and took the stairs."

"Honey I think we should go see Dr. Divorsky tomorrow. That does not look too good."

"It's fine, Barbara."

"Hmmm... no no... we should let Dr. Divorsky decide."

"It's fine......... Barbara."

------------

Johnny Boy.mp3

Hate To See You Smile.mp3

Falling In The Hole.mp3

"Honey, come look at the new bed I just got!"

Marsha stepped from the bathroom drying her hair with a big towel. She stopped abruptly and looked at Gary and then at the bed, and then at Gary again.

"You bought a new bed without telling me? That's a big purchase... wait... When did you even get this inside the house?"

"While you were showering. Now listen... We can try it for 90 days and they'll take it back if we don't like it. No questions asked. Guaranteed."

"What's with the big funnel on the headboard?"

"Those are for the comfort nuggets."

"What?"

Gary held up a brown satchel and took out three puckered balls that looked like spoiled crab apples.

"The comfort nuggets. This bed allows you to dial in exactly the right amount of comfort. You just drop these nuggets into the funnel and the bed undergoes a subtle transformation."

"Why do the nuggets smell like that?"

"Not sure."

"What happens when you run out of nuggets?"

"We will have to buy more. All the time. But you can get like 50 comfort nuggets for cheap."

"This seems weird to me."

"No it's not. Try depositing a few comfort nug--"

"Stop saying comfort nuggets!!!"

"But that's what they are."

"I know but... Can we just get a nice regular bed? Can we exchange this for a regular one that doesn't run on nuggets?"

"Yes."

Gary and Marsha tied the bed to the rack of their Chevette and left. The store was supposedly just around the corner, but they were having trouble finding it.

"Gary, didn't you say the bed store was next door to Tawny's Olde Tyme Sock Parlor?"

"Yeah it was. I'm certain of it.... It was right here, I swear to God."

They spent a couple hours trying to find the bed store, but they eventually gave up and went home to think about things. They sat together on the front porch and after a while Gary began to think out loud.

"Oh great," he said.

"What?"

"Well... the other day during my lunch break, me and a couple guys went to this Filipino Circus that was in town. There was a gypsy there. She told me this was going to happen. I forgot."

"So... A Filipino gypsy predicted you would buy a bed that runs on comfort nuggets, and when you tried to return it, the store would be gone. Is that what she said?"

"Correct."

"Plus... you forgot about that fortune until just now. Still correct?"

"Yes."

"And I suppose the circus is no longer in town either?"

"Unlikely."

"Then I guess we'll have to keep the bed, huh?"

"I guess so."

"Gary, you asshole! What's the matter with you? You think I wouldn't recognize our old bed just because you taped a funnel to the headboard? How long were you going to keep this up? I mean... Jesus... The crab apples?? They're all over the ground! Look around you!"

"I'm sorry."

"You need to stop doing this."

"I explained this problem to you when we married."

"I know! I know you did! I was stupid to think I could change you. Each time you seem so convinced that the comfort nuggets are real! I was going to give you a chance to own up this time!"

"I have a disease, Marsha."

"It's not a disease!"

"I'm sick, Marsha" Gary said calmly, rolling a crab apple between his hands. A student driver suddenly crashed into their mailbox. They looked at him. He looked back and shrugged, and drove away.

Here's a startling recipe I received from a French social worker. It's called Merman's Salad and contains chili fries on a pork burrito with pierogies and hard boiled eggs. Melt a little cheddar cheese on top for an instant classic. Wash it down with a big fat glass of whiskey and go to bed. You earned it.

Sir Bankwell Brokely Esquire III
1935-2009 ~ R.I.P.

Over the years I've taken from the writings of Bankwell Brokely, a man of impeccable taste, that the grand tortoise of Galapagos is a beast of borrowed wisdom carrying with him thoughts that can't be weighed. He skates the land for ages, soaking up the miseries and pleasures of a living thing. It's this length of time and closeness to mother earth's damp labia majora that does it. But it can't be measured in pounds. Like the smoke in a cigar whose ashes are carefully gathered on a scale to win a bet, the weight of some things is hard to figure. The tortoise has a very heavy head filled with deep and heavy thoughts.

When our friend climbs a steep grade that topples him and renders him helpless on his back, it's the weight of his shell that matters, and not what's on his mind. What God shook up the world, to put such heavy things on our shoulders? Who smokes life's rich cigars and bucks the ashes? "Tip the scale, o' ye of little taste," says the perfect master.

Sir Brokely... you fell on your back and died close to mother earth, now may your soul recline forever in the stars.

"Dear sweet Jesus! What in the hell are you doing, private Mahoney?!"

"Modified push-ups, sir."

"Modified what?!"

"Push-ups. Because regular push-ups hurt my arms and chest. I get sore so easy."

"Holy shit, private Mahoney! Are you shittin' me, you stupid son of a bitch?! How about I modify your mother's asshole?!"

"My mother lives way down in Palm Springs. And even if you found her house, which I doubt you would be able to, she has a security system and you have to know the code. And the police would arrest you so fast you will be surprised."

"Jesus Fuck!! You know what I'm gonna call you, Mahoney?! I'm gonna call you private Puke-shit!!"

"You should call me private Q-tip because my hair is soft and pure. Listen... I'll do regular push-ups if that's what this is all about. I just thought--"

"I'll tell you when to think, private Q-tip!! I mean PUKE-SHIT!!! I meant to say private Puke-shit!!"

"Well I'm not going to argue with you."

-------------

Private Mahoney struggled through basic training. His drill sergeant was a hard man whose lot in life was weighed in big dirty ol' bags of hair. Nobody stuck any important life lessons in their pockets. I used to think airplane jumps and pin-up girls with olive-drab hypnotism swirls in their eyes counted for something, but every time I wake up alone in a wet bed with the country station on my alarm clock radio cutting in and out, I get a sick feeling, like diplomacy's more important and the other stuff is way too old-fashioned. Thank God for whiskey. There's good and proper ways to change your stride that never go out of style, and the only truth is on your headstone. Don't look at me like that. You asked for my opinion and yeah... I'm gonna give it to you. But your mother won't be home for a couple hours still. It's nice to have some company for a change. So let's take this nice and slow. Roundabout. Pussyfoot. What part of "I'm so lonely" don't you understand?

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Help Me, Angela.mp3

There's nothing like a hard boiled egg to chase the blues away. Here's a recipe for perfect ones every time.

Step 1: Buy eggs

Step 2: Put 'em in a pot

Step 3: Add cold water until the eggs drown to death

Step 4: Bring the water to a rapid boil and let the eggs cook for 1 minute

Step 5: Remove the pot from the burner and cover it with a lid

Step 6: Let the eggs sit in the covered pot of hot water for 15 minutes

Step 7: Drain the water

Step 8: Run cold water over the eggs in the pot for 2 minutes

Step 9: Submerge the eggs in cold water and let them sit in the pot for like an hour

Step 10: Drain the water and peel the eggs

Step 11: Put the eggs in your mouth

Here's a video tape of my step-newphew Nigel trying to drink upon some beers:

Here is a trailer for my first feature film, "Suicide Face"

PLOT SUMMARY: A regular guy receives a face-transplant from a suicide victim after his own face gets chewed off by wolves. He starts having visions and bad dreams and then all of a sudden he starts committing suicides. "Horror has a new face... A Suicide Face."

Hope you like it....

And this is a commercial I was hired to make for the American Coucil of Hard Boileds....

Some guy on Youtube posted a video about ukuleles and foul language. My teen friend Terry recorded a response to his video. See here:

"Is that your new dog?"

"Yeah, don't look him in the eyes."

"Why not?"

"He doesn't like it."

"What's his problem?"

"Nothing. What do you mean? He just doesn't like eye-contact."

"Will he bite me?"

"I don't know.... I doubt it. He just gets depressed easy."

"Oh... So how's the new girl? ...what's-her-face..."

"Julia. She's pretty good. I'm happy."

"You look happy."

"She doesn't like my music. I finish a new song... one that I'm especially proud of, and we put it in the car stereo and she feigns interest for a couple seconds and then she turns it down so she can tell me about some stupid shit somebody said at work. She's planning a trip to Mexico in a couple weeks. She's going alone. She thinks I'm irritating. We have nothing in common."

"I was just looking your dog in the eyes."

"I told you not to."

"He looks disappointed."

"Yeah."

"Sorry."

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Take Me With You.mp3

Something's Wrong.mp3

Snowflake.mp3

I'm A Liar.mp3

"Thank you for calling Pizza Pony. My name is Scooby. How can I help you?"

"Your name is Scooby?"

"Yeah. Or just plain Scoobs."

"Well--"

"Scoobs is more casual. Call me that."

"All right. Can I order a pizza.... Scoobs?"

"Yes. And what do they call you at home, sir?"

"Jeff."

"Well I'm gonna call you Scoobs Junior. So.... Do you wanna try the Pizza Pony Snacky Pack?"

"What the hell is that?"

"One large single topping pizza, one liter of Siera Mist, and one jumbo bag of candy."

"It comes with candy?"

"For you it does. Twizzlers."

"But I don't really want candy. I'll just get the pizza."

"Listen, the candy is free with the pizza, though. As a favor. Take the Twizzlers. It's a better deal."

"No thanks."

"Give them to somebody at work."

"No. Can I please just order a pizza?"

"Yes."

"And no candy."

"Fine."

"I'll take one lar--"

"Are you worried about cavities or something??"

"What? ...No, I just don't like candy."

"Brush your teeth twice per day and you won't get cavities."

"I already do that."

"The top ones in the morning and the bottom ones at night?"

"....."

"Just kidding. Okay, no candy. Do you still want the Siera Mist? I can modify your Snacky Pack pretty easily."

"No... just a pizza... no Snacky Pack."

"Tell you what.... I'm going to put a free spool of ribbon in the the box. For free. Any color within reason. Don't request an odd-ball color, Scoobs Junior."

"Good-bye."

---------------------------------------------

Scooby didn't make the sale that day. His manager pulled him aside and they exchanged the following words:

"Scooby, we've been getting a lot of complaints."

"About the pizza?"

"No, no.. about your performance. Pizza Pony strives to employ the best people available and... this is very hard for me because I like you... but we have to let you go."

"How come?"

"Because of the complaints! You make up these so-called Snacky Pack combo deals and it pisses people off. There's no such thing as Snacky Packs."

"What?"

"Scooby, please leave."

"Scoobs is more casual."

Vicky was a buxom, opinionated girl with electric yellow finger nails. Her hair was a fine pile of tightly woven snakes. Walter was a foot shorter than Vicky. He had a moustache and his glasses were heavy and he adjusted them a lot. They were driving together through the Chuggadingle countryside in a tubby 1948 Italian convertible. Vicky was at the wheel. Her bare foot pressed the gas pedal in completely. They zipped and twisted dangerously fast. Walter tried to keep his wits in tact. He clutched the sides of his seat.

"This will be a fine picnic," Vicky said calmly.

Walter was scared shitless. His eyes were stretched open and he mouthed the words, "Jesus Christ" over and over.

"I said... this will be a fine picnic. Don't you agree, Walter?" Vicky repeated, slightly irritated this time.

"What?" said Walter.

Vicky looked at him and frowned with disarming elegance.

"Does my driving bother you?" asked Vicky.

"Watch the road!" said Walter.

Vicky continued to study Walter's expression while he frantically pointed at the road and insisted that she return her attention to it. But to Vicky, the world was a quiet place and she was amused by Walter's pantomime.

She began to veer outside of her lane as an uncompromising milk truck approached at a steady clip. Walter squealed. Vicky turned away in time, and they proceeded at the same uneasy speed through the musty, musty, musty countryside.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lake Dingitydong spread out stark on the horizon. They got closer and slowed down and found a place to park in a gravel lot divided by short wooden posts strung together with rope. The mechanical clanging of the car stopped and the air was calm again. Walter looked rattled. His hands were shaking. Vicky was already in the grass surveying the place and dropping blankets and picnic stuff that she removed from the back seat while Walter pulled himself together.

"C'mon Walter! I found a good spot!" Vicky hollered.

Walter reluctantly removed himself from the car. He tripped and rolled wildly down a rocky hill where Vicky was uncorking a bottle of wine.

"Stop horsing around, Walter."

His arms and legs were bleeding from the tumble. He asked Vicky for a handkerchief and perhaps some iodine, but to Vicky, the world was a quiet place and she was amused by Walter's pantomime.

Vicky poured some wine for Walter. She took a long swig from the bottle before pouring some for herself. She told Walter to hurry up and finish his drink as she wiggled out of her clothes and ran to the edge of the lake. Walter obeyed. At least the water would clean his cuts, he figured.

They swam and splashed and Vicky dunked Walter's head in the water while his hands flailed helplessly above the surface. He came up gasping for air. Vicky hurried out of the water. Walter followed her and they dried off and settled down.

Vicky laid out some woodchuck sandwiches and Walter reached for one. She slapped his hand and told him to wait.

"That stings!" said Walter as he pulled back his hand and rubbed it resentfully.

Vicky finished spreading out the food and said,

"Don't get grabby. We'll eat when I say."

That was the last straw. It had been three long years of abuse from that woman. He recalled a dinner party last summer when Vicky made him look like a fool in the company of very close friends. A man should have a say, godammit A real man should govern the ebb and flow of a relationship. Yes, Vicky was a stunning beauty, and most men could only dream of knowing her intimately, but it was precisely this fact that distracted Walter and kept him from asserting himself and changing things. He was tired of being controlled.

Walter stood up quickly and pushed the sturdy girl over-- a task he somehow made look easy. He took a small pistol from his breast pocket and pressed it against Vicky's stomach. He squeezed the trigger three times. The shots were deafening, but to Vicky, the world was a quiet place and she was amused by Walter's pantomime. Walter stumbled backward in horror.

"Happy birthday, mom!"

"Brandon! I told you not to get me anything.... You should be saving your money for college. Books are super expensive."

"Yeah I remember what you said, but when I saw this I had to get it. It's the perfect thing for you!"

"Jeez... It's so heavy!"

"Open it, mom. You're gonna love it..... L-o-v-e."

[ Brandon watched his mom pick at the tape and jerk the wrapping paper off the weird looking gift. It was a brand new saxophone. Brandon's mother, having no musical training at all, was speechless. ]

"It's a saxophone, mom. You love saxophone music. You love Sting and John Coltrane."

"Well... I... That's true, I do love Sting..."

"So now you can play all your favorite Sting songs on this mint-condition saxophone."

"But I have no idea how to play this. I mean.... I'm not musical at all."

"You don't like it?"

"No, no... I like it, it's very nice, but... how much did this cost?"

"$400."

"Oh my god, Brandon. Listen... I really appreciate this and I know you put a lot of thought into it, but....."

[ Tears welled up in Brandon's eyes. ]

"I didn't keep the receipt. 'Cause... 'cause I was sure you would love it."

"I do! ...I do love it, but it would take years to learn how--"

"Well fuck it! Who gives a fuck, right?! Fuck you, fuck me, fuck the saxophone, fuck the craftsmanship! Right mom?! Right?!"

"Brandon! Stop it!"

[ Brandon tore the saxophone away from his mother. He blew into it violently and danced around the room and cried hysterically. Pictures fell off the walls and glasses jingled. Brandon collapsed and wept quietly while his mother rubbed his back and tried to bring him around. ]

"Brandon? Hey Brandon?"

"Yeah mom?"

"I want to keep the saxophone."

[ Brandon sat up and looked at her. She wiped his tears away. ]

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Are you gonna play your favorite Sting songs on it?"

"I'm gonna try."

"Do you want to see what I got dad?"

Doctor Divorsky had a little rectangle of thin white paper. He was writing with a ballpoint pen:

"Attention vending machine: Please let me have some of your Skittles. This is Doctor Divorsky. I am a doctor at this hospital. Thanks so much."

He put the cap on his pen and stared at the note for a full minute and blew on it gently to make the ink dry before stuffing it in the break room vending machine's bill slot. It wasn't working. Julie from Intensive Care walked in.

"Hey Julie, can you read this?"

He handed her the paper and crossed his arms.

"Yeah... what is it?"

"Well I'm try--"

"You're not trying to use this, are you? In the vending machine?"

"I want those Skittles in there."

"Yeah but doctor, this isn't going to work. Let me give you some change. How much do you need?"

"I have plenty of change, Julie. I want Skittles."

Julie was paged and had to leave the room in a hurry, feeling certain that doctor Divorsky bumped his head again.

-----------------------------------------------

Doctor Divorsky paced around the break room. Why do they lock those Skittles up behind a pane of glass? Who puts them there? Why?

He had to perform gallbladder surgery in twenty minutes. He needed a snack to keep his strength up. Those Skittles were looking fine.

Ten minutes until surgery. Still no snack. Still pacing. Still wondering things.

Five minutes. No snack. No ideas. Pacing.

------------------------------------------

Divorsky entered the operating room with a mind completely taken up by those cock-sucking Skittles. It made no sense whatsoever. A nurse put a mask over his face and helped him with his gloves. He shook his head.

"Doctor Divorsky?"

Divorsky didn't respond.

"Doctor Divorsky? The patient is ready."

"Oh... Yes, O.K."

Divorsky briefly examined the body and felt around for the gallbladder. He took a scalpel and made a good clean cut, right where it needed to be. He reached into his pocket and removed a little rectangle of thin white paper and wrote with a ballpoint pen:

"Attention gallbladder: Please let me have your gallstones. You are making this person sick and we need to get them from you. At your earliest convenience. I am a doctor at this hospital. Thanks so much."

Divorsky let the ink dry and inserted the paper into the patient's incision. The operating room was stunned silent. Several minutes passed, and then...

"Doctor Divorsky?"

No response.

"Doctor? What did you do?"

There was a broadening red spot on Divorsky's mask. He stared intently at the incision.

"Doctor?"

What happened to SKYDADDY??

Um... well let me answer that question with another question:

Mind your own business.

Just a little kink in the hose.... That's all. Everything will be back to normal in a few short so-and-sos. In the meantime...

JOIN US, DAMIEN

TIME TRAVELER TERRY LORD
A Report From The Future

Hey dill wipes. Oops-- did I forget to mention "dill wipe" means "friend" in the year 2017?

Well it does.

My name's Terry Lord and I just got back from the future for a special SKYDADDY exclusive report about the evolution of MTV's hit reality series, "The Real World."

In 2017 "The Real World" will be transported to a dusty farm in the deserted town of Skeebo, Alabama. There ain't no nightclubs, alcohol or hot tubs in Skeebo, and neighbors are few and far between. Kinda looks like a nuclear bomb test site.

A single Shetland pony named Bobby Williams will be provided to the cast for transportation and companionship. He comes with a comb and diabetes.

The cast will consist of the same nihilistic, delusional twenty-somethings of various ethnic and sexual backgrounds who make the present show depressing and unwatchable, but this time they will be forced to till the fallow soil of Skeebo Ranch until something grows. Cross your fingers, chubby mama.

Shawndra, a sexy blonde dyke from Vermont will try to escape the farm after her bulimia and self-inflicted wounds go unnoticed by the rest of the cast due to an outbreak of famine and bloody dysentery. She doesn't get far because Bobby Williams runs out of steam pretty quick and his breath starts smelling like farts. It ain't pretty.

Lacking contraception, the farm will immediately be populated with snotty kids in overalls whose eye-bugging appetite for Shetland pony meat will have Bobby Williams skewered on a spit with an apple in his mouth by the end of episode three. So long, Bobby... Good to know ya!

The children will then arrange their stupid parents on their backs across picnic tables with their heads dangling off the edge and slit their throats with a rusty sickle. Blood runs fast across sour earth as powerful stalks of wheat spring from spoiled corpses. The land transforms. The dilapidated farmhouse changes into a stately white mansion with fine mahogany woodwork, silver, and art. Skeebo becomes the capital of Alabama and eventually America. A picture of Bobby Williams goes on the five dollar bill and blah, blah, blah.

So that's "The Real World" in the year 2017. See you dill wipes in the future!

About 2000 years ago, a baby named Jesus Christ was born in a drafty barn. Jesus grew up quick and took a job as a carpenter. He lived in the middle east and he had good hair and good upper-body strength.

Jesus' muscles were smooth and his abs were just right. Many guys nowadays overdo weight-training and they look like fools. Not Jesus. He did a basic free-weight routine every day. And he also did a muscle confusion program once per week. After his workouts, Jesus rewarded himself with low-fat yogurts. He leaned against the weight machines while he ate them with a small spoon. And he also drank Mister Pibbs.

Jesus did not put on very much extra bulk, he just trimmed down and got fully toned, especially in the upper-body regions. And Jesus probably was not trying to impress you or anybody else with his looks. He just wanted to feel good about himself when he looked in the mirror, which he did a lot in order to get his hair perfect, and to make sure his penis was not exposed because the robes back then were more loose than today.

Jesus' hairdo was soft like Cher's, but it also had the poofiness and coloration of Charles Manson. Back during biblical times, guys didn't have time to worry about hair, but Jesus made time because he didn't want his head to look like a straggly thorn bush. In conclusion, Jesus focused on his upper body looks and it paid off because Easter and Christmas never lost their meanings.

MARCH 10, 2008

"Hey do you want a bite of my apple?"

"I'm allergic to them."

"Are you really?"

"Yes. If I ate one, my face would get puffy. And my eyes would roll back in my head."

"Oh my gosh."

"And my nervous system would shut down, and my windpipe would snap shut, and my sphincter would go berserk."

"Ew, gross."

"And my small, undeveloped balls would disintigrate."

"Huh?"

"And my bowels would release and my hands would swell up like cartoons. So, no... I don't want a bite of your stinkin' apple."

[SEVERAL MINUTES LATER]

"So that's pretty weird. The apple thing.... I didn't know that about you."

"I don't advertise it."

"What about apple sauce?"

"Allergic."

"Apple pie?"

"Allergic."

"Snapple?"

"Allergic."

"Christina Applegate?"

"Allergic."

"Jared Fogel?"

"Allergic."

"Shmared Shmogel?"

"Allergic."

"Shmar shmar?"

"It must be nice not being allergic to shmar shmar."

"But shmar shmar is not a real thing. I made it up to see if you were lying."

"Shmar shmar is definitely real. Look it up in the dictionary. It's a byproduct of apple-flavored marzipan. Look it up if you don't believe me."

"No I believe you."

"It must be nice being able to eat shmar shmar whenever you want. You don't realize how good you have it, buster."

"Look I'm sorry."

"Not as sorry as I am."

"Can we just talk about something else?"

"Yeah let's ignore the crushing fact that eating shmar shmar would make my nipples fall off and my first born child would automatically be born with Patrick Swayze Disease."

-----------

New hit songs:

Tell Daddy, Natalie.mp3

Sugical Tubing.mp3

If you missed my band's north American tour on account of being lazy, cheap and unsupportive, here's a sample of the finest butter in Denver:

Shit Parade (Fridge VS. Oven)

LINDA: "Don't look now but here comes Cooper Tylerson."

DARCY: "Cooper Tylerson? He's the tannest guy at Jonesboro High!"

LINDA: "Duh... And here he comes."

[COOPER TYLERSON STRUTS DOWN THE HALL IN SLOW MOTION WHILE "I BELIEVE IN MIRACLES" PLAYS IN THE BACKGROUND]

COOPER: "Hey, ladies."

BOTH: "Hi, Cooper."

COOPER: "Supposed to be a party at the old saw mill tonight. You comin'?"

LINDA: "We'll be there, Cooper."

COOPER: "Ladies, please... Call me Coupe de Ville."

DARCY: "We don't feel comfortable calling you that."

LINDA: "Speak for yourself, Darcy. I'll call you Coupe de Ville if you want." [WINK]

COOPER: "Cooly, cool, cool... Well... see you chicks tonight."

LINDA: "Bye, Coupe."

[IN THE GIRL'S ROOM]

DARCY: "You should'a seen Linda this morning. She was drooling all over Cooper Tylerson..."

GIRL #2: "You mean Coupe de Ville?"

DARCY: "No... I don't."

GIRL #3: "Lighten up, Darcy. Maybe guys would notice you if you weren't such a pill."

DARCY: "Nobody says 'pill' ...and furthermore, fuck you. The only reason girls like Cooper is because he's extremely tan. He looks like a dark-brown Jerry O'connel. It's unnatural."

GIRL #2: "Aren't you a virgin, Darcy?"

DARCY: "Go to hell."

[GYM CLASS]

GIRL #4: "Did you guys see Coupe de Ville's new tattoo?"

DARCY: "Ughh... You can hardly see it over his tan."

GIRL #5: "I know... isn't it great?"

DARCY: "No! There's nothing great about being that tan. It's weird and creepy. Did you ever see "Soul Man" ?

GIRL #4: "Darcy, you really need to loosen up."

GIRL #5: "She needs to get laid."

DARCY: "Shut up, you guys! I'm just angry that you're infatuated with a guy because he's shockingly tan. His skin is peeling!"

GIRL #4: "I think he's sexy and exotic."

GIRL #5: "Me two!"

GIRL #6: "Me three!"

DARCY: "Well ya'll can have him. His missing eyebrow is a deal-breaker for me. And he only has four teeth."

GIRL #4: "Yeah but check out that tan."

DARCY: "Fuck the tan!"

[AT THE OLD SAW MILL]

GIRL #7: "Did you guys hear?"

GIRLS 1 THROUGH 6: "Hear what?"

GIRL #7: "Coupe de Ville is gonna jump his Ford Festiva across Fairyfloss Gulch!"

GIRL #4: "Holy cow! If anybody can jump Fairyfloss Gulch, it's Coupe! I'm certain of it!"

GIRLS 1 THROUGH 7: "Let's go!"

[FAIRYFLOSS GULCH WAS 30 YARDS ACROSS AND ANOTHER 30 DEEP. COOPER TYLERSON NEVER STOOD A CHANCE. HE REVVED HIS ENGINE AND SPED FOR THE CLIFF]

LINDA: "Hey guys... don't look now but here comes Burt Schimmel."

GIRLS 1 THROUGH 7: "Burt Schimmel? He's the tallest guy at Jonesboro High!"

[COOPER'S CAR EXPLODES IN THE BACKGROUND]

LINDA: "Duh.... And here he comes."

"You're tuned to 109.5 The Badger... Houston's Hottest Country Station. This is the Penis & Shoefly Show. I'm Penis..."

"And I'm Shoefly. We've been talking all morning about extramarital affairs and our next caller is a self-proclaimed home-wrecker. Todd, you're on The Penis & Shoefly Show..."

"Good morning, guys. I love your show so much... I listen to you all the time, I swear to God..."

"Todd can you turn your radio down please?"

"What?"

"You need to turn down your radio. There's feedback..."

"But I love your show. I listen all the time at high volumes. To your show."

"Yeah but when you're on the air and you're listening to yourself through the radio, it creates problems with the audio stream. Just turn your radio off for a few minutes while we talk."

"What do you mean? No way will I turn off The Penis & Shoefly Show! I love you guys too much."

"Okay-- Todd? If you can't turn the radio off or move to a different room, we're going to hang up."

"Wait! Wait! I can go to another room."

"Okay."

"Can you hear me better now?"

"Yeah that's better. Now let's see here... so you're the guy to look out for, huh? You're the guy sleeping with all our wives?"

"Guess you could say that."

"I sense a certain amount of pride in your voice."

"Well I do get a lotta freaky Texas bush."

"And what's your appeal, exactly?"

"I'm young. Pretty good-looking. Athletic. Have a nice job. Women get bored with their husbands and I scoop 'em up."

"And you have no remorse for ruining their lives?"

"Hey it takes two to tango. And I'm not ruining their lives. I kinda resent you saying that, Penis... I give these ladies what they want. What they need. They aren't getting it from their husbands."

"Now lemme ask you something... Have you ever been married yourself?"

"Yeah.... I'm married now."

"You are married?"

"Yes."

"And does your wife know about all the women you're sleeping with?"

"Sure hope not!"

"But I mean... Todd... how would you feel if somebody slept with your wife?"

"Hey, that's my wife you're talkin' about!"

"I know, I know... You'd be pretty upset if someone slept with her, right?"

"You're dang right I would!"

"Well guess what, Todd? Earlier this week, my partner Shoefly tracked down your wife at the supermarket and propositioned her. Shoefly is young, decent-looking and he has a great job here at The Badger, Houston's Hottest Country Station."

"You gotta be shittin' me!"

"Shoefly had country sex with your wife Cynthia."

"I'll kill her!"

"There's more, Todd..."

"What?!"

"Remember earlier when we told you to turn down your radio?"

"Yeah..."

"We were messing with you. We could hear you fine. You were coming in clear and crisp."

"HA, HA! You guys are the best! I listen to you all the time!"

"We gotta get a break in here... You're listening to The Penis & Shoefly Show on Houston's Hottest Country Station... 109.5, The Badger."

I finally struck a deal with the sheriff's department. Read it and weep:

"Dear Bradlee,

The Denver Sheriffs' Department wishes to cease negotiations. We hereby agree to supply you with 175 pounds of chicken, beef, or shrimp in a clean black bag as per your request.

This is "settlement meat" which is intended to end your claim stating that Denver police officials stole from your possession a crystal sphere containing damp socks at the intersection of Washington and 11th avenue, near our downtown headquarters, which your picket signs and banners describe as "The Bermuda Triangle of Missing Damp Socks In Crystal Spheres."

This is not an admission of guilt, but an attempt to stop the harmful nature of your accusations and constant picketing near our premises. The meat will be delivered to your home by the end of this business week. Please do not contact us about this issue again."

-------------------------------

Year In Review - here's some out takes and zany bloopers from 2007 which never saw the light of day. Probably for good reason... but you should see the box of shit I'm not posting. I recorded a song called "Tuck It In, Mama" for example. Here's the words: "Tuck it in, mama, tuck it in..... Tuck it in, mama, tuck it in..... Tuck it mama baby tuck it mama baby mama, tuck it in mama mama, tuck it in."

Forget Me Not - I promised my mom I'd never do a song with a whistle solo. Well sorry....

Celebrate Summer 2007 - sexualizing a classic...

I Like You A Lot - I kinda wanted to finish this one, but hey... that's why God invented the fade-out

Jimmy - The idea here was to record a whole album about an extremely religious tightass father and his son but I couldn't keep my shit together during the early test runs

We'll Be Friends Again Tomorrow - Supposed to be a duet with my sister. Thanks for all the help, sis.

Nothing Ever Happens Here - I recorded this the day Bob Barker stepped down. That's all I remember

"You're a wall of guitars... You're a megaphone... You big.... you big-faced dickweed!"

Julie slammed the door and left me sitting alone in my fine Moroccan silk armchair. I rubbed my hand over the high-quality leaf patterned stitching and sniffed my fingers. Musty. Deep dish. I stared at the wall for a while and rubbed the chair nice and slow. The phone rang.

"This is Julie's mother. What did you say to her?"

I tried to talk but nothing came out. I coughed and sat up a little.

"Hello, Mrs. Dagnagio."

"Don't 'Mrs.Dagnagio' me, buddy. What did you tell her this time?"

"We were just talking."

"About?"

"Well I don't see how you factor into this, Mrs. Dagnagio. I think you're being--"

"Listen here. I catch that girl when she falls, and I've been doing that a lot lately on account of you. Julie won't be coming over any more."

"But she lives here."

"She did."

"She... does?"

"Have her stuff ready by tomorrow morning. I'm pickin' it all up. And it better be in good shape."

I put the phone down and leaned back in my fine silk chair again, rubbing it hard. Rubby rubby rubby. I took my shirt off and rubbed my terrible burnt skin on the leaf patterns. Rubby rubby rubby rubby rubby. I caught my reflection in the door of the oven. No wonder she hates me. Oh God! No wonder.

-------------------------------------

PART 4

Potato-based civilizations communicate with Proton Canisters, or "pro-cans." Every pro-can is numbered 1 through 6, and only individuals with like-numbered canisters are able to understand each other. This creates some interesting situations, both comedic and tragic, often simultaneously, often without apologies from anybody.

Part 4 - Why Can't You Sleep On The Floor?

PART 3

My neighbor has high-speed internet. When I set up my computer, it showed her web connection as "Lizzy" and it had a padlock over it which means I am not allowed to use it without the password.

Part 3 - Lizzy Don't Share

PART 2

Julie took a job as a switchboard operator in Chicago after the fires settled and everything was still gently smoking. The sun didn't come out for like three weeks. She was driving home from work with her shirt pulled over her nose so she didn't have to smell the city. Musty. Deep dish.

Part 2 - Nature Girl

[TAMMY AND BOB]

"Wait... what were we just talking about?"

"You were going to tell me how you got your glass eye, and then you kinda went into a trance."

"No... I mean yeah... but before that?"

"Ummm, well you said something about an episode of 'Perfect Strangers' when Balki broke the fourth wall by staring directly into the camera for twenty-eight minutes because he was mad at the director."

"Oh yeah... That was a weird episode.... or epperino as I like to say."

"Why do you say epperino instead of episode?"

"I just do."

[TAMMY AND CINDY]

"So did Bob finally tell you about his eye?"

"No! He came so close last night. I mean I really thought he was going to tell me. But as soon as the subject came up, he went quiet and started convulsing a little."

"Jeez oh man. How long can a guy go without talking about his glass eye? If I had one, I'd mention it all the time. Constantly. You should just ask him."

"I can't! He'll tell me when he's ready, Cindy. But I really do wanna know."

[TAMMY AND BOB AGAIN]

"...and then Theo started beating Rudy with his slipper because he caught her coloring the pictures in Mr. Huxtable's medical journals.."

"Bob, I don't remember that episode. I mean epperino. And I used to love that show."

"Well that's what happened."

"Okay. Um... Hey I got a question for you."

"Ask me anything, baby."

"How did you get your--"

"Just don't ask me about my glass eye. That's the only subject I won't discuss. I will never reveal how I got my glass eye, no matter how close we get."

"But why?"

"I just don't."

[TAMMY AND CINDY AGAIN]

"So what happened last night?"

"Well I tried asking him straight up how he got the glass eye and he got really weird and defensive. I don't think it's gonna work out."

"Jeez-oh-mama-diddily."

[TAMMY AND BOB AGAIN]

"Baby, would you mind moving down-wind of me? Your perfume is giving me a sore throat."

"Sure. Um....Hey Bob, do you remember that epperino of 'Roseanne,' when Jackie dumped Booker because he wouldn't tell her the story behind his glass eye?"

"No, no, the way I remember it was... Jackie and Booker got married and, long story short, she never asked him about his glass eye. And they both lived together for the rest of their lives. And there was a spin-off series called "Jackie & Booker" which was about their happy relationship. And the subject of Booker's glass eye never came up. Never. And the show lasted for 20 seasons and it's still going strong today. And the ratings have never been higher."

"Listen Bob--"

"All-time highest ratings."

--------------

New hit song because I been a goon too long....

unsophisticated child.mp3

Bonus song....

I need a loan and I'm coming over.mp3

Brandon was allowed to bring one friend to his grandmother's eighty-third birthday party. They would be dining at Poochy's Buffet, an all-you-can-eat joint with steaks and baked potatoes cooked to order. But first, his dad had to get the car started. It was the middle of winter, and the family's 1985 Cutlas Supreme wasn't looking too good. Luckily, Brandon chose the right friend to accompany them: Zachary Snugglechuck.

[ENGINE SPUTTERING]

DAD: ...Start! ...Start!

MOM: Yelling won't make the car start, dear.

DAD: Carol, I swear to God if you don't shut up I'm going to staple your lips together.

BRANDON: Dad!

DAD: Brandon, play your Gameboy.

BRANDON: Sorry about this, Zachary. My dad gets crazy on holidays and stuff.

Zachary Snugglechuck was an extremely compact and almost comatose 12-year-old boy, whose size 3 shoes dangled from every chair he got on. His eyelids were slack and his tiny hands were turned palms-up and resting on his knees. He wore a bright red baseball cap and a brown vest with an embroidered "Z" on the left breast.

ZACHARY: Hmmm?

BRANDON: Hey dad, Zachary is pretty good with stuff like this. Maybe he could take a look under the hood. Will you, Zachary?

Zachary nodded.

BRANDON: He wouldn't mind, dad.

Dad laughed and dragged his shaky hand across his face.

DAD: Be my guest.

Dad popped the hood, and Zachary and Brandon got out of the car. They looked at the motor. Zachary touched it with the tip of his finger and quietly said, "Try it now."

BRANDON: Try it now, dad!

[ENGINE SPUTTERING]

DAD: Nope! What else ya got?!

Zachary touched another part of the motor with the tip of his finger and said, "Try it now."

BRANDON: He says try it now, dad!

[ENGINE SPUTTERING]

DAD: Nope! Nothing!

Zachary kept touching various parts of the engine with the tip of his finger but nothing ever happened. They got back in the car. Brandon shut his door and got comfortable.

BRANDON: Well sorry dad. I thought he could fix it.

Dad inhaled deeply. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

DAD: Okay... everybody out. We're walking to Poochy's Buffet.

MOM: We can't walk there! It's a 25 minute drive, for heaven's sake!

DAD: Then it should only take us a few hours if we hurry. I'm not missing my mother's eighty-third. I understand why you don't want to go, though.

MOM: I love your mother! You didn't even know it was her birthday until I reminded you this morning!

DAD: Bundle up, kids. It's very cold. And the wind is whipping. Violently.

MOM: You kids go inside.

DAD: Do not go inside that house, kids.

BRANDON: Please stop fighting!

Dad's hand went under the driver's seat and came out with a single-action Colt 44 revolver.

DAD: We're going to see Grandma.

Brandon and Mom screamed. Dad fired several rounds through the roof of the car and the screaming stopped. Birds chirped. Daylight shined through the bullet holes and smoke from the gun twisted around in skinny ribbons. Zachary's Bugle Boy shorts were visibly soiled at the sides, but his expression was stoic and he hadn't moved an inch since returning to the car.

DAD: Brandon... will you ask your friend if he pooped on my leather upholstery?

BRANDON [WHISPERING URGENTLY]: Did you poop, bud?

Zachary nodded.

-------------------------------

New hit song...

straight home.mp3

"Welcome home, sweetie. How was your first day of high school?"

"Not now, mom. I'm up to my curls in homework."

"Brandon!"

"Gee I'm sorry, mom. But why don't you lay off me for like five minutes and let me catch my goddamn breath."

"Go to your room! Now!"

"I'm goin'... I'm goin'..."

----------------------------

"Jason, I think you should talk to Brandon."

"Think so?"

"Will you please put down the newspaper?"

"I'm sorry, hun."

"Brandon is acting strange. Can you talk to him? Please?"

"Yeah."

-------------------------------

"Brandon, will you open the door?"

"It's unlocked."

"Oh, you're right. Can we talk?"

"About what, dad?"

"You mother is worried. She thinks you're acting funny."

"I'm just a little tired, dad. School and all..."

"Are you sure there's nothing bothering you? Why are you wearing your mother's church dress?"

"Well... a sophomore is being kinda mean to me."

"How so?"

"He threatened to kill me if I don't be his personal assistant for the rest of the year."

"Sounds like a bully. What's his name?"

"Justin."

"Well the next time you see Justin, look him straight in the eyes and tell him to find another sucker."

"Okay... But that's not all, dad. Justin said he'll kill my whole family. You and mom. All of us, unless I agree to be his personal assistant."

"He said that?"

"Well yeah."

".........I think you better do what this Justin says."

"But shouldn't I stick up for myself?"

"Yes and no. Think about this... Is being a personal assistant that big of a deal, really? In order to keep me and your mother alive?"

"I guess not. But he wants me to dress like a lady and--"

"Good. What a relief. Well goodnight."

"Goodnight."

"Don't let the bed bugs bite."

"You too, dad."

"Love ya."

Was Hitler A Vampire, or Just Gay?
A Story By: Ben Ferrari

A pack of German writers sat around a table scratching paper with tiny, uncomfortable pencils. Beams of light slipped through the blinds that covered the room's single prison-style window and landed at the twinkly boots of Herr Oberich and the Fuehrer. They ambled over dodgy floorboards, faking nonchalance until one began to speak with a filthy sock-puppet kept hidden until now.

"You seem nervous. Is that a uniform or a costume?" asked Herr Oberich's puppet.

"Ask me next if my pistol is real!" replied the Fuehrer as he felt the gun on his hip.

Oberich put the sock away and asked in a sweet, quiet voice, "Is your pistol real?"

"Do you know the difference between us, Herr Oberich? Between you and I? Don't strain at it. The difference is this--"

The Fuehrer was interrupted by a spasm from the writing table. A twiggy guy with inch-think glasses and tremendous confidence (in light of the distressing circumstances and lamentable writing utensils of the time) stood up and began to read from his paper...

"Attention Ministry of Sitcoms

Be advised of the following changes to the Standard Scenario Handlist:

- When a father shares a tender moment with his child, the background music shall always be The German National Anthem played at a disorienting, drowning volume.

- Henceforth, dream sequences shall follow ten specific premises.

Zum Beispiel:

1. A male character dreams that Jews and Communists have been eradicated.
2. An elderly character dreams that a clown is feeding him breadsticks and telling him to relax his throat muscles
3. A female character dreams that--"

The Fuehrer stopped the writer with his cold leather finger, satisfied that the rest of his work was specific and severe.

"Very good," he said.

Herr Oberich followed the Fuehrer out of the room and down a cascading flight of crooked steps. They opened a heavy door and daylight poured over them like God. Floating dust collided into streams where long tapering stalks of buildings buckled from the weight of 1940, and cars with exterior motors exploded constellations and rainbow showers in random patterns as they turned.

A voice without a body rang in the incandescence, "What will she require?"

"I have it here," began another disconnected voice, and then continued...

"Ms. Braun will require the following items to be made available upon her arrival at your facilities. If any item cannot be obtained, Ms. Braun requires AT LEAST 48 hours notice. Please sign the last page of this request and forward it to Ms. Braun's assistant.

- 12 pounds of fresh (not frozen) human baby teeth
- 3 glistening Hispanic servants with pony-tails and well-developed abdomen muscles
- 3 autographed copies of The Bible (pronounced: "bibble")
- A bag of live squirrels
- Nude photographs of you and your parents together
- Gaffer tape suitable for tucking in various parts of Ms. Braun's anatomy
- A professional surfboard with "COWABUNGA, EVERYHITLER!" printed on the bottom
- Various potions for voodoo. (No less than 5)
- Crime scene photos from Ted Bundy's future trial

Ms. Braun's sleeping area must be clean, it must be quiet, and it must be a coffin wherein Her Majesty may comfortably fold Her arms across Her chest and rejuvenate during the day. There shall be no garlic, crucifixes, or symbols of Catholic religion in or around Countess Braun's accommodations."

--------------

The Fuehrer sat up in bed. He was sweating hard and wearing old-fashioned pajamas with a buttoned hatch for expulsion of bodily waste materials. He had a dream about a clown with bread sticks and fantastic kaleidoscopes of light. He immediately reached for the phone and dialed Herr Oberich. A different phone on the other side of the Fuehrer's bed rang. Herr Oberich sat up next to the Fuehrer and answered it.

"Hello?"

"It's me. I had the dream again."

"Again?"

They both put down their Victorian-style handsets and embraced each other. "Put the T. V. on," suggested Oberich. The Fuehrer turned the dial with his toe. "Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader" was beginning.

"Jeff Foxworthy is very smug," said Oberich.

"This show depresses me. I can never answer the questions. I must be stupid," said the Fuehrer.

"Let me tell you something," said Oberich, "You may not be able to answer any of those questions, but guess what? You have a nice home, a color television, a refrigerator full of meats and cheeses, a comfortable couch and control over half of Europe. How many fifth graders are living like that? Cheer up."

The Fuehrer rolled his eyes, but Herr Oberich wasn't finished,

"Think about this...." Oberich tapped the Fuehrer gently on the nose, "When adults can't answer fifth-grade questions, It only proves that kids are being taught useless garbage that adults don't need to worry about. Have you ever used the Pythagorean Theorem? Ever gotten out of a jam by reciting the U.S. capitals in alphabetical order? Kids are being taught trivial fun facts. It's fine for game shows, but c'mon... ask a fifth grader to change a tire. Ask a fifth grader to do your taxes or advise you on marital relations or military maneuvers. I propose a new school curriculum. Are you writing this down? One that'll prepare our nation's youth for the miserable world they stand to inherit. For your consideration:

THE NEW SCHOOL SCHEDULE

8:00 - 8:30 - Courtroom Conduct 101

8:35 - 9:00 - Lawn Care

9:05 - 10:00 - When To Keep Your Goddamn Mouth Shut

10:05 - 10:30 - Reading Body Language

10:35 - 11:00 - The Art of Witty Banter

11:05 - 11:30 - How To Sexually Satisfy Your Partner

11:35 - 12:00 - Loopholes in The System

12:00 - 1:00 - LUNCH (rice, gum and cigarettes)

1:05 - 1:30 - How To Compose a Threat

1:35 - 2:00 - Abandoning Your Dreams

2:05 - 2:30 - Dealing With Coworkers

2:35 - 3:00 - The Gist of Things (Condensed literature, basic math skills, practical science)

"One last suggestion," said the inexhaustible Herr Oberich, "...school busses should be replaced with regular city busses, along with all the unwashed patrons who ride them. Kids need to meet that scary guy with long sticky hair rocking back and forth in a dirty windbreaker pulled down past his shoulders, playing solitaire with an imaginary deck of cards. The sooner the better."

There was a long stretch of silence. The Fuehrer loosened up. "I don't know how to play solitaire. Or why anybody would."

They hummed "High Hopes" and fell asleep.