Here's a bit I wrote for my weekly show, Giant Tuesday Night Of Amazing Inventions And Also There Is A Game!!! - we did it this past Tuesday night and I was quite pleased with how it went:
THE GREAT JOG-OFF!
Starring the following cavalcade of hilarious pasty men:
THE JOGGERNAUTS:
Mark Douglas
Rusty Ward
Josh Comers
Michael Reisman
THE MIAMI JOG MACHINE:
Eric Kirchberger
Bryan Olsen
Todd Womack
Rob Gorden
and me as the ever-perplexed host of Giant Tuesday Night, Francisco Guglioni!
As Francisco is telling one of his pointless stories, a quartet of men in jogging attire enter the theater from the bar. As they jog in, they are chanting...
MARK
A few times I've been around that track so it's not just gonna happen like that -
RUSTY, JOSH AND REISMAN
'Cause I ain't no hollaback girl. Yeah I ain't no hollaback girl.
MARK
Our shit is bananas.
RUSTY, JOSH AND REISMAN
B-A-N-A-N-A-S
MARK
Give me a J!
RUSTY, JOSH AND REISMAN
J!
MARK
Give me an O!
RUSTY, JOSH AND REISMAN
O!
MARK
Give me a G!
RUSTY, JOSH AND REISMAN
G!
MARK
What does that spell!??!
RUSTY, JOSH AND REISMAN
(matter of factly, talking over each other and not quite at the same time) Jog. It spells jog.
MARK
Shake it out, Joggernauts, shake it out.
The joggernauts begin stretching, "shaking it out".
FRANCISCO
Excuse me.
MARK
Hold up, we're shaking it out.
FRANCISCO
I said excuse me!
MARK
You can't interrupt a post-jog shakeout!
The joggers are clearly very agitated and discombobulated by this, it's thrown a wrench into their routine.
RUSTY
Coach, this European guy just threw my shakeout totally off.
REISMAN
I'm not fully shaken out. This is not good.
JOSH
Fuck man. Fuck!
MARK
Alright, alright, cool your chalupas gentlemen, the damage is done. What do you want, Frenchy?
FRANCISCO
What do I want? I want to know why you're interrupting my show.
MARK
Show?
RUSTY AND REISMAN
(mumbling sort of over each other) A show? This is some sort of show?
JOSH
Sorry man, fuck.
MARK
(looks around) Whoah. So it is. We must have totally spaced out. Gentlemen, when the legs are at a jog...
RUSTY, JOSH & REISMAN
The mind is in a fog!
They all bust out laughing a big, knowing, hearty, camaraderie-filled laugh. Francisco is growing impatient. At the tail end of the laugh, Josh says...
JOSH
Yeah, fuck man.
MARK
A dozen pardons, Frenchy, we're in training for a big Jog-Off and we lost track of where we were.
FRANCISCO
Jog-Off? Who the fuck are you guys?
MARK
Oh shit, we never introduced ourselves, where are our manners?
RUSTY
Maybe we left our manners back where we left our self-doubt, unpreparedness and lack of constantly kicking ass.
REISMAN
That was awesome.
RUSTY
J-O-G, man.
REISMAN
J-O-G.
JOSH
Fuckin' J-O-fuckin' G man.
FRANCISCO
I'll start. My name is Francisco Guglioni, and this is my show, Giant Tuesday Night of Amazing Inventions and Also There Is A Game.
MARK
And we're the Joggernauts. A professional jogging team. We live to jog.
RUSTY
We jog to win.
REISMAN
We win to live.
JOSH
Which brings us back to J-O-G, man. Fuck.
FRANCISCO
A professional jogging team? You mean like a running team?
MARK
No! We are not runners, we are competitive joggers. Ever hear of the NJA? National Jogging Association?
FRANCISCO
No.
MARK
Their slogan, "Catch The Steadiness?"
FRANCISCO
No.
MARK
It's the world's premiere competitive jogging league, and we, the Joggernauts, are one of the best jogging teams in that league. As I said before, we're training for a big Jog-Off.
FRANCISCO
A race.
RUSTY
No! A Jog-Off! Coach, let me introduce this guy's ass to my fist!
FRANCISCO
Your fist?
MARK
Cool your chalupas, gentlemen!
REISMAN
A Jog-Off is not a race, it's a jogging competition. The goal is to jog better than, or to "out-jog", your competitors.
FRANCISCO
Eh. So you want to be faster than the other joggers...
RUSTY
Faster? What, you mean like fast and loose? Are you saying we're sluts?
MARK
You did NOT just call us sluts, Francisco. Come on!
REISMAN
We are not sluts!
JOSH
Fuckin' J-O-G man. Fuckin' J fuckin' O fuck--
FRANCISCO
Alright, alright, alright, sorry, I didn't mean to somehow infer that you guys were sluts. So how the heck do you win a jogging competition?
REISMAN
Simple. Whoever jogs best, wins.
MARK
It's all about out-jogging your opponents.
FRANCISCO
You haven't cleared anything up.
RUSTY
We've gotta get in prime jogging shape for our big Jog-Off this weekend.
REISMAN
It's against our arch-rivals.
FRANCISCO
And who are your arch-rivals?
Suddenly, another guartet of joggers enters from the bar. They loom menacingly in the doorway to the theater.
KIRCHBERGER
Well, well, well. I thought this place smelled like a bunch of pathetic losers, and lo and behold. The Joggernauts.
MARK
Well if it isn't the Miami Jog Machine. Our arch-rivals against whom we have an upcoming Jog-Off.
The two groups of joggers begin to approach each other with ill-intent in the aisle of the theater. Francisco, sensing impending doom, rushes down from the stage and places himself in the middle of the two groups of joggers.
JOSH
Fuck.
FRANCISCO
This is getting interesting.
RUSTY
Francisco, does this theater have a douchebag license, because I think a big bunch of them just walked in.
TODD
Looks like there's already a douchebag convention going on here, Joggernauts.
BRYAN
More like JoggerNOTS. Spelled with an N, O, T, S at the end.
The two teams crowd in towards each other with menace, Francisco getting smooshed in the middle. The following exchange gets heated.
REISMAN
A douchebag says what?
BRYAN
What? Oh, shit he got me.
ROB
I've got a joke. Four douchebags walk into a bar. And then four awesome guys walk in right after them. That's right - you guys are the douchebags.
RUSTY
That's not a well written joke.
TODD
Are you starin' at my bulge?!?
REISMAN
No!
JOSH
Fuck man, fuck!
BRYAN
This is all making me so mad!
FRANCISCO
Gentlemen! Please. Cool your...chalupas.
MARK
Jog Machine.
KIRCHBERGER
Joggernauts.
MARK
We're sick of your smack talk.
KIRCHBERGER
And we're sick of your jibber jabber.
MARK
You know as well as I do that there's only one way to settle this.
KIRCHBERGER
Ooh, for once you said something un-retard-like. I agree.
MARK
Fuck the schedule.
KIRCHBERGER
We end this tonight.
Everyone starts snapping headbands onto their heads.
FRANCISCO
Are you guys going to jog-off here? Tonight?
KIRCHBERGER
That's right. Right here in the middle of this shitty comedy show.
FRANCISCO
Hey.
JOSH
J-O-G man.
MARK
Everyone got their headbands on? (assorted affirmatives). Soundbooth guy, you got any Jock Jams up there?
ANTONIO IN THE BOOTH
Yes.
MARK
Good. Tournament rules. Thirty seconds of all-out jogging. No teeth.
KIRCHBERGER
Whomsoever jogs best. Wins.
MARK
On the count of three.
KIRCHBERGER
One.
MARK
Two.
MARK AND KIRCHBERGER
Three!
Antonio cues Jock Jams - "y'all ready for this? nah nah nah NAH NAH nah NAH NAH na na etc..
This goes on for thirty seconds, during which time the eight joggers just jog around the theater very intensely and randomly. The music stops abruptly, and the winded joggers stop in place. Spent. Drained. They have all jogged their hardest.
BRYAN
(out of breath) Damn. You guys sure can jog.
RUSTY
(also winded) Nah, you guys, you guys totally brought the jog on tonight.
TODD
We jogged as hard as we could. But you guys still outjogged us.
KIRCHBERGER
(to the rest of the Jog Machine) The Joggernauts have won our respect! On this night, let it be known that the Jog Machine was bested by The Joggernauts.
The Joggernauts high five each other and pat each other on the back.
FRANCISCO
How the hell could you guys tell who won? Ladies and gentlemen, could you tell?
(Tuesday night's crowd shook their heads, smiling)
MARK
Wasn't it obvious?
KIRCHBERGER
But make no mistake, Joggernauts. We won't take you so lightly next time. When next we have a Jog-off, we'll be bringing our A-jog.
MARK
And so shall we, Miami Jog Machine, so shall we.
TODD
I should hope so. It will be an honor to jog with you again.
JOSH
Fuckin' J-O-G man. Fuck.
MARK
Hey why do you curse so much? It's weird!
KIRCHBERGER
Jog Machine! I think we've all learned something tonight. No matter what may divide us. Politics. Geography. Sexual orientation. Diet. Taste in cinema. We are ALL joggers. To jog...
ALL JOGGERS
...is to live!
MARK
Come, my jogging brethren! Let us quench our thirst at the bar. Tonight, drinks are on the Joggernauts!
ALL JOGGERS
Huzzah!
As they all begin to jog out, they resume the earlier chant from the Gwen Stefani song...
MARK
A few times I've been around that track so it's not just gonna happen like that -
ALL JOGGERS
'Cause I ain't no hollaback girl. Yeah I ain't no hollaback girl.
...and they're gone, leaving behind a bewildered Francisco.
FRANCISCO
Well. What the fuck was that?
Last night I performed the following piece at a great monthly show called HOW TO KICK PEOPLE, which is the creation of the extremely brilliant Todd Levin and Bob Powers. Anyhow, I arrived drunk (method acting!) and performed drunker (stole a beer from someone's sixpack offstage!) and it went over pretty well. After you read it, you'll guess, as I have, that it must surely have been a case of "It's not what you say, but how loudly and drunkenly and spittle-flying-fully you say it." I put some moxy into the performance. Some gusto. You know. A little sauce with the noodles. A little salt on the omelet. I'm not even going to spellcheck omelet. It sure doesn't look right here. Omelet. Omellette? Eh.
H2KP: 2049 A.D.
May 25, 2005
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Andres du Bouchet. Thank you. I have just returned from spending sixteen terrifying days in the year 2049. I consider myself very lucky to be alive, and even luckier to have managed to return to this timeline, just three days after Todd Levin tricked me into entering his homemade time machine and journeying into the future. You're a very clever bastard, Todd. I have written my report as objectively as possible, considering how terrifying the experience was and also taking into account that I was betrayed by someone I thought was a friend. Someone who I did not think had the technology at his disposal to build a time machine, much less the deviousness at his disposal to trick a man with no real survival skills, me, into entering said time machine and traveling forty-four years into what turned out to be a post-apocalyptic future that makes the Mad Max movies look like an Office Depot training video.
My report is frought with innacuracies, and gaping holes, and I have taken great liberties with my descriptions. In fact, you may accuse me of having written all of this while drunk and just an hour ago, and that I have merely made a half-assed effort at shoehorning one of my filthy poems into a bit about the year 2049...or you can take me at my word that Todd Levin is an evil man who tricks people into traveling through time. My sloppy writing style is due to time travel wooziness, I say. You make the call.
In order to set the proper mood, I shall now adopt a fake booming semi-British voice.
The year is 2049! The oceans have evaporated, leaving the Great Lakes of the North American continent as the only remaining large bodies of water on the planet. Society as we know it has crumbled into chaos, and over 90% of the human race has died off. Those who remain have devolved into two distinct sub-species, The Jocks and the Tards. Both groups are locked in a perpetual struggle to horde the only remaining acceptable currency on the planet - filthy poetry. The jocks and the tards war with each other using clubs made of cactii and by throwing angry snakes at each other. All the while, Santa Claus, who YES, turns out to be real, rules them all with an iron, blood-drenched fist with the aid of his evil allies, the hyper-intelligent mutant ostriches . THIS is the world, the epoch, into which I was flung three days ago when a certain BLANK tricked me into his homemade BLANK -- BEEEP Alex I'd like to fill in those blanks go ahead Andres thanks Todd Levin and Time Machine you are correct thanks.
ahem. I have set the flimsy shoebox before you, the verbal diorama, if you will, now, it is time to populate that diorama with the tiny figurines that represent the "terrifying, scarring events that I experienced as a direct result of the nefarious Todd Levin." I take you to three days ago, moments after I had been tricked into entering HIS homemade time machine.
Pain! Light! Blinding painful light and pain! Then. Silence. As the smoke literally cleared from around my nude, prostrate body, and figuratively cleared from my mind, Todd Levin's chillingly friendly voice still echoing in my brain, urging me to "take another step in, Andres, I swear there's a whole lot of Toblerones in there" I could dimly make out two figures before me - as a tangent, I'd like to point out that Todd's homemade time machine is NOT one of those time machines that only transports organic matter, thereby leaving clothes and inanimate objects behind whilst transporting only the nude traveler, but that YES I indeed, through a series of bafflingly persuasive arguments from THAT MAN was ALREADY nude before entering that which I thought contained Toblerones but NO instead turned out to be Todd's homemade time machine. And no I don't care to elaborate. As I was saying, I could see two figures before me, and through the smoke rising from my muscular in some places and blubbery in others physique, I could dimly see that they were tall, muscular men dressed in what can only be described as shopping mall Santa's helper outfits. Elves. One had a big fluffy mustache and held a large, club-shaped cactus. The other had a small greasy mustache and held a snake that seemed calm but with the potential for anger. They eyed me with suspicion and caution, but not without a certain degree of familiarity. "They have seen nude smoldering people appear out of nowhere before," I thought to myself. Was I not the first person to fall victim to Todd Levin's diabolicalism?
"Jock or Tard?" said the elf with fluffier mustache and cactus.
I was still disoriented. I moaned a low, guttural, "Tobe...Toblerones?"
"Are you a jock or a tard!" shouted greasey.
I looked at them and said the first thing that came to my mind "Fuck you!"
The elf with the greasy mustache flicked his wrist, and suddenly the snake was upon me! I was too tired and foggy to flinch. The snake calmly slithered off of me and into the shadows.
"You threw the snake without angering it first!" shouted fluffy.
"Why do I feel like I'm always on trial with you, Kyle!" shouted greasey.
The two men began to argue, and I seized the opportunity to put my high school varsity water jai-alai team reflexes to work! Flash forward to one minute later, as I strode out of the prison chamber wearing fluffy's elf costume and holding his cactus, the table of the situation had been turned, turned towards a direction more favorable for me! Yet still, this was not a table at which I was comfortable or safe or at which I wanted to dine for very long.
I paused in the hallway, trying to decide which way to go - forward, left, or right. I whacked the club against my palm thoughtfully, and immediately regreted it! "Fuck I forgot this club is a cactus fuucck!" I shouted.
Then, I heard a female voice from one of the other prison cells.
"Who's there?"
I rushed to where the voice was coming from - and saw a young African American woman in a postal service uniform, sitting on the floor of her cell.
"Tamika? Tamika Jones?" I exclaimed. "The Brooklyn mail carrier who mysteriously disappeared several months ago, and who Todd Levin wrote a very touching yet ironic piece about for Slouch magazine?"
It was her. It was soon revealed that her mail route did indeed include Todd Levin's apartment, and that she had delivered several components to him from a company that manufactures homemade time machine kits. We briefly commiserated over our shared experience at having been tricked by Todd Levin into a homemade time machine with the promise of Toblerone candy bars. Both of us agreed that Toblerones were amazing. As far as we knew, it's the only candy bar shaped like a prism. I told her "yes, and as a prism, it refracts deliciousness into its two primary components - chocolate and nougat." Tamika laughed, and then began to cry. "I just love Toblerones so much. That bastard tricked me into entering his homemade time machine! Why?" Then we made love.
That's as far as I'd like to read from that particular section or chapter of my report or comedy piece. I'd like to flip ahead several pages now, which shall be represented by me NOT flipping any pages whatsoever, but instead simply continuing to read.
This is from Chapter Three, entitled OUT OF THE FRYING PAN (the stronghold of Santa Claus who turned out to be real) AND INTO THE FIRE (the clutches of the Ostrich King).
This is from Chapter Four. I mean three. I do not have a drinking issue. I have an entire subscription oh stop seriously I was tricked by Todd Levin. Chapter five:
The Ostrich King looked at me expectantly. His sudden request that I recite a filthy poem in order to win my freedom had taken me off guard, but as Tamika gazed up at me in her clamshell bikini with hope in her eyes, I had to give it a try. The hyper-intelligent ostriches stared and waited. I started hesitantly:
[I begin one of my filthy poems - the coochy one that's already on this blog]
A promising start. The Ostrich King's feathers ruffled with curiosity.
[I continue reading it]
The ostriches began clucking with excitement - oh I don't know what sound ostriches make fuck you.
[I finish reading it]
That was good, but I have one last request, said the Ostrich King.
Tamika and I were then forced to make love for the Ostrich King's amusement. Awkwardly at first, but then with a mounting passion that only a lust for survival could produce - we nearly fucked each other back to the year 2005, we got so into it. By the end of our sweat-drenched display, Tamika's fourth and final orgasmic wail having finished echoing down the corridor, the crowd of hyper-intelligent ostriches shaking their feathers in order to shrug off the residue from my Shamu-like climax, the ostrich king had been won over. We were set free.
Tamika and I then somehow returned to the present day in time for me to type this up and come here tonight. The End.
So, there you have it. You can choose to accept that what you have just heard is an accurate account of my experiences in the year 2049 - after having traveled there as a result of Todd Levin's combined skills of time machine building and persuasiveness. Or, you can continue your silent accusations of alcoholism. I for one, know that which it is I shall choose to believe of.
"Tamika and I were then forced to make love for the Ostrich King's amusement. Awkwardly at first, but then with a mounting passion that only a lust for survival could produce. By the end of our sweat-drenched display, Tamika's fourth and final orgasmic wail echoing down the corridor, the crowd of hyper-intelligent ostriches shaking their feathers in order to shrug off the residue from my Shamu-like climax, the Ostrich King had been won over. We were set free."
HEAR ME READ THE ENTIRE PIECE AT H2KP this Wednesday night! See my Performance Calendar for details!
Your failure is now complete. It sucks. Go fuck a Jawa, you addle-brained billionaire nutwad.
I get it! I totally see where it's going now! Pfft, you can't do that to a sandbox! HA!
Oh man. It doesn't get interesting again until 69 though.
Nope. Still don't see the point of this.
Hi. I'm Art Fartmart*, Commissioner of the National Jogging Association, the premier professional competitive jogging league in the world! Not many people know about us yet, but this summer we're urging folks across America to CATCH THE STEADINESS! Competitive jogging brings together the top athletes from the middle tier of moderately healthy individuals in the world, and pits them against each other in a team-based scenario of mild health beneficiality! Check your local ESPN4 listings for an exciting Jog-Off between two of these great teams - and go ahead and presume the word THE is in front of each of them!
Joggernauts
Miami Jog Machine
Jogness Monster
Pirates of Jogzance (is Joggers of Penzance funnier?)
Jog Bears
Men From Joglantis
Now, in case you've never witnessed the excitement of a Jog-Off, here are the groundrules:
1. A Jog-Off pits two teams of joggers against each other in a fierce competition of jogging proficiency and artistry.
2. A Jog-Off lasts one minute.
3. The winning team is determined by which team has jogged better, or "out-jogged" the other team. Generally, which ever team of joggers has brought their "A-Jog" wins. REMEMBER - it's not about who finishes first, but who does a better job of jogging.
4. The losing team of joggers must loudly praise the winning team at the conclusion of the Jog-Off.
It's truly a jogwind of jogtivity and jogcitement! CATCH THE STEADINESS!
*I have simply stopped trying when it comes to fake names.
So. Back in 1977, a delicious donut was invented that tasted awesome and inspired me to be a donut aficianado for years to come. The subsequent release of additional donuts in 1980 and 1983 merely served to bolster my donut fervor. Donuts, apparently, were great, and would constitute a large percentage of my imaginative makeup and personality. Even as an adult, these fond donut memories, as well as periodic revisiting of the donuts via VHS, would continue to stir my mind and emotions. Then, in 1999, the donut guy made another donut that I happily rushed out to bite, only to find it was filled with peed-on walnut shells. It tasted gross. I hated the donut guy for this. Then, in 2002 another donut came out, this time with the promise that it would be filled with something other than peed-on walnut shells. I was skeptical, but eventually those fond pre-peed-on walnut shell-filled donut memories got the better of me, and I bit that donut too. Indeed, it too was filled with walnut shells that had been liberally peed-on. I wrote off the donut guy entirely. It even seeemed as if the donuts from 1977, 1980, and 1983 were now filled with peed-on walnut shells. NOW, in 2005, another donut has arrived. Donut tasters everywhere are heralding it as a return to deliciousness. Well, not quite as delicious as those original donuts, but certainly NOT filled with peed-on shells of walnuts. Do I dare bite this donut? I fear I shall be greeted only by those same shells. Of walnuts. That have been. Peed. On. Fuck you, George. You're getting my 11 bucks...fuck.
DOCTOR TAMBORINEWAFFLES
Mr. and Mrs. Clocknoodles, everything is looking good. Are you comfortable?
MRS. CLOCKNOODLES
Yes, I'm fine.
DOCTOR TAMBORINEWAFFLES
Baby looks healthy...would you like to know the sex of the baby?
MR. CLOCKNOODLES
Honey?
MRS. CLOCKNOODLES
We talked about this.
MR. CLOCKNOODLES
You're right, you're right - no, we want it to be a surprise.
DOCTOR TAMBORINEWAFFLES
Sure, I understand. Okay, would you like to know the sexiness of the baby?
MR. CLOCKNOODLES
What?
MRS. CLOCKNOODLES
I don't understand.
DOCTOR TAMBORINEWAFFLES
The baby's sexiness. Nowadays we can tell pretty accurately at this stage of the pregnancy - some parents like to know.
MRS. CLOCKNOODLES
I hope our baby's sexy.
MR. CLOCKNOODLES
Baby's aren't sexy!
MRS. CLOCKNOODLES
Well, no, but -
DOCTOR TAMBORINEWAFFLES
Of course they're not, Mr. Clocknoodles, but we can tell with reasonable certainty whether or not your baby will grow up to be sexy - we've isolated the sexiness quotient, or "hot-ability" gene in babies.
MRS. CLOCKNOODLES
I read about this.
DOCTOR TAMBORINEWAFFLES
It's science.
MR. CLOCKNOODLES
Hmm. If we knew whether or not our child was going to grow up to be sexy, we'd know to what degree we should condition that child to be concerned about his or her physical appearance and body maintenance...sounds a bit like a self-fulfilling prophecy.
DOCTOR TAMBORINEWAFFLES
How so?
MRS. CLOCKNOODLES
Mmm. A sexy baby.
MR. CLOCKNOODLES
Well, you tell us our child is going to grow up to be sexy. Then, we treat that child as one who should grow up to expect being judged somewhat more by their physical appearance than others, and as such, that child grows up more self-aware, more well-groomed, more...sexy.
DOCTOR TAMBORINEWAFFLES
You're the first parent to figure it out.
MR. CLOCKNOODLES
Huh?
DOCTOR TAMBORINEWAFFLES
You're absolutely right. There is no hot-ability gene. I tell every parent that their baby is going to grow up to be sexy. I just want the next generation to be sexier than this one.
MR. CLOCKNOODLES
I don't blame you. Sexiness is important.
MRS. CLOCKNOODLES
Very important!
DOCTOR TAMBORINEWAFFLES
More than you know. I happen to think that sexiness is all that will save the human race from...no, I've said too much.
MR. CLOCKNOODLES
Save the human race from what, Doctor?
TO BE (maybe not ever) CONTINUED!
No side effects my ass. I can see through walls. I can count my armpit hairs by concentrating. Do you smell that guy's shoes? The guy across the street? New shoes. The Mets will lose tonight, 4 to 3. Rain in a fortnight. I can feel that China butterfly's flutter, man. It's gonna cause a tornado in my pants. DO YOU HEAR THAT PIN DROPPING. A fleck of dust just fell off it in midflight, beaned a bee in the noggin. I am William Shatner loaded into a water pistol and squirted onto my blank canvas fucking white clear nasal DAMN I CAN BREATHE!!!
(beat)
I can stop this cab with my dick.
IknowIcanstopthiscabwithmydickbutIdon'tneedtoproveanythingtoyoujerk.
When I blink a tv changes channels - a tv in Astoria - and the dude is pissed. blink. blink.
blink.
I don't remember what a sneeze feels like.
I can stare at the perforation of a looseleaf until it mends itself.
I will halve the moon and inside? That Cadbury egg cream stuff.
I am hearing Al Pacino's thoughts. Shit. He DOES use "Hoowah!" in his daydreams.
I just braided my ass hair by shifting in my seat. DAMN that I cannot show my co-workers this feat - DAMN corporate ruuuuuules!
There. Unbraided using microfartbursts.
Each of my fingers is a Star Wars film. So THAT is why three of them stink!
Wait. Why do I only have six fingers.
I three the sandbox. I THREE the sandbox?!?! That's stupid I do not foresee this becoming interesting so I shall stop counting at three.
The Olsen twins are played by the Zwirtag quadruplets, who, in turn, are played by an immense spider with anorexic actresses for legs.
Damn this air coursing through so clear. CLARITIN I SEE THE PRICE NOW! Remove my sanity along with my symptoms!!!
I...four the sandbox. NOPE I STILL DON'T SEE WHERE THAT'S GOING.
Puppy Pony Poppers brand jalapeno treats do not contain any puppies. REPEAT, they do not contain any puppies. Sorry for the confusion.
Hello, I'd...yes, I'll hold. (love is a battlefield) Yes, hi. I'd like to report that I've found a finger in my giant novelty giving the finger foam glove. Yes, the...I'm looking now...the tag says C1276-12. Yes, that's right, it's the Toledo Mudhens model. At any rate, there's a finger in it. No. No, it's not my finger. No, I'm...please, let me finish. No, I...I've found a severed pinky inside my giant novelty giving the finger foam glove.
[Hi, quick interruption here from Cy Woodthrush, President and CEO of GIANT NOVELTY GIVING THE FINGERCO. - I just wanted to clarify that the caller in this scenario is talking about one of our products, which make it look like you're giving a totally huge foam finger to whomever you point it at. You know, flipping the bird. Please don't mistakenly imagine that she's talking about one of those "We're #1" hands. Okay as you were.]
Yes. Yes. Yes, there is a ring on it. It's quite large and encrusted with diamonds - it says "1984 World Series Champions". And there's a Tiger on it. Mmm. I have no idea - maybe it's some sort of college graduation ring? Is there someone there I can...oh okay. (love is a battlefield) Hello? Oh hi there Mr. Trammel.
[Hi there! Cy Woodthrush again, just letting you know that if Alan Trammel knew that I'd allowed some NYC comedian to blog about the fact that he supplements his income as manager of the Detroit Tigers with a nighttime job texture-sweeping 1500-2000 GIANT NOVELTY GIVING THE FINGER FOAM GLOVES a...um...night, because he spends all his money on Coco-Puts, he'd totally shoot me in the third kidney! So hu
[[Hi there, Bert Eaglepie here, CEO of Coco-Puts Entertainment. When I developed a game that combined miniature golf and a patented form of inhaleable chocolate, I had no idea that
[[[Hi there, Hooha Fakeynamers here, when I invented "Third Kidneys" I had no idea that people would use them solely for the purposes of being able to drink more alcohol. Also, I'm the guy who stole all those kidneys in the urban legends.]]]
people would become so addicted to it! Perhaps it's those ka-razy courses I built, or the fact that our suppliers did not adequately filter out the actual cocaine from the chocolate powder. Anyhow, if you see someone who doesn't seem to notice that a chocolatey paste is oozing from his or her nostrils, chances are they're great at miniature golf. And desperate.]]
sh!]
Hmm? Okay, I understand. Well, I'll be happy to ship it to you encased in dry ice, but can I get compensated for it? Sure. Okay, that sounds great. Hmm? You want me to put the author of this blog on the line? Hold on.
ANDRES
Yes?
ALAN TRAMMEL, MANAGER OF THE DETROIT TIGERS AND FORMER REALLY GOOD SHORTSTOP
Andres, I just wanted to let you know that this post stinks.
ANDRES
Tell me about it.
ALAN TRAMMEL, MANAGER OF THE DETROIT TIGERS AND FORMER REALLY GOOD SHORTSTOP
Well, you're clearly just typing random crap at this point. Why don't you take some time, gather your thoughts, and try writing more coherent pieces?
ANDRES
I don't know, probably for the same reason you jerk-off to pictures of Lou Whitaker.
ALAN TRAMMEL, MANAGER OF THE DETROIT TIGERS AND FORMER REALLY GOOD SHORTSTOP
Why you lousy -
ANDRES
Dial tone noise with my mouth.
Yep. This post sucks. But you know what? It's soooo easy to just.
hit.
publi
Yeah you. With the hiking boots. You makin' me come outta my hole? You makin' me? Yeah, I'm talkin' to you, ingrate. Alls I know is I was all snuggly in my fuckin' hole and now I'm outta my hole. Why? I heard things. I heard some fuckin' things, so's I unsnuggled outta my hole and here you are with your stupid tryin' to pitch a tent ass. Don't look at me like that! I'm goin' back in my hole. Keep it down, asswipe. And by the by, you tell anyone you saw a talkin' marmot you WILL get antlered by some pals o'mine. Word to the wise, fuckeroo.
No, this isn't another attempt to jog my mind with basic math. I turned 34 last week, and while trying to determine why I celebrated this particular birthday with so many consecutive nights of drunken gusto, it occurred to me that 34 is 21 plus 13. Now it all makes sense! I was celebrating the equivalent of a 21st birthday PLUS a bar mitzvah! KA-BLAM! Superpartyweektime.
Anyway, when I turn 39 (the stupendous TRIPLE BAR MITZVAH) I will hopefully have the monetary resources to rent a pavilion in the alps and fill it with champagne and disco. My friends and I shall celebrate for a fortnight, and then the entire pavilion will slide down the mountainside into a golden lake of butterscotch dreams.
As you can tell, I'll have to be pretty wealthy by the time I'm 39 in order to pay off the Swiss government to let me turn one of their lakes into a big butterscotch dreams depository. Incidentally, butterscotch dreams are far different than dreams which contain both scotch and butter. Those are pretty damn great dreams, don't get me wrong. I would have to say that my favorite butter and scotch dream would be the one when I was sailing across Glenlivet Ocean on my Toast Schooner. Ah, the friendly drunken dolphins.
Well, I think this post proves I am working on 3 hours of sleep. I love you guys.
Well, my first book of poetry has finally been published. Autumnalingus hit the shelves last night at midnight. Thanks to everyone who came out to the release party at the Book Shnook Nook on 32nd. Anyway, I thought I'd give some of you who might still be on the fence with regards to purchasing Autumnalingus a sneakity peekity peek! Here's a poem that ABACABdabra, my favorite Genesis tribute band, is considering purchasing and turning into an instrumental! Hey wait a sec:
I walk
a saffron lit path
under elm arches
latticed shadows like
twisting licorice
on the leaf strewn
there
beneath the one
open slot of bare sky
a plain hen of some game bird species
clucks and pauses
nonplussed
we stare
I chuckle
the speckled grey rust ruffles
and she struts
into the shadows
then
alone
I take a long piss
while singing
"Jukebox Hero"
by Foreigner
Candy time is a little piece of time during which I consume a great BIG piece of candy!
It's my time for me to do the thing I like to do most which is eat CANDY!
Only during candy time do the voices halt. Only during!
WHAT TYPE OF CANDY.
okayakitkat
(pause)
Thanks folks. That's a little monologue I like to call "I really am about to eat some candy." Now then, if you'll all excuse me, the voices need to be halted.
I was hoping some basic addition would be a good way to re-ignite that creative spark.
Um.
There's a spark in my pants, though.
Apparently, women will now be allowed to participate in the Million Man March, prompting organizers to rename it the "Four Rape March".
Ouch. I mean. That's too much, right? I went too far. I dunno. Ow.
How about the Two Hundred Thousand Nag March? A little more tame. Women! They nag! Eh?
The Four Hundred Thousand Cat Call March?
Oh man I don't PLEASE CONTINUE STANDING BY. ANDRES DU BOUCHET IS OBVIOUSLY EXPERIENCING PROBLEMS WITH JUDGMENT RIGHT NOW, DUE TO HIS CURRENTLY INTOXICATED-BY-A-LEGGY-BLONDE'S-AMAZINGNESS STATE.
The Fourteen Kids Conceived Who Will Be Named LeBron March?
NO! PLEASE STAND BY!
SERIOUSLY, IF ANDRES DU BOUCHET WERE TO ATTEMPT TO WRITE ANYTHING RIGHT NOW, ALL THAT WOULD COME OUT WOULD BE MORE MUSHY SMOOSHY GOOSHY STUFF ABOUT HOW KISSETY COOCHITY COO HE'S FEELING RIGHT NOW, OR AWKWARD ATTEMPTS AT SEXY ROMANTICNESS. FOR EXAMPLE, HERE, LET'S LET HIM TRY WRITING SOMETHING ABOUT THE CURRENT SITUATION IN IRAQ:
Wafflemuffin kisses caressing your leg rainbow, sugar dream.
SEE? IT'S SIMPLY NOT POSSIBLE. HERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT THE NEW POPE:
The bed won't stop 'til I pop girl!
SEE? SO, PLEASE REMAIN STANDING BY UNLESS YOU WANT TO READ STUFF LIKE:
Tangled blonde tresses from where my grip lingered
fingers
intertwined,
yours in mine,
anchoring our long slow grind
SEE? IT'S NOTHING BUT THAT KIND OF CRAP IN HIS HEAD RIGHT NOW. PLEASE. STAND. BY.
PLEASE STAND BY FOR MORE HUMOROUS AND/OR INSANE RAMBLINGS FROM ANDRES DU BOUCHET. HE IS SIMPLY TOO HAPPY RIGHT NOW TO WANT TO BOTHER WRITING ANYTHING THAT ISN'T OOZING WITH HAPPY MUSHY DORKINESS. THIS MESSAGE WILL BURST INTO A CLOUD OF CONFETTI AND TINY CARTOON HEARTS IN 5...4...3...