This is a collection of prose I wrote
between 1995 and 1997.
Having stopped writing music, I started
writing humor instead.
By JIM STIENE
SELF HELP
I’ve
just finished a how-to book called “Alcoholism on a Shoestring Budget” or “How
to Drink heavily on a Fixed Income.” Because I’ve seen
too many people that drink beyond their means, and I thought it was time
someone reached out to them and said “You’re not alone. I understand.” This
book explores the possibilities of grain alcohol, bargain basement vodka, and
domestic beer in my chapters “The beer ball is your friend”, “Meisterbrau - a cheap alternative to the conventional
breakfast”, and “Waking up in a puddle of vomit.” It is an effort to help
readers find a happy medium between financial security and drunken incoherence.
Because in the days of rising beer costs and corporate layoffs, it’s important
for informed adults to monitor their drinking habits in a cost effective, yet
psychologically rewarding manner, in order to insure a maximum state of incoherence
through economically sound alcohol purchases.
But
it doesn’t end there. I give you the best excuses to tell your boss when you’re
not feeling up
to a full day’s work. Or what to tell your children after you’ve fallen down
the stairs again. This book is a must read for anyone that cares enough about
their family and job to practice inexpensive indulgence, without winding up
broken and alone, begging for beer money on a street corner, and sleeping in
their own filth.
Here’s what one reader had to say:
“When
I read it I cried. I didn’t think anyone understood. For years I would find
myself at a loss for words when my family found me at the bottom of the stairs,
or when coworkers and friends would ask about my shaking hands. But with Jim’s
book, I know how to drink within my means, and have just the right thing to say
in those awkward situations I find myself in. This book can change your life.”
PUBLIC ANOUNCEMENT
There
is a curse on the
CUSTOMER SERVICE
“Hello,
I don’t know where they got the
name “Ben Wah” from. I suppose it’s Japanese...You’re
supposed to put them in places...Hello? Mrs. Walker? Yes, as I was saying.
You’re supposed to..What?
Yes they work real well...What? Mrs. Walker, I’m a married man! And besides,
I’m working now. All right, then have someone deliver a pizza, but I have to
go....
APPOINTMENTS
I'm
in a bad mood tonight. All those nagging lawsuits. People complaining because I'm not actually trained as a gynecologist. Ok, if you want to split hairs.
But at least I was reasonably priced. You see, I used to work in a doctors
office setting appointments, when some cheerleaders were supposed to come in
for an exam. But I accidentally scheduled them while the doctor was on
vacation. And I felt kind of bad. I mean, they were all ready for their exams
in their little outfits and everything, and I didn't have the heart to turn
them away. And I've seen those stirrups and things. I figured you just put on a
smock, get a flashlight, and look around a bit. It's not like I hypnotized them
or anything. I just had a look around and said everything looked fine. OK, I
got a few phone numbers, but hey, I'm only human. But their parents found out
and the doctor fired me. He said I exercised poor judgment, and violated some
sacred oath or something. But it's like I told him - I never took any oath. You
know, at five dollars an exam, what do they want from me? People are just sue happy these days, that's what I think.
But
the reason I got caught was because I accidentally said "Wow" while I
was examining a patient. And she said "Are you SURE you're a doctor?"
and I said "Well, technically...no. But I've heard a lot about this on t.v." Then she started screaming and throwing things
at me But there were other things that gave me away.
Like my nervous laughter. Or when she asked me if everything looked ok, and I
said "You bet." I guess some people just don't share my sense of
humor.
INFOMERCIAL
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PROFESSOR STONE
My
name is Professor Stone, and I’ll be your instructor for the next few months. I
think you’ll find this course, both, challenging and enjoyable if you’re
willing to put in the time and effort. And I’m reminded of the words of a wise
man, when he said “Do a little dance. Make a little love. Get down tonight.”
What
can we learn from this? Because, I think the question we have to ask ourselves
is - If we do, in fact, do a little dance, and make a little love, then isn’t
the suggestion that we get down tonight redundant? Let me rephrase that. If we
do, in fact, do a little dance, and make a little love, then haven’t we already
gotten down? I’d like you to think about that while I show you some slides of
my nephew’s circumcision. You, in the first row. What do you make of all this?”
“I’m
not sure I understand the question.”
“Is
‘Getting down’ really just a metaphor for dancing and making love?”
“I
think the phrase ‘Get down tonight’ is too vague and general to apply to
dancing and getting laid. You’re grasping at straws.”
“I’m
not sure I follow you.”
“Look,
I’m an architecture student. I’m supposed to pay twelve hundred dollars so you
can quote ‘Kool and the Gang’ songs? What the fuck?”
“You’re
venting. That’s ok. Do you want some time to yourself?”
“No,
I don’t want some time to myself, I want you to talk like a fucking earthling.
What do you mean ‘Do a little dance?’ Are you fucking crazy? How much acid did
you take in the sixties?”
“It’s
a valid question. Popular music poses relevant sociological questions.”
“No,
it doesn’t. You’re fucking retarded. I’m out of here.”
THE CENTER
Welcome
to the Writer’s Harvest. An event sponsored by the `Center for Teaching
Excellence’, an organization which, I think, we’ll all agree, is an improvement
over it’s preceding program `The Center For Teaching Adequately’. Of course,
even `The Center for Teaching Adequately’ was once hailed a welcome successor
to it’s undistinguished forerunner: `The Center for Scribbling Something on the
Board, then Getting the Hell out of there’. Of course, the `CFSB’ was loosely
based on the New York School System’s ill fated `Center for Putting in a Full
Day’s Work and Getting Home Alive’, which I’m sure you’ll remember was headed
by Terrence Randolph, who’s now known for his infamous classic `Survivalism for
the Science Instructor’. In fact, Terrence was scheduled to speak here today,
but was unable to attend due to his incarceration. But he sends his warmest
regards, and stresses that he was only acting in self defense. In any event,
welcome to the Writers Harvest, and enjoy the festivities.
AMERICAN IN DISTRESS
WHEN YOU
NEED CASH IN A HURRY,
NOBODY
RESPONDS LIKE AMERICAN DISTRESS
“We
were on vacation in the
“I
got the call around closing time. A guy lost his wallet and was really worried.
I called him a dumb fuck and told him to kiss my ass. I said `It’s people like
you that give Americans a bad name, you fucking jerkoff.
I hope you catch malaria and die!”
“The
guy was really rude. I couldn’t believe they talked to people that way. I told
him I would take my business elsewhere, if this was the way they treated their
customers.”
“I
said `Be my guest. I hope you have a fun time swimming home, asswipe.’ Then I told him to suck my dick, and hung up on
him. The guys at the office still laugh about that. Fucking loser.”
AMERICAN DISTRESS - WHEN YOU NEED CASH IN A HURRY
THE FOOD CHAIN
People
ask me about my job packing groceries, so I tell them I only do it for the
glamour. You're standing there with cashiers and housewives giving you the eye,
and you KNOW they want you. Who wouldn't want a guy that packs bags for a
living? But in today's competitive market, it's getting harder to find
prestigious jobs. But that will all change once you order my new twelve step
video. Yes, you too can become the envy of friends, and wet dreams of checkout
girls, as you learn the fun and profitable world of grocery checkout. It covers
packing bags, collecting shopping carts, and even how to accept all those
compliments and obscene propositions you'll find yourself receiving once you
order my new video and enter this exciting and lucrative field! Plus, if you
order now, I'll even include a pack of Trojans and a six pack of Old Milwaukee
for those late night excursions with coworkers and customers. In these days of
job insecurity and diminishing wages, isn't it time you did something to keep
ahead of the crowd? My new video shows you how for only four easy payments of $19.95!
(Due to an increasing demand, this
is a limited time offer. Visa and Mastercard
accepted.)
Call now and make a difference by
starting a new and exciting career. Yes, you too can enter the lucrative career
Jim told you about by calling 1 800 BLOW ME.
(RESTRICTIONS MAY
APPLY)
THE LEGEND OF LEONARD MELNICK
Leonard
Melnick was a womanizing gambler. He usually had a
woman on each arm as he played Bingo in the geriatric ward of the Hazy Acres
Retirement home. Not that he was the party animal he used to be. He had slowed
down considerably after that triple bypass operation. Long gone were his drug crazed
days of Phenyl Barbital and Preparation-H. He even cut down on drinking after
the hospital staff ran low on Geritol. But to the
people that knew him, he was a legend.
He
took first place in the walker races, and beat the hell out of an orderly,
after he foolishly tried to turn off the TV during `The Price is Right’. You
see, Leonard was an angry man. And the only thing he loved more than Bingo and Geritol was Diane Parkinson. Damn, she was fine, he thought
as he played checkers with one of the elderly patients, while he was confined
to his room for attacking that orderly with a cane. But people were scared of
him after that. And not surprisingly. He had been the kingpin of a drug cartel
before entering the retirement home. Smuggling Monoxidil
into the country before it was approved by the FDA. You see, Leonard knew no
laws. He made his own. And the people around him knew he was special. They
wanted to reach out and touch him, in the hope that his powerful aura would rub
off on them.
But
he couldn’t keep up his demented lifestyle forever. Eventually, he broke his
hip and was confined to a wheelchair, where he wet himself daily, and suffered
from syphilis, diarrhea, and painful and unsightly bedsores. Then, one cold
winter night, he caught pneumonia and died. But I’d like to think there’s a
little Leonard Melnick in all of us. Burning with
passion when young, then slipping off into that silk
POST SCRIPT
Outside
of God’s office the Grim Reaper was bleeding profusely as he walked with a limp
toward God’s door. When he got there, God was shocked by the sight before his
eyes. “My God, what happened to you? You look awful. It looks like you ran into
a brick wall.”
“I
quit” said the Grim Reaper.
“Well,
come in. Sit down. What happened?”
“Leonard
Melnick” he said. “That ninety year old, Geritol-addicted freak.
Why does he get to come to heaven?
That crippled old pervert.”
“Well,
it looks like he got the best of you” giggles God. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t too sure about Leonard myself. But
my hands were tied. You think I don’t have anyone to answer to?”
“You
mean your wife?” asked the Grim Reaper.
“Exactly.
She’s insistent. She says we can make an upstanding citizen of him yet.
Personally, I think she’s kind of sweet on him. But what can you do? She’s an
old woman, and you have to humor her. And don’t think this was Leonard’s first
stop. We sent him to Purgatory, but they threw him out. If you think you look
bad, you should see what he did to the Prince of Darkness. He’s a mess. That’s
one guy that’s not going to be sleeping with women for thirty years. He can’t
even sit down. And I’m beginning to like Leonard anyway. The most precious
thing I ever gave him was his life. Maybe the only thing worth fighting for in
the end. And Leonard understood this. He didn’t die in his sleep like a pacified
lamb. He went out in a puddle of his own blood and urine, hacking up lungs and
kicking like a mule. That’s why he was a hero to some. Most people would look
at Leonard and see a pathetic old man, suffering from rheumatism and arthritis.
But even Beelzebub knows better than that. Because nobody, and I mean NOBODY
fucks with Leonard Melnick. And for that alone, I’m
glad he’s here. So rage on Leonard Melnick. But stay
away from my wife. Even I have limits.
TEA LEONI
I've
decided to kidnap Tea Leoni. At least I did, until a 'friend' straightened me
out. He said "Why would she be interested in you? You're a loser."
"Oh
yea. I forgot."
"And
besides, she's a big TV star."
"Well,
I thought she would see through this dorky persona. To the person underneath. A..."
"Pathological
weirdo?"
"No."
"A
demented pervert?"
"I
think you're missing the point."
You
see, I planned on kidnapping her and whisking her away to the
But
the awful truth is, I can't afford it. And I've never actually planned a
kidnapping before. But I've been reading 'Dianetics', and I think I'm ready to
realize my 'full potential'. To 'Seize the day'. Or Tea Leoni, in this case.
But
I still have my reservations. Not in the
But
I'm not crazy. It's Tea Leoni, for God's sakes. Who wouldn't want to run away
with her? Ok, the part about kidnapping her is a little extreme. I guess most
people wouldn't be willing to commit a federal offense for a woman they've
never met. But that's because they just haven't reached their "Full
potential". And I'm sorry if that sounds smug, but it's true.
I think I'm really on the verge of something
here.
JUGGLING
Hi.
My name's Jim Stiene, and I'm a juggler. I started juggling a few years ago as
a way to meet women. Because I would always see mimes on street corners,
surrounded by beautiful women. But when I started juggling, I soon found that
women were just using me for my juggling, and that once the show stopped, they
would move on to the next clown, or perhaps even a mime. It was as if they liked the entertainment,
but had no romantic interest in a man dressed in a clown outfit.
So I stopped juggling for the glamour, and did
it for the art. But eventually, it became an obsession. I couldn't keep up with
school work, or hold down a job. And it seemed like juggling was taking over my
life. That’s when I realized I had a problem. That is, until I got help. You
see, that's when I joined a support group and got a sponsor named Larry. He had
been a clown on the rodeo circuit, before a tragic accident during one of his
juggling routines. His doctors told him that if he didn't stop juggling, he
would be dead in three weeks. So Larry knew what it was like to give up
something he really loved. He said that juggling was in his blood. His father
had been a juggler like his father's father before him. In fact, his uncle even
worked for Ringling Brothers before he was trampled to death by an elephant.
But
Larry helped me get through the bad times. I could call him at any time of the
day or night. Like when I passed by a fruit stand, or saw a television commercial
for Ginsu knives, and had the sudden urge to juggle.
I
remember one time I made the tragic mistake of going bowling. I just thank God
that Larry was around to take my call and bail me out of jail. But I'm better
now, though I still go to meetings. Our motto is "Jugglers Anonymous -
We've don't have any balls." So now
I have some new friends and a key chain I carry with me everywhere I go. But
I'm telling it to you, so that you don't make the same mistakes I did. It's
been three years since I've juggled, but I'm just taking it one day at a time.
LEO
I’ve
just read Leo Busgaglias’ autobiography “Confessions
of a Panty Sniffer”. It’s a real page turner. Cause
if you want to sell books, you have to write about things people can relate to.
And I think that’s what he’s trying to do here. He talks about some of the
women in his life. His high school teacher. His friends on the cheerleading
squad. In fact, when he originally joined the Pep Squad, some of the athletes
questioned his masculinity. But little did they know the real reason he wanted
to put cheerleaders on his shoulders. Cause Leo Busgaglia’s
a smart man. We could all learn from his wisdom. I especially liked his chapter
on the “Fredericks of Hollywood” catalog. Or the one describing his arrest record.
And not that many people know that before he was a Humanistic Psychologist, he
worked in a Laundromat. In “Confessions of a Panty Sniffer”,
he looks back on those days with the kind of sharp observations and fond
recollections one can only get from hindsight. And only a cynical reader would
fail to appreciate the humor of him dancing around the Laundromat with a college students panties over his face. Or cringe
with fear and embarrassment as the young Busgaglia is
arrested for petty theft, deviant behavior, and public exhibitionism. But
“Confessions of a Panty Sniffer” is a book for our
time. In fact, it’s a book for all times. Here Busgaglia
has created an instant classic that will live on in the hearts and minds of
those with creative erotic outlets. Thank you Leo Busgaglia.
You’re an artist and a connoisseur.
VANITY
People
are so vain these days. It wouldn’t surprise me if, in a rush to discover a
cure for baldness, someone produced a product with a really horrible side
effect. I could just see a corporate meeting:
“Jones,
what have you got for us?”
“Well
sir, we seem to have come up with a cure for baldness.”
“Excellent.
We’ll be rich!”
“Well,
it may be a little early to start celebrating.”
“What
do you mean?”
“The
formula seems to have an unpleasant side effect.”
“I’m
listening. Go on.”
“`Hair
Again’ does make your hair grow back, but it’s not quite perfected.”
“Don’t
beat around the bush. What’s the problem Jones?”
“It
makes your dick fall off. Watson, you better show
him.”
“Good
lord. This is disastrous!”
“Yes,
we seem to have had some unfavorable responses in the cities we test marketed
it in. In fact we’ve gotten a number of death threats. You know, people unhappy
with the product. A few major law suits.”
“Yes,
I could see how that might upset some of the choosier customers.”
“One
man said he didn’t want to live. Another threatened to blow up our
headquarters.”
“Well,
can we do anything to fix it?”
“Johnson’s
working on it. But he seems to be having trouble getting anyone to try it out.”
“Come
on. Where’s your team spirit?
“I
was going to tell you sir. I’m turning in my resignation.”
“Baker?”
“Fraid not, sir. I’d rather be
dead.”
“Boy,
you just can’t get good help these days.”
JUAN
Recently
a woman wrote a letter to the paper that exposed an injustice so insidious I
wasn’t even aware of it. I’m talking about Donkey Basketball. For many, this
seemingly harmless sport has served to entertained children of all ages for
many years. But it’s time adults wake up to the cruelty inherent in this
unforgivable pastime. And I’m not just talking about making donkeys run up and
down basketball courts at charity events. The real cruelty lies in giving them
the false hope they can make a living at it. We all know how difficult it is
even for talented adults to succeed in the NBA without having four legs to
restrict their movements. Yet many believe that donkeys will never be able to
make a lay-up or even hit a three point jump shot. Please help put an end to
this horrible form of animal abuse and abomination of nature before it’s too
late.
SHORTCUT TO HELL
How
long? How long, Lord, do I have to live with this STUPID haircut? I was trying
to go for the new wave look, but wound up looking like David Schwimmer. So, how
long do I have to suffer? I know it’s my fault. I take full responsibility. I
HAVE to. I was the one who cut it. But when does the suffering end, and the
living begin? Maybe I’ll go somewhere and hide out where no one will see me.
Before
my accident, women didn’t know I existed, but now they are visibly sickened.
Please let them ignore me again. Let it be the way it was before that fateful
night with the paper shears. Before this fashion tragedy. I feel like a
carnival freak. Let me have my hair back. I’ll go to church. Help the starving
people of
AN APPLE FOR THE TEACHER
As
you can probably guess, I used to get into a lot of trouble in school when I
was younger. Cause I would be doing something like making farting noises with
my armpits, and the teacher would say "Is that really necessary?" And
I had to admit, it wasn't. I just thought I'd add a little levity to the
situation. What, with her talking about pronouns and everything. Wasting the
classes' valuable time.
Because
nobody wanted to hear about pronouns. They wanted to hear me make farting
noises with my armpits. And how could the teacher compete with that? I think
she was just jealous because I could do something she couldn't do.
But
I just got in more trouble when I tried to explain that to the Dean of
Humanities. He said that college students should demonstrate a more mature
attitude. What a dork? How does he expect anyone to take him seriously when he
gives that kind of advise? But I guess that's what happens when you over
medicate adults. They act like idiots.
But
when I tried to tell him he was making a fool of himself, I just got in more
trouble. For the life of me, I'll never understand some people.
REVENGE
I
wonder if suicide is the ultimate act of passive aggression. I mean, if you’re
looking for a way to get back at your parents, suicide is an effective method.
Of course, it has it’s drawbacks. You can only do it once. And there are always
other options to explore. Other courses of action to pursue. You can become an
alcoholic, take up shoplifting, turn to prostitution or hard drugs, even shave
your head and join a cult. Some people become Born Again Christians, support
hopeless causes, or take jobs as night managers of Seven Elevens. Because
there’s more than one way to skin a cat, and the possibilities for self
defeating behavior are endless. You can get into sick, abusive relationships,
run for mayor on the Carnival Freak ticket. But personally, I prefer to get
really stupid haircuts. Because I’ve always believed that if you’re going to be
self destructive, you might as well have lots of witnesses. Oh, sure, others
might opt for writing pathetic, embarrassing commentaries about their life. But
for me, a stupid haircut is the only way to go. It serves the dual purpose of
breeding self contempt while offering numerous possibilities for public
humiliation and ridicule. So, if you’re mad at your mate, or just thinking
about getting back at your parents, stupid haircuts are an effective and useful
tool.
So
you’re building that deck, and you have Time Life Books to help you along. You
might want to fix yourself a Long Island Iced Tea to make your day go quicker.
Plus, if you hit yourself with a hammer, you won’t feel it.
I
remember one time, I passed out with a circular saw still running and took off
a few of my fingers. Luckily, my wife found me in a pool of my own blood and
called the paramedics before I went into convolutions. Of course, I was so
blitzed, I didn’t feel a thing. But they sewed those bad boys back on, and in a
few months, they were as good as new. No worse for the wear.
It
reminds me of the time I was in prison for breaking and entry, and this guy,
Lenny, wanted me to be his woman. Well, at first I thought ‘This is going to be
real painful’, but after a while, I started to like it. I still get a card from
him around Christmas time.
But
anyway, if you call now, we’ll send you
the first installment of Home Repair “Kitchens and Bathrooms” for a thirty-day
trial period, and if you don’t like it, you can keep it as our gift.
TIME
LIFE BOOKS- when you want to get something done, but you need professional
help.
THE DEAN OF HUMANITIES
I
think the Dean of humanities stole my cough drops. Because I'm pretty sure I
had them when I went to see him. And because I seemed to catch him off guard
when I asked him about it. In fact, he couldn't even answer a few simple
questions like "Have you ever been convicted of a felony, or gone under an
assumed name?" And that's a sure sign of guilt. When a guy can't even keep
track of his own lies, his life is so shrouded in deceit.
Of
course, I inspected his Masters Degree pretty thoroughly, but it all
seemed in order, although those things can be faked. I wonder if the school
knows about him. What else is he hiding? He must really think I'm an idiot. But
I've been around. I mean, it's no big deal. I'll just get another pack. But my
throats been a little scratchy lately from doing too many bong hits. And I'd
like to think I can trust the people that work here.
But
you never can tell about some people. I was even tempted to report him to the
school board, but I just let it go. Cause I should probably give him the
benefit of the doubt. And he's probably feeling pretty remorseful right now. I
just feel betrayed, that's all. I'll get over it.
But
even when I told him there were people that could help, he looked shocked. I
guess he was a little embarrassed. What, with him stealing my cough drops, and
me reaching out to help. I felt like that bishop in Les Miserable that let a
thief keep a pair of candlesticks. "Look, I don't really need those . You
probably need those more than I do. But if you ever feel the need to talk about
anything, let me know." And I left it at that. So, even though I was a
little disappointed in him, I felt pretty good about myself.
I guess real wisdom comes from
knowing when to let go. To put things in perspective and say "Okay, I
don't have a job, a car, or a life, but at least I don't steal people’s cough
drops." Of course, I might have just left them somewhere.
CONFUSION
Sorry
if I seem a little confused, but I’m just wondering what inquisitiveness means.
Maybe I’m a skeptic. Probably not, but you never know. I just wish I could have
certainty. I certainly don’t have any faith in cynicism. Or Atheism, for that
matter. I used to be an Atheist, but now I’m an Agnostic. I wonder if the only
difference between Christians and Atheists is that Christians have more
imagination than Atheists. I believe in life after death. I think life is just
the postponement of death. Some say medicine is the retardation of death, but
that’s retarded. Then they say that Schizophrenia is just a distortion of
reality, but that’s crazy. I knew someone with a multiple personality complex.
She asked what field to go into, so I suggested acting. But when I saw her
performance, I thought it was inconsistent. But I keep changing my mind about
consistency. And I keep changing the subject. Sometimes I can’t even form a
complete sentence. I have a cousin that’s serving four consecutive life
sentences for murder. But luckily, he’s got a lawyer that’s trying to knock it
down to three. My cousin was a real loner. He had to teach himself solitaire,
because their wasn’t anyone around to teach him. At
least he had a good memory. He said he had a photogenic memory. I said “You
mean a `Photographic memory?” He said “Oh, yeah. I forgot.” And what is a
photogenic memory, anyway? One that looks good in snapshots? I could be wrong,
but I don’t believe in Murphy’s Law. At least I didn’t believe in Murphy’s Law,
until I bought a used car. I use my car to deliver pizza. But I can’t seem to
make enough as a driver, to keep my car on the road. It’s a vicious cycle. It’s
like bondage gear in a washing machine.
THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD
I
think people should stop taking a dump in their pants. I don't know why they do
it. Maybe they think it's funny, but it's not.
Little
kids are always doing things like that. They're just sitting there smiling and
then you smell something really bad and go "Hey, knock that off. What,
were you raised in a barn?"
When
I was a lot younger, this kid in the neighborhood just pulled down his pants
and took a dump right in the middle of the road. But even then I knew it was tacky,
not to mention really rude. Because I was what you would call `gifted' or
something. I said "Hey! Don't take a dump in the road. What's wrong with
you?" But by that time he was just about done with his business. I guess
some people will never learn good manners. I'm Andy Rooney, and this has been
Sixty Minutes.
LIVING THE GOOD LIFE
When
I go to spoken word events, a lot of aspiring poets come up to me and ask
"How can I, a sensitive, self-possessed artist, become a dysfunctional
loser like yourself?" Now, my first instinct is
to say "You can't. You have to be born that way." But the fact is,
with a little work, and a concerted effort, anyone can master the art of
becoming a total personal failure in just a few weeks.
The
first step, is to destroy your career by cleverly
establishing a reputation as a profoundly retarded sociopath that no one in
their right mind would hire. But how does one go about it? Drinking at work? Smoking crack on your lunch hour? No. The fact is, most
employers establish close personal ties with their employees, and chances are,
they'll only ask if everything's all right at home, and if they can help. They
might even offer to get you into a twelve step program. And in many states,
it's actually illegal to fire someone who enters a treatment program for drug
or alcohol abuse, so you'll have to be more creative than that.
How
about stealing things from work? Let's face it, most employers don't even care
what you do with company property, because it's not really theirs, and besides,
it's insured. Chances are, they'll be willing to give
you another chance, if they've developed a fondness for you, and it's only your
first offence.
How
about sleeping with your boss’s wife? Now that's a little more like it! Nobody
likes a home wrecker. And if your boss is STILL willing to give you another
chance, you can tell him how his wife performed in bed. Or ask what he's doing
wrong that she laughs at him behind his back.
Of
course, if you're a woman, hitting on your bosses wife could easily backfire,
even assuming you can get past the taboos against lesbianism. No, even if your
boss’s wife was interested, he might welcome the turn of events, suggesting you
get together
for a threesome, and take an extended vacation in
But
don't give up. You could always start a few ugly rumors about your boss,
questioning his masculinity, and casually referring to his cross-dressing to
your co-workers when your boss is within earshot. I know that approach has
always worked for me, when I've grown tired of a work environment. So with a
little imagination, and a LOT of gall, it won't be long before you're escorted
from the building by security. Once they've called security on you, you can be
rest assured, you'll never work in THAT town again.
At this point, you might want to jeopardize
your driving privilege, by hanging out in bars and racing your drunken friend’s
home. Here is where drugs and alcohol can really make a difference. Swerving
down the road with one eye closed is a sure way to attract the proper
authorities. And once the police are on to you, the State of New Jersey will be
close behind, following up with fines, surcharges, revocation and, finally,
jail. With a little effort, and a
So
now it's time to start thinking about destroying your close, personal
relationships with loved ones and relatives. If you're a guy, you might try
drinking heavily and coming on to your mother-in-law, commenting on her
breasts, or threatening to kick her husband's ass if he doesn't stop passing
wind at the dinner table. I've always found that most women are disgusted by
such disturbing displays of Oedipal conflict, and
revolted at the thought of someone physically threatening their immediate
family.
Of
course, more often than not, even THAT'S not enough to completely destroy your
marriage and poison your home life. This is where infidelity can really work
for you. And the great part is, you don't even have to
cheat on your spouse. You just have to make them BELIEVE you have. Of course,
assuming your husband or wife isn't heavily armed, this is probably a good time
head for an exit. But don't be discouraged. With no job, no car, and no money,
you're just minutes away from complete homelessness, and with a little
imagination, even institutionalization!
So
you see, it's really that simple! Why spend your life providing for others,
when you can have others take care of you? The food in mental
institutions isn't the best, but just think about all the free time
you'll have, to talk to the other inmates or flirt with the nurses. Yes, it's
as easy as that! With just a few stupid and irresponsible acts, you too will be
on the road to becoming a complete personal failure.
So
call now! Our operators are waiting.
JENNY
Jenny
McCarthy won’t return my phone calls. I don’t know what’s up HER ass. Just
because she’s a big celebrity now, she won’t talk to someone like me? Not that
I knew her before she was famous, but
you’d think she would answer her God damn phone. But I guess she thinks “I’m a
big celebrity now. I don’t have time to talk to every pathological loser from
SURVIVORS
Americans
have become real weenies. In the old days, people didn't run off to their
therapist every time they had a problem: "Me and Bob have been seeing a
counselor. We haven't been communicating lately." I guess that's why you
hit him over the head with a desk lamp.
But
I get even more tired of people saying they're `real survivors'. Who isn't?
What, are there people slumped over their office furniture or clogging up
elevators with their dead bodies?
A
survivor is someone that lives through a Nazi death camp, not someone who just
broke up with her boyfriend: "She'll be ok. Chrissy's a real
survivor." And what are the rest of us, worm food?
A
survivor is someone that falls out of an airplane and lives to tell about it,
not someone that just lost his job at the Piggly Wiggly. "
CHAINED HEAT
I'll
never understand why women get raped in prison. What's the deal with these
guards, anyway? I mean, if you can't get laid in a women's prison, you must be
doing something wrong. It's probably time to change your approach. What were
these guys using as opening lines: "Do you want to see my infection?"
or "What are your feelings on anal sex?". And I thought I was socially inept. But if you can't
get laid in a women's prison, you must have been hit with an ugly stick, at
some point in your life.
They
say that
POLITE SOCIETY
I get tired of all the social niceties we're
expected to follow. Like "How's your mother?" What do people expect
you to say:
"She's
got syphilis."
"Oh.
I'm sorry to hear that."
"Well,
she's been hanging around with the wrong characters. Getting knocked up by
barflies."
"Don't
you hate when that happens?"
"It's
a bitch."
"Tell
me about it."
"I'm
just getting tired of bailing her out of jail."
"Has
she stopped drinking?"
"Only
long enough to pass out."
"Well
tell her I said `Hi'."
"Will
do".
"So
how's your father? Is he still on crack?"
"No,
he switched to heroin a few months ago."
"That's
too bad."
"Yeah,
he lost his job at the Division of Motor Vehicles."
"That's
a shame."
THE UGLY AMERICAN
(THE WORLD
IS MY CLASSROOM)
Now
that I’m taking Philosophy and studying the great works of Socrates, Plato and Nietzsche,
I have to ask myself, what, if anything, can we learn from `titty bars’? With
their blue collar clientele thinking “Why can’t I, an alcoholic carpenter, get
the type of woman that will dance for me like that? Doesn’t she know I’ve
almost finished making payments on my truck?” No. She’s off in the corner talking
to the bouncer, Anthony Verelli, with his fourteen carat chain. He’s already
made all the payments on his Camaro. And Samantha ( that’s her stage name) is
taking classes in accounting, so she can become an MBA, before she winds up
selling real estate, and sleeping with potential buyers. Samantha, who was
groped by her father at thirteen. Samantha, who should have killed him, but was
saving up for a breast job, and couldn’t afford a hit man. This is a sad, sad
world, my friend. Just look at that businessman who wanders in around lunch
time. Isn’t he getting it at home? Or is he afraid that his wife will find out
about his impending impotence? Oh, it’s sad. So sad. His wife, who wonders why
he hasn’t been in the mood for two years, is now eyeing the electrician who’s
working on her stove, and contemplating a lesbian relationship with her
neighbor, Judy, who’s husband is also scared of dying, and is, at this moment,
inserting dollar bills between the silicone implants of a dancer named Susan.
It’s a sad world, my friend. But some days it’s hard to tell who’s the most
pathetic of them all. We could have a contest. What, if anything, can we learn
from `titty bars’?
DOUG
So
this guy comes into the garage the other day with a sweater around his neck and
tortoise shell glasses, complaining about his squeaky breaks. I said “I’ll get
to it, when I get to it, ya fuckin homo!” You see, I work on cars. I don’t
always like it, but it’s my job. It’s what I do. I know a guy that used to work
here called Raymond. Got arrested for fucking a dead cow. I told him to watch
where he put his Johnson. You can’t just be sticking it anywhere. It will fall
off. But he never listened. He wasn’t to bright. They said I was a little slow when I went to school, but I didn’t
care. They even asked if I ever considered trade school. I guess I wasn’t set
out for college life, but I don’t care. College is for fags, everybody knows
that. All those professors talking about poetry and stuff. They just need a
good smack in the head. That will straighten them out. Teach them to act like
men for God’s sakes. Reading all those books. Some of them don’t even have
pictures. I don’t know what’s wrong with people like that. I think MOST people
that read just need a good swift kick in the ass. Those fucking fruits. The
name’s Doug. Don’t wear it out. I work on cars. But I guess I you already know
that.
SAMANTHA
I've
been watching
COURAGE
Notice
how in war movies the characters are all full of courage and self sacrifice?
Like if one has to go on a suicidal mission, they all volunteer: “Let me go,
captain, I can do it.”
“No,
me. You’re too young.” If I were in that situation my response would be
different: “Well, someone has to do it, and I say it’s me. What do you think,
Jim?”
“I’m
ok with that. I mean, I would go, obviously. But who am I to take away from the
heroism of others? It’s not my place to stand in the way of someone else’s
martyrdom. Jones, here, has a wife and kids to support, so his sacrifice would
be legendary. And Baker has a hundred men depending on him. People would never
forget his bravery. Whereas I’m just a worthless lay about, who has nothing to
gain from this generous and courageous act. No, I say let someone else go.”
“I’ve
never heard it put so nobly. Maybe YOU should go.”
“No,
really, I can’t. I’m not worthy of the honor. Please. Let Jones go. His
orphaned children will never forget him.”
“You’re
a good man, Jim Stiene.”
“I
do what I can.”
ONE
I
don’t know if you like Broadway musicals, but I’ll tell you ONE thing that’s
not a singular sensation. My fucking hemorrhoids. Cause they’re acting up like
a problem child trying to kick a Ritalin habit, if you know what I’m saying. My
ass hurts like the towel boy for a gay basketball team. No, I’m just kidding.
I’ve never had hemorrhoids. But I don’t understand why anyone would let someone
stick something up THERE. Cause my ass is so tight, I whistle when I fart.
Actually, that sounds like something from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Now
THAT was a kinky movie. And what were those little bastards doing while she was
a sleep? Some kind of twisted circle jerk? Deviants. They don’t fool me for a
second. Miners, my ass. Living out there in the woods all alone. No wonder Doc
was Grumpy. But then the Wicked Witch puts a spell on Snow White, till some
handsome prince comes along and gropes her till she wakes up. I tell you,
I
think it’s fair to say that Joseph, the Virgin Mary’s husband, was a tolerant
man. I mean, how would YOU feel if your fiancée told you she was pregnant, but
was still a virgin? “I don’t know, Mary. I’d LIKE to believe you, really. But
I’ve never heard of this Immaculate Conception thing. I’ve got to think about
this for a while.” It’s a good thing he didn’t invoke the law of Moses: “If a
man taketh a wife, and after lying with her...no proof of her virginity be
found...the men of the town shall stone her to death.” And people say divorce
court is rough. Kind of puts it all in perspective.
And
not everyone knows that Jesus had a brother. That’s got to be a tough act to
follow. Talk about sibling rivalries. How do you compete with THAT? “Why can’t
you be more like your brother? Here, he cures the blind, and you won’t even
clean up your room.” I wonder if the women of the village were jealous of Mary.
They’re bragging about their son, the lawyer, and people are saying “Big deal.
Mary’s boy is the SON OF GOD. Now, when your son can walk on water and turn
water into wine, THEN you can talk.”
DR QUINN
I
just saw an episode of “Dr, Quinn Medicine Woman”. I wouldn’t mind having Jane
Seymour as a doctor. But I’d probably go for an exam more than I had to:
“Mr.
Stiene, you just have a runny nose. There’s no need to take your clothes off.”
“Well,
I thought you could check for a hernia while I’m here.”
“You
don’t have a hernia. You’ve been coming in twice a month for a hernia
examination. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Well
I thought you could check, just to make sure. You know, better safe than
sorry.”
“Look,
Mr. Stiene, I have patients that a really sick and need help. I don’t have the
time for this.”
“I need help.”
“But
I’m not that kind of doctor.”
“No,
I guess not.”
“Goodbye,
Mr. Stiene.”
“Ok,
goodbye Dr. Quinn.”
THE LIFE AND TIMES OF ELMER SCHLUNT
He
was born in Masapequa,
“Oh
that. Yeah, it does that too. But I just wanted someone to try that liquid to
make sure I wasn’t losing my mind.”
“No,
you’re not. But I thought you scientific types were more interested in
practical benefits like energy.”
“Yeah,
that’s good too” said Elmer “But we also like to explore our MINDS. You know,
the final frontier.”
“What
do you call this anyway?”
“Elmer’s
Glue.”
“No,
I mean the machine.”
“I
haven’t really thought of a name” answered Elmer, as he took another hit off
the thick white substance.
But
strangely enough, Elmer never developed his alternative energy source, and some
suspected he had been pressured to abandon it by the nuclear power industry.
But he did market that amazing white substance, and became a millionaire
overnight. You see, Elmer wasn’t interested in technology, or even money, for
that matter, as much as expanding his mind, and bettering himself in the
process. Eventually he wound up in a mental institution trying to inhale air
conditioning fluid and Mr. Clean. But there are those that remember. And those
who still dream. Because as long as there’s a will, and a desire to learn,
mankind will always find a way of achieving the maximum state of incoherence.
And it kind of makes you proud to be an American.
PAMELA ANDERSON
So
I’m taking classes in Philosophy, Logic, and Screenwriting. But I probably
shouldn’t have come down so hard on television writing in my Screenwriting
class. Because most of the students want to BE television writers. So now I’m
about as popular as an airplane pilot with a drinking problem. But I don’t see
how anyone could watch an episode of `Baywatch’ and decide to become a
television writer. Unless they just want to be near a bunch of stupid,
inflatable actresses like Pamela Anderson. Because she’s about as dumb as a
dildo salesman at a revival meeting, if you know what I’m saying. And I doubt
she sleeps with the shows writers anyway. Because actresses usually date rock
stars, movie moguls, or real estate developers. Writers don’t get that much
action. And I should know. Women hear MY writing and they just think I’m
creepy. And who can blame them? But that’s the price you pay for trying to be
funny:
“So,
you’re a writer. What do you write about?”
“You
know, bestiality, drug addiction, joblessness.”
“Oh.
Nice talking to you.”
“Yeah,
have a nice life.”
But
aspiring actresses must have it tough, with all those weirdoes hanging around
LA. pretending top be big producers. But there are probably a few things to
look out for. If a guy asks you how you feel about “a little tasteful nudity”,
chances are, he’s not interested in method acting. Another phrase to look out
for is “Live Animal Sex Acts.” I know a girl that tried out for a movie called
“Tough Love”, but it turned out to be about bondage and disciple. But what can
you do?
THE SHOPPING MALL
I
don’t like when women ask you to hold their pocketbooks. Cause you feel like an
idiot standing around like some tragically stupid crossdresser
at J.C. Pennys, waiting for her to come out of the
ladies room, and having a duped expression on your face, shrugging your
shoulders as shoppers pass you by. Husbands searching for tools, or dragged
along on a shopping spree, crack a smile or glance at you emphatically, with
you mumbling “This isn’t mine. Really. I’m just holding it for my girlfriend. I
like sports. Football, boxing. You like boxing?” But they just glare at you as
they pass you by, like some carnival attraction. And you’re saying “She’s
coming back in a minute. Wait, here she is.” And then your girlfriend comes
back, smiling all coquettish, and asking you “Did you have fun?”
“Are
you kidding? Two guys already hit on me. I’m going to dinner Friday night.”
“I’m
not even going to talk to you, if you’re going to be difficult.”
“Difficult?
Do you think I like standing around, holding your purse, like some idiot, while
people are looking at me like my pants are around my ankles?”
“I
don’t want to talk about it. You’re being childish.”
JEOPARDY
There are events from time to time that can
change a persons’ life. This is the case with my uncle, who’s been a bitter
man, ever since he lost on Jeopardy. And I know what you’re saying - Alex Trebec understands. He’s sensitive to peoples’ needs. But
he’s only one man. How much can he do? And it’s not just a trip to the
PORTRAIT OF AN ARTIST
Some
said he was a genius. Others, that he was mentally retarded from a peculiar
deformity of the brain. I knew him as Dobro. Artist,
poet, metaphysician. He got his Ph.D. in performance art from NYU. For his final
project, he set the Dean of Humanities on fire, and screwed his wife in the
waiting room. His doctor’s thesis was called “The Fraternity Stunt - A Genuine
Art Form, or Just an Act of Drunken, Mindless, Stupidity?” Once he filled a
Volkswagen with horse manure and drove it into the school cafeteria. One
student even said he’d never eat hash browns again. Dobro
studied under the great masters of performance art - Marcel Marceux,
THE BRADY BUNCH
I’m
writing my own Brady Bunch movie. It’s called “You’re a Sick Woman, Mrs.
Brady”, in which Mrs. Brady comes on to Greg. Mr. Brady sodomizes
But
I’ve never understand why people obsess about death. What’s the big deal? I
don’t know when I’m going to die, I just know it’s going to happen in the next
five minutes, and I’m going to take a lot of people with me. But you’ve got to
keep on, keep on, keep on, keep on dancing all through
the night. You’ve got to keep on, keep on, keep on, doing it right. The Brady’s
know. They’re no fools. You won’t catch them robbing
video stores or beating up prostitutes because they’re GOT their act together. And it reminds me of this story. Of a lovely lady. But I don’t want to get into that now, cause I have just three minutes until the bomb goes off.
SCHOOL ELECTIONS (BEING
THERE)
Here’s a flyer I’ve been thinking of hanging
up at
The
time has once again come to elect a class president, and there are important
issues before us. Other candidates will talk about things like pride, honor,
and academic achievement. Pulleeze! This is not a popularity contest. Or a competition
to see who can do the most bong hits, sadly enough. No, college is supposed to
be about having a good time. If we wanted to be miserable, we could have stayed
at home with our parents. Education, Smeducation,
I always say. Who needs it? But a vote for me, Jim Stiene, on the Toga
Party, and you can rest assured your education won’t be wasted on tedious
pursuits like studying or taking exams. Oh, sure, my opponents will talk about
my drunken, aberrant behavior. But when they can maintain the grades I have,
and still maintain a serious buzz, THEN they can talk. And they’ll try to talk
you into voting for someone responsible or intelligent. But don’t you see, that’s JUST PART OF THEIR PLAN! No, we’ve seen what
humorless politicians have done to this country, and it’s time to put the `P’
back into party. No longer will students be reprimanded for parking on the
seminary lawn, or vomiting outside the dean’s office in a drunken stupor. We
must take a stand before these Nazi bastards take away our drugs and alcohol,
and THEN where will we be? Stone cold sober, and ready for
morning classes. That’s not right. But if you elect me student body
president your vote will not be wasted, even if I am.
IN THE MAIL
Billy
Joe waited patiently by the mail box. He knew his mail order bride would be coming
soon, and he hoped she wouldn’t be damaged in the delivery. So he was naturally
disappointed when all he got was a thirty page book with pictures of women in
it. That is, until a friend explained that it was just a catalog, and the mail
order bride company didn’t actually pick out a wife for him and put her in the
mail. Billy Joe would have to pick her out himself, and then she would arrive
in a more conventional fashion , most likely by
airplane. And his friend felt sorry for Billy Joe. He knew it was hard to think
after you’ve been hit in the head with a shovel too many times. But he felt
even more sorry for the unsuspecting foreigner that
would accept this bizarre proposition. An inflatable doll was one thing, but
this was insane. And he wondered whether Billy Joe had the emotional maturity
and mental ability to understand what he was getting himself into. But this was
too much to subject an innocent, though succulent, young girl to. No, if anyone
should get a mail order bride, it’s me, he thought. I could handle the
responsibility. And understand the ramifications of such an endeavor. But Billy Joe? The man had the intelligence of a small
appliance. And he resolved to put an end to this farce before it got out of
hand. “Billy Joe. The mail order company called and said all the brides were
lost in transport, and they don’t have any more to send you. I know what a
disappointment this is to you, but I think it will all work out for the best.”
But
later that night, he found himself addressing an envelope and mailing it to the
“Bahama Mama Introduction Service”. And six months
later, when an acquaintance asked where he met his charming wife, he cheerfully
responded “She came in the mail.”
BUREAUCRACY
I
just went through another bureaucratic nightmare applying for school. They'd
rather see you dead, than accept a form that has a line filled out wrong. If
James Bond had been poisoned, they'd just sit and watch him die: "It seems
you've let your coverage expire, Mr. Bond."
"I
thought I was paid up. Please, I need the antidote in six minutes, or I'm going
to die."
"Just
fill out these forms."
"Ok,
how's that?"
"You
misspelled gastronomical."
"Ok,
how about now?"
"Do
you have any major credit cards?"
"Not
on me."
"I'm
sorry, we can't help you."
"Well,
how much does it cost? I'll pay you in cash."
"Four-thirty-five."
"For a pill? That's outrageous!"
"Well,
health care's going up."
"Ok,
here's a five."
"Do
you have any change?"
"No,
but I'm dying."
"Hold
on.
CEMENT SHOES AND A GRAM OF BLOW
It
was just another Friday night, but one like no other I had seen before. It was
one of those nights where the blood rushes up to your brain and the hairs on
the back of your neck stand on end. It was just dysentery, but I don’t want to
talk about that now. My name’s Murphy. Jack Murphy. I was investigating the
death of a
But
the truth is, I never suspected the Senator of killing the reporter, in the first
place. Because I did it. The bastard never returned my
copy of “Large Breasted Coeds”, and I told him he’s live to regret it. So why
did I take the case. Who could resist an opportunity to frame a Senator while boffing a well endowed client? And besides, I never liked
that Senator, anyway. But on days like this I really love this town.
PHYSICAL
I
used to enter a lot of talent contests, but not anymore. Because I’m still
bitter about taking third in the last one I was in for my rendition of Olivia
Newton John’s classic “Let’s Get Physical.” And some people said it was my the dance routine that tripped me up. Others said it was
the green jumpsuit I wore. But I suspect prejudice. They probably gave me third
place because they new I’m Armenian, and several of
the judges were from the
MY DIARY
For
years I've wanted to keep a daily journal so I could keep track of all the deep
and profound thoughts I had. The stumbling block came when I realized I didn't
HAVE any deep or profound thoughts. So I had to settle for keeping a record of
perverted jokes and fictional accounts of my personal experiences. But the
truth is, I made the whole thing up. In fact, I've never
even tried drugs. And people will say
"But Jim, how could you give such an accurate description of the effects
of drugs and alcohol?" But the truth is, I'm a
careful observer. And I only pretend to be taking bong hits or finishing off
twelve packs of Michelobe, then exhaling or pouring
out my beer when no one's looking. And I realize that doesn't explain all the
strange and aberrant behavior I've displayed over the past ten or fifteen
years, but it was all an act. Honestly. My life would make Pat Boone look like
a derelict. Mother Terresa would KILL for the
virtuous and health conscious lifestyle I've conducted over the years. Face it.
She's jealous. She ACTS like she's a saint, but you just KNOW she acts like a
drunken sailor when no one is looking. Because you can fool some of the people
some of the time, but you can't fool me.
GRAVITY
There
have been a lot of airplane disasters in the news lately. That must be
harrowing. Heading straight for the earth at three hundred
miles an hour. But what's more amazing is someone that survives an
airplane crash. And what do you do after you hit the ground and realize you're
still breathing? Ask for a drink? Or a clean pair of shorts?
I would guess the service on a flight would go downhill after a major disaster:
"Miss. Can I get a dry martini?" No, I would imagine the surviving
stewardesses would be in an ugly mood, with half the passengers dead, their
body parts strewn all over the airplane, an arm here, a leg there. And I doubt
the passengers would be in a very good mood either. What do you say to them
"Thanks for flying United"? Offer them frequent flyer miles or free
plane trips? I would guess their confidence in your airlines would be pretty
shot after that. And I think a lot of them would never get on an airplane
again. Because every time they hit some air turbulence there would be a puddle
at their feet, like the response of a Pavlovian dog.
And they say that airplanes are safer than cars, but when a car stalls you just
pull over. No, I don't have a fear of flying. It's crashing that worries me.
COUNTRY
LIVING
Pepperidge Farm? We got goats on Pepperidge Farm. We got
goats and we got sheep on Pepperidge farm. You know the best thing about sheep?
They don’t remember. Got a place in
THE CLERGY
I
have a cousin that’s a priest. I tried to tell him that the priesthood is
probably not the best occupation for someone with Turrets syndrome, but he’s
insistent. I just hope his congregation has a sense of humor. God knows, I’d
laugh. But the head priest hasn’t seemed to notice yet, on account of he drinks
heavily, and has been known to use colorful language himself, from time to
time. But I think the parishioners are starting to get suspicious. I know Mrs.
Jefferson got a little upset when my cousin littered his sermon with the word
‘Tits’ and ‘Buttfucker’. And I can sympathize with
him. I often find myself trying to restrain myself from shouting obscenities at
my job in the Post Office. People coming in and asking for
Little Abner stamps. But I don’t want to talk
about it, cause it will get me too upset. But my
cousin seems to be doing ok. And I can still see the look on his face after he
got fired from his job as a media spokesman. It’s just nice to see him working
again, after that anchorwoman hit him in the head with a microphone. I guess
some people just don’t understand colorful language. But you can’t please
everyone, and you’d be a fool to try.
COLONIC
AT SEVEN
I
wonder what rich people do for laughs. Beat their servants? Sleep with their
wives friends? Rich ladies used to work for charity organizations, but these
days, most benevolent organizations are run by people making three million
dollars a year, and I’d hate to think who THEY’RE fucking to get those jobs.
But I bet you’ll never hear it on McNeil Lehrer. They’re not giving away any
secrets. But I KNOW Jim Lehrer fucks rodents, I just can’t prove it. I’ve seen
the way squirrels hang out outside his limousine. Who does he think HE’S fooling. He tries to appear so respectable, but you KNOW
he’s got some really vulgar skeletons in his closet. Just look at the guilty
expression on his face. He must have done something really hideous, but he
doesn’t fool me. Cause I’m on to you, big shot. It’s only a matter of time. And
I’ll be watching. I’ve got my ear to the door and my eye to the keyhole and you
can’t keep abusing squirrels forever. People will find out the truth and then
you’ll be RUINED.
RELIGION
I
didn't come here to mock other people's religions, or to call them stupid or
ignorant, but it's hard not to, now that I've seen the light and the way in the
THE DOMINO EFFECT
I’ve
decided to stop drinking at work. You would think that drinking heavily
wouldn’t effect pizza delivery, but it’s starting to
effect my performance. And it’s not just me, my boss gets annoyed when I
confuse orders and deliver a large sausage pizza to someone that ordered
anchovies. Or when I blackout and forget what I did the night before. Then people
calling up and complaining that their pizza arrived with slices missing. Or claiming that someone was stumbling over their flower bed and
peeing in their bushes. Of course, I don’t remember doing this, but when
you start waking up at three in the morning on the side of the road with a half
eaten box of pizza, you know it’s time to start changing your work habits. And
Lord knows, it’s not the first time. People said I
drank too much when I worked as a waiter. And that WAS pretty messy, but I
figured I just had a bad sense of balance. And besides, I paid for people’s
cleaning bills, I’m not totally irresponsible. But as far as pizza delivery
goes, I’m either going to have to cut down on drinking or look for a job as a
security guard or tractor trailer driver, because pizza delivery is just too
important to do drunk out of my mind.
STATE
OF THE NATION
Just
once in my life I’d like to see an honest State of the Union Address where the
President comes out and says “Man, we’re in deep shit. The economy’s in a
freefall, crime is rampant, and we’re steadily turning into a third world
country, with second rate schools, raging poverty, and racial strife that’s
beginning to resemble
SEA WORLD
I
was just talking to my cousin Jerry. But he hasn’t been the same since he was
horribly disfigured in a boating accident. I TOLD him not to juggle Ginsu knives in the speedboat, but he never listens. Cause
Jerry’s not too bright. He tried to rob a gas station once, but no one ever
told him you’re supposed to take their money, not just fill up your tank at gun
point and leave without paying. And he gets on my nerves sometimes. He
complains about the eighties and all the shallow materialistic people obsessed
with sex and money, so naturally, I was offended. I said “Hey, I’m a shallow
materialistic person obsessed with sex and money, what makes you so special? Your work with dolphins? What have they ever done for you,
Can you answer me that?” And of course, he couldn’t. And what are dolphins
doing for the starving people of
WEDNESDAY MORNING
I
don’t know why people drink Coke or Pepsi. They leave a film on my teeth. I
like Mountain Dew because it reminds me of those green popsicles we used to eat
as kids that came in long clear plastic strips. We used to rip open the top,
then munch them down, or let them melt in all their syrupy goodness. They were
pure glucose. They give glucose to people in a coma because they’re like the
building blocks of life or something. The body burns sugar for energy.
Actually, burnt sugar is caramel. But anyway, those pops were pretty tasty. My names Wednesday. I carry a badge. I got a call in the
donut shop at
Dear
Mom and Dad
I’ve
been on my own for three weeks now, and the counselors say, if everything goes
well, I’ll be able to do my own food shopping. I even got a new job. Luckily,
they only asked if I’ve ever been convicted of a felony, not if I’ve ever been
hospitalized for mental illness. But my supervisor says I’m the best worker at
the explosive factory, and I haven’t had any relapses weeks. I still hear
voices in my head sometimes, and Satan talks to me, but now I just ignore him. Because the people at the factory are depending on me. And
I’m still taking my medication, although sometimes I forget. Otherwise,
everything’s just ducky.
Your Son, Seymour
THE AIRPORT
I’m
not trying to come across as an authority on the subject, but I’ve found that
it’s a lot easier to use power tools, drive a car, or operate heavy machinery
when you’re not tripping. It’s one of those hard earned life lessons you can
only get from experience. I learned it as an air traffic controller. One minute
you’re having a good time, and the next minute you’re catching trails off of an
approaching airplane. Because it’s not easy trying to help someone land a plane
while you’re trying to stop giggling and humming Hendrix tunes. But people
don’t understand. One major collision and they send you packing. I guess the
important thing is to learn from your mistakes. You’ve got to be philosophical
about these kinds of things, otherwise you might never
live down an airplane disaster. But that’s water under the bridge. At least I
didn’t get arrested for endangering the lives of the Swiss hockey team as they
came in for a landing. But the real air traffic controllers were on strike, and
I happened to be coming back from collecting mushrooms in
THE DARK HORSE
I am formally announcing my candidacy for the Presidency of the
Don't let them talk you into action when you know it's just an
invitation for disappointment and failure. WE are the party of realists. We
won't fill your head with false hopes and empty dreams because we've been there
and we KNOW there's no hope. We represent the uninspired, the underachievers,
the downwardly mobile prophets of learned helplessness, and we will NOT
overcome. Ask not what your country can do for you, ask yourself.. What's the point of even waking up in the mourning! You
CAN'T make a difference! Don't Vote! Ich Bin Ein jelly donut. I am not a cook. A vote for me is a vote
wasted. These are the immortal words that have led brave men into inaction and
eventually, paralysis. Nothing phases the catatonic, autistic or brain dead
coma-induced vegetables because crazy people don't know their sick and
catatonic people don't care anyway.
NO OSSIFER, HOW FAST WAS I GOING?
Alright, so
I took out a few mailboxes, What's the big deal?
I can't afford insurance. What do
you think I'm made of?
Oh, I was just bringing them to be
recycled, you know. We've got to think about the environment.
I can't walk that line, I'm
uncoordinated.
I don't know how I got thirty one
points, haven't you ever heard of Police Harassment? Oh, sorry.
Now you can't blame me for that.
How did I know someone would put their living room there? I'm not a psychic,
and I understand they're all healing just fine. I just wish those damn lawyers
would stop nagging me all the time.
What? He was a hitchhiker. He
shouldn't have been standing on the sidewalk anyway, and besides, I barely hit
him.
You can't trust those machines. Two
point one, Three point oh wahs
the difference?
Now, how am I going to get my car
home?
Listen, sir, can you loosen these?
I can't move my arms. Thanks.
Now, look at my hands. How am I
going to clean this ink off? Don't I get a phone call?
Look dear, would you just call the
damn lawyer? I don't feel like arguing right now.
No, your honor, I don't know who
was driving my car. I was watching CHIPS at the time. Well he probably just
looked a lot like me.
What? Do you really believe
everyone's fingerprints are different?
Is it all right if I take a vacation, Mr. Johnson?
I've been under a lot of stress lately.
About thirty days.
No, I'm not crazy. I'd just like a
few days off, you know.
When are we going to eat? I'm
getting bored in here.
No, I've never put on an evening gown, get the hell away from me! And stop looking at me that way! Man, when is
she going to bring my cigarettes? Does she think I like being in here?
I'm sorry dear, I haven't been
bathing much. I don't like the way some of the guys have been looking at me,
you know.
Well, Mr. Johnson can blow it out
his ass! What do I need that cheesy job for anyway? God, you try to take a few
days off and they have a fit.
Boy, it's good to be home again.
We don't have any onion rings. How
about a shake?
That'll be
Why does she get half the house? I
paid for it.
Look dear, I mailed the check
Tuesday, honestly, and I'm getting a new job.
What? Yea, I miss you and the kids
too. Friday? Not much. I was just going to watch pro
bowling.
Alright, I'll see you at eight.
Honey, slow down. Do
you want to get a ticket?
CATS
Cats
are harder to domesticate than dogs because they kill for sport. They hunt mice
and then present them as a present to their owner. I don’t know if they’re just
showing off, or trying to contribute to the household. They leave a dead rat on
your doorstep and then say: “This is for
you. Why don’t you cook it up in one of those pans you keep on the counter. I’ll watch.” But humans don’t understand. They
scream: “You stupid cat! Why would I want a dead rat on my doorstep! Put that
back where you got it and go play in your sandbox.” And cats are understandably
offended by these outbursts. “That ingrate” they say. “I bring her dinner, and
she throws it back in my face. Who needs the aggravation.
I present her with a token of my appreciation and she screams about getting
blood on her carpet. I should scratch her curtains for that. I bring her a
perfectly good rat, and she feeds me this shit out of a can. Jesus, I’ll never
understand humans.” And they’re right, you know. With a little butter and
garlic, even the mangiest looking rodents can make a healthy snack treat. In
fact, I remember eating at Dennys once and thinking: “You know, this isn’t that bad. A little pickles
and ketchup and this would go down pretty smooth.” And that’s all are cats are
really trying to tell us. But people just don’t listen.
CONVULSIONS
How do you know when you're coming unhinged. It
creeps up on
you so slowly. Sure, there are signs that your grasp of the situation is
disintegrating. Little things. Like waking up in
Fuck 'em
if they can't take a joke.
But lately there have been more subtle signs that my mental capacity has
developed a slow leak. Like when I walk into a store and people ask me if they
can help and I find myself asking if they have any Thorazine,
then walking out dejected when they don't. Thorazine
is like a designer drug for sociopaths. Basically, there are three kinds of
psychotropic drugs: Anti depressants, Anti Anxiety and Anti Psychotic, which is
where Thorazine comes in. It's the wonder drug of
choice for psychotic episodes and paranoid
delusions. They can
take a person wandering around talking to themselves,
and have them totally in control in minutes with a little Thorazine.
But how does one going about getting the drug? Mugging a mental patient is in
bad taste, and robbing a pharmacy has it's definite
risks. Oh well, you can't have everything. But I get tired of people saying
"At least you still have your health" because they have NO IDEA.
Maybe I should
administer shock treatment to myself by hooking up a pair of headphones to a car battery. Electric
shock has come a
long way since it's introduction in the fifties. It causes seizures in the
brain, which releases Norepinephrine and Serotonin as
a defense mechanism for the convulsions. Norepinephrine
and Serotonin are both natural anti depressants. Without them we’d all be
throwing ourselves n front of traffic and it would be hell getting to
work. But they only use shock treatment
in suicidal cases because
Antidepressant drugs take much longer to start working. Of course, these days, they put you to
sleep and give you muscle relaxers. I understand it's not such a bad experience, all in all. But I'll just
have to hang in there
a little longer, cause it can't get any worse and I've got a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon in the freezer that
fell off a truck. Tomorrow, I think I'll start stalking Kathy
Lee.
Now, if I could only do something about those hallucinations.
FREE ASSOCIATION (EVERYTHING IS
SHIT)
MONEY =
FREEDOM
EMPLOYMENT
= BONDAGE
POVERTY = HELPLESSNESS
LOVE = SALVATION
HEARTBREAK = DEVASTATION
SEX = SPIRITUALITY, AMUSEMENT OR RELEASE
TIME IS IN MOTION
SPACE IS RELATIVE
NATURE IS OBJECTIVE
ANGER IS A REACTION
FEAR IS AN INSTINCT
LIFE IS SUBJECTIVE
DEATH IS A QUESTION
VOTERS ARE PUPPETS
STUDENTS ARE CLAY
TEACHERS ARE SCULPTORS
PREACHERS ARE BEGGARS
POLITICIANS ARE PERVERTS OR
PSYCHOPATHS AND THEY CAN ALL GO FUCK SHEEP
WAR IS A
BUSINESS
SOLDIERS
ARE LACKEYS
TRUTH IS A BRICK WALL THAT’S MOVING
ALL THE TIME
MARRIAGE IS A CEREMONY
DIVORCE IS THE REALIZATION THAT
YOU’RE MARRIED TO AN ASSHOLE OR BITCH
HISTORIANS
ARE LIKE BLIND MEN DESCRIBING AN ELEPHANT
OPTIMISTS
ARE CRAZY
PESSIMISTS DON’T PLAY THE LOTTERY
OR BET ON THE RACES.
REALISTS
ARE PROBABLY SCARED OUT OF THEIR MINDS.
WRITER, MUSICIANS AND ARTISTS HAVE
THE CHOICE OF OBSCURITY OR SELF HATRED
THE CHOICES
ARE BULLSHIT
AND
TALENT’S A BURDEN
AMBITION CAN KILL YOU
YOUR DREAMS ARE A DEATHTRAP
SURVIVAL IS PAINFUL
AND HAPPINESS SOMETHING THAT’S FAR
OUT OF REACH
BUT LOVE SEX AND LAUGHTER ARE THE
ONLY THINGS WORTH LIVING FOR
AND EVERYTHING ELSE IS A CROCKPOT
OF SHIT
SWEATY PSALMS (THE PREACHER)
Friends, I know there are times
when your life’s got you down.
When you just can’t take another
hit off that bong.
Or maybe you’ve got to get home,
but you just finished off
two six packs of tall boys.
So you wind up sleeping it off in
the
But you know it’s gonna be all right.
And you hope and you pray that that
fourteen year old girl doesn’t tell the police that you played “Hide the
Train”.
Or your mom doesn’t find those
syringes you stashed in your room.
Or maybe you just spent too much
time at the Show World Emporium.
And you spent your last dime in the
lesbian booths.
But those windows are your
confessional
When you’ve
got your faith in your hands.
And you try not to step in the
puddle on the floor
That some stranger left
At an all night adult movie house
Can I hear an Amen?
Can I hear it again?
Can I borrow a quarter, I get paid
on Tuesday.
THE
CAMPAIGN TRAIL: RUN FOR YOUR LIFE
With the
political campaigns warming up, I thought I’d share my impression of an
election race, as seen through the eyes of a T.V. viewer:
“My
opponent, Bob Thompson, hasn’t paid his taxes in four years, yet he has the gall to raise your taxes. Vote for Mark Simon, and stop the nonsense.”
“Mark Simon
is a thieving bastard, who’s been embezzling money from the government for
eight years. Vote for Bob Thompson, and set things right.”
“Bob
Thompson is a drug addict, an adulterer and a pimp. He wouldn’t know the truth
if it bit him in the ass. Make Mark Simon your Senator, he’ll get the job
done.”
“Mark Simon
is a wife-beater, an alcoholic and cross-dresser. Is this the kind of
leadership you want in
“Bob
Thompson is a rapist, a murderer and a pedophile, who’s been screwing sheep for
the last five years. FOR GOD’S SAKE VOTE FOR MARK SIMON, AND PUT
(This
announcement was paid for by the Mark Simon for Senator campaign)
And you
wonder why no one wants to run for office anymore. Even if you’ve lived a
wholesome life, you’re going to come out looking pretty bad. I could just hear
the neighbors: “Uh, you don’t really have any sheep around here, do you Bob?
Johnny, stay away from him, he’s not well. Listen, me and some of the neighbors
have been raising money, and we’d like to buy your house. Have you thought
about a change? I hear
MAD LAUGHTER
They
said I was mad. They said you couldn’t get a thousand kilowatts of energy from
horse manure. And I would have proved them wrong if they hadn’t ruined
everything. You see, they forbid me from going near any farms in
CODA
I’m
afraid this is where I get off. I’m writing this from a jail cell in
As a
songwriter and musician, I feel I can no longer bear witness to this
abomination of truth and perversion of an artistic medium. This one's called:
OPEN LETTER TO MICHAEL
Fuck you, you maggot infested piece
of rat shit.
I hope your hair grows back and
your dick falls off.
I hope they bury you in a seventy
two Ford with Richard Marx and a busload of soiled diapers.
Tell me how am I
supposed to chop off your arms and shove them down your throat,
you rabid,
brown nosing chunk of cow manure.
May you lose control of your bowels
in a crowded mall till the cess runs down your leg.
I hope you die in a pile of your
own filth, and lie choking on phlegm,
as small
children and angry shoppers kick you in the stomach.
I hope an admiring housewife
catches you fucking a small dog and sends a picture to People Magazine after
she squats over you and pisses in your face
Die, you bag of worthless crap.
Die, Die, fester and die.