Not So Clever After All

Appendix

There was a time when I was having intense pains in my midsection. I was certain it was my appendix. Turned out it was probably just gas. It passed.

It got me wondering what the hell we even need an appendix for, if we can live just fine with it removed. It seems to me it’s just full of extraneous junk we’re never going to read.

I often try to guess what might be in my appendix, but every time I imagine it, I always picture stuff I’ve heard “could” be in there, and not stuff that actually “might” be in there. Here’s my list:

1) a big multi-colored wad of gum (chewing and bubble), swallowed through the ages and collected, like Violet Beauregard would, to be chewed again at a later date. It’s possible. I’ve swallowed gum before.

2) a nickel. I always picture a nickel in my appendix, though I am 100% certain I have never swallowed a nickel (or any coin). I would never put a nickel in my mouth, because someone probably had that nickel up their butt (at least that’s what my friend Sam would have you believe - and I believe it. The world is full of perverts who imagine people putting coins up their butts like some sort of ass piggy bank in reverse).

3) a bullet. I once heard a story about a man who had his appendix removed and they found a bullet in there. He was as surprised as I would be if there was a bullet in mine, so it’s possible, though to my recollection I’ve never been shot (yet).

4) seeds. Everyone inadvertently swallows seed (not man-seed - you know when you swallow that). There are bound to be some apple seeds and orange seeds and watermelon seeds just sitting in my appendix waiting for the day I swallow a shovelful of potting soil so they can grow into trees and sprout out my ears.

5) a surprise! I bet there is one totally unexpected thing in my appendix. If I ever have it removed, I can’t wait to have them crack it open like a piñata at a Mexican kid’s birthday party, so I can see what kind of fun pours out. Hey, it’s grandma’s glass eye!

So, that’s it. The contents of my completely useless appendix (as I imagine them to be). We should find a way to make the appendix of use. Maybe install a zipper and make it an internal change purse.

“Hey, homeless guy, sure I’ve got some loose change,” (unzip), “here you go.”

“It’s got gum and bile all over it.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“I was going to stuff that up my butt, but not now. Gross.”

Movin' On Up

Years ago I had a chance to see the Broadway musical “Movin’ Out”. I didn’t know anything about it, other than it was set to the kick-ass tunes of Mr. Billy Joel.

It turned out to be the funniest show I’ve ever seen (and I’ve seen “Rent”).

Evidently back in the late 60s, tough guys would dance ballet/jazz for their tough guy friends to convince them to hang out with the dudes instead of their girlfriends. They didn’t use words to express themselves, they didn’t need words, not when they had … dance!

The show was essentially two different productions: one a tribute concert to Billy Joel (sans Piano Man (say what?)), and the second a loosely-plotted danstravaganza about some guys going off to Vietnam, their before and after relationship troubles, the death of a friend, one guy turning gay tricks on the docks (who didn’t see that coming?), and the ultimate reconciliation of all involved.

It was like they took a bunch of talented people and convinced them to participate in a horrible plan to make them all look ridiculous. They’re making money though, so I guess that makes me the ass.

Maybe I should come up with my own asinine scheme … The Jeffersons on Broadway … all mimed … white actors in black face … black actors in white face … Sean Penn as George Jefferson … Jeffrey Wright as Harry Bentley … set to the music of Public Enemy (but without Bring The Noise).

I’m going to be rich!

Reverse Sexism

Everywhere I go I see these Curves gyms for women. No men allowed? That strikes me as discriminatory.

I’m going to open up a chain of gyms exclusively for men. I’m calling it Bulge.

The Man

If you ever find a loophole or system error that allows you to gain advantage over The Man, exploit it, and for the love of Pete don’t tell anyone else the secret. If you do, the word will spread and The Man will find out and cut you off (like every bartender at every bar you’ve ever been to, you Angry Drunk).

Let’s say you work in my building and you’ve discovered that one of the three ATM machines (Automatic Teller Machine machines?) isn’t configured correctly and doesn’t charge the stated $2 usage fee. It’s like free money! (from your bank account!) Let’s say you’re tempted to tell that cute girl approaching one of the surcharge-active ATMs that she can save $2 by using the machine you hold secret. She can take her chances (like a game of 3 Card Monte or that shell game that hoodlums play with bottlecaps now because no one eats walnuts like they used to), but the house usually wins, and you’re a sure bet.

Let’s say you tell her. Nice job, Casanova, you’re gonna get screwed (because it turns out she’s a $2 whore and you just earned yourself a freebie. After you knock boots, you feel pretty satisfied with yourself (because you’re a dirty whoremonger) and you go back to work whistling like a coalminer with a canary up his mineshaft. A couple days later you get a rash and some burning and warts on your sack. You also get a call from your boss’s boss because it turns out you defiled his sixteen year old daughter (whore though she is). Statutory Rape charges will be filed. And you’re fired. Oh, and she told her daddy about the ATM and he called the bank and they fixed the problem. $2 charges are re-instated, and remunerations are required for all prior unpaid-for transactions (that’s like $20 for the ten withdrawals you’ve made). I warned you. You got screwed!)

This has all been the premise of my new cable access show Pran’x. The twist is that all this stuff really happens to you. We just get it on tape.

You got Pran’x’d!!! (and some nasty STDs to share with your new prison boyfriends)

Johnny and the Tumblers

In 1980, I was seven years old, and in my gymnastics class I was exposed to all manner of obscenities in the form of jokes (as told by another seven-year old) about a character named Johnny Fucker Faster. There were maybe four or five jokes about Johnny and the ever-increasing misunderstandings resulting from his unfortunate middle/last name combo. A side character in at least one of the jokes was Suzy Go Pee. I don’t really remember the content, as I was seven, and trying to focus on the gymnastic lesson, but I’m sure they were hilarious. I’ve never heard these jokes since, but every time I hear the name Johnny, I think of Mr. Fucker Faster with awed remembrance.

I know I said this was a “gymnastics” class, but all I ever remember being taught were somersaults. I was fucking genius at somersaults. I had an entire floor routine, somersaulting all over the mat. I couldn’t be stopped. I was the unstoppable somersaulter.

When I think back now, I realize I should’ve become a professional somersaulter, rolling head tucked between my knees for fame and glory (and lots and lots of chicks). I could’ve been the Johnny Fucker Faster of the somersaulting world.

Ricky Fucking Rollover.

Genius Mortis

“Every asshole has an opinion.” That’s an old saying. I think it’s where the cliche, “Your opinion is shit” derived from.

What follows is my opinion (shit as you may think it).

I fly in the face of modern thinking that someone artistic who commits suicide is suddenly this undeniable genius.

Example 1:

“Hey Genius, what’s the square root of 121?”

“That’s easy …” (KABLAM)

“Oh shit! He blew his brains out with a shotgun!! I’m sure he knew the answer though. That guy’s a genius.”

Example 2:

“Genius, why did you mix blue paint with orange to make blornge in your new piece entitled ‘What The Crap Is This?’, and what’s the square root of 121?”

“It came to me in a dream …” (dead)

“Oh fudgecrakers! He died of a coke-induced brain hemorrhage! If only he hadn’t sniffed that extra line I might know what this blob on canvas means. I’ll buy it. He’s a genius.”

Overdose, self-inflicted gunshot, hanged, mangled by mad-dogs (on purpose), drowning in own (or other’s) vomit; these are not things that define a genius. So, what does? Great talent, sure. Knowing the square root of 121, definitely.

Helpful Advice

Sometimes one thing (alcohol) leads to another (sex).

Owned pwnd

For approximately five years (perhaps six), I have hated the use of the word “own”. Not the conventional use (I own my car), but the modern frat boy owning (or owning*). I also realize it is barbelled on the other end of the spectrum by the antithesis of frat boy, hyper-geek (but they tend to use the “cool” misspelled version “pwn”). Those l33t-speaking shortcutters and their gameplay phonetics have further bastardized this atrocity to an even more misanthropic word (so typical).

I’d say the first two times I heard it, I was mildly amused. Very mildly. But now, I’m well sick of it. I’m not chastising you personally if you use it. I know you can’t help it. Society has made you this way with its blind acceptance and embrace of such terminology. And you don’t have to stop just because I despise it (and you).

For those who have somehow escaped “owning”, allow this discourse.

Let’s say you like totally destroyed someone verbally (with a well-placed witticism to their detriment) or physically (a swift punch to the groin of a male opponent) or digitally (like actions as aforementioned, but in a video game), you evidently “own’ them and they got “owned” by you. It’s like slavery.

The time has come to emancipate. Let me be Abraham Lincoln and you the South.

OK, the other example, is to “own” a trait in yourself and embrace it. This is what I *-ed above. The trait in question is not usually something like, I don’t know, good manners or proper hygiene, but more some quirk that other people may find obnoxious or embarrassing for which you have now been encouraged to be proud (I like to imagine “pwn” to mean “pride of ownership”). Head’s up, champ, being the loudest farter in the car is not something to “own”, it’s something to stop. Resume shame.

Please, if you own self-respect, move away from the extreme edges and rest here with me in the judgmental middle where we pwn frat boys and super-geeks alike with our mockery and derision (but we don’t acknowledge it in such base terms of ownership). We just whisper it to each other and laugh and laugh and pee our pants a little (but do not “own” it, for fear of being mocked in our turn).

En Guarde

I take offense when people say I have a rapier wit. I think a lot of people would agree with me when I counter that I have the rapiest wit. Maybe not “a lot” of people, but you know, all the people I have raped. OK, that’s a lot.

Before you start getting metaphorical and justifying my rapey wit as the kind that blindside fucks you, please look at it more literally. Rape is funny. Not when it’s happening to you, but you know, after. Years and years after.

I hope I haven’t confused anyone as to the type of rape I perform. I’m not so base as to use a crude instrument such as penis. No. I use a fencing sword, an epee, a foil, a rapier, if you will (and if you meet me, even if you won’t, you will).

Parry. Parry. Riposte!

Touche douche!

Apolocaust

Step 9 in the 12 Step Program is something about making apologies to every individual you have wronged. This step follows Step 8 which is inventorying the wrongs you have done to everyone. Step 8 was boring, so I skipped it. Step 9 seems boring, too, so I’m just going to lump all my apologies into one big grand heartfelt purge of guilt. If you feel you are owed some part of this, feel free to take from the communal coffers.

I’m sorry. For whatever it is you think I did to you. My apologies, OK? Jesus Christ, I’m SOR-RY! God! Look, just get over it already. I said I’m sorry, so just fucking move on. You’re right, I’m wrong. I’m the bad guy. Ooohhh, don’t you feel better now? You got your fucking apology, what else do you want? You’re a total shithead.

I’m sorry about the “shithead” part.

Friends?

The Gas Problem

Disclaimer: My apologies in advance. This entry is serious. It is not intended to be humorous. The subject matter is austere and no laughing matter. There are grave, relevant concerns at stake. And this has nothing, and I mean nothing, to do with farts or flatulence, no matter what you may read into it.

 The Gas Problem, by Farty O’Tailpipe

Everyone is aware of the current economic crisis, right? I mean, first we had the dot com bubble burst, which left us with no more dot coms and no more internet. Then speculators bought twenty houses each with questionable mortgages, creating yet another bubble, which, as we’ve seen, has totally blown up. Kaboom!! No more houses. And then, those gold-diggers pumped their money into commodities. Like oil. Bloating prices from like $47 to $147 per barrel, which lead to a huge gas pain right in the gut of America (the great).

Gas prices went crazy, and as we all know, every crazy fox eventually smells his own hole. What I mean is that something stinks and I think you know what it is. Gas. The gas bubble is silent, but deadly. With all the banking failures and headless government bailout chickens running around pulling each other’s fingers, I fear no one is trying to figure out who dealt it in regards to gas. Gas prices are dropping. Like, a lot. A barrel of oil is now back down in the $60 range. Do you know what that means? It means the money is moving away from oil. The commodities market is like so many diarrhea dry heaves, spurting hot air, with very little juice.

I know what you’re thinking. “Hey, this is awesome! Gas prices are decreasing. I can go out and buy that SUV I’ve been wanting.” That is EXACTLY what I fear! With the drop of the big gas bomb price, people will stop caring about the environmental impact that their tightened purse strings (from bloated gas) made them re-evaluate. People are going to blow it off, like so many methane whooshes over so many adolescent match-sticks. Poof and a whiff. Gone.

The search for alternative fuels will be sidelined. Attention will be drawn away and they will drill, baby, drill. We won’t even notice. We’ll just drive around until we’re old farts, killing the world with our own private pollutions. At least I will, I mean.

So, my point is, to save the world, never stop asking “who farted?” Pppbbffftttttt. It may have just been you. That’s what I’m telling everyone anyway. You’re gross. And you’re killing the environment. Thanks.

Glitters

Usually you make pretty good decisions, but this time I feel I need to step in and say something.

Bad idea. Don’t do it. You’ll regret it, big time.

OK, I’ll admit, that jacket looks really awesome on you. I get that it’s “vintage”. And, I understand your hipster credibility (though you deny you seek it) will skyrocket when you don it’s fine Prussian craftmanship.

But, I think you know why I object. At least, I hope you do.

Genuine Jew-bone buttons.

Even if you never told anyone (which I doubt you’d be able to resist), they would know. You’d, by proxy, be responsible for war attrocities on the scale of the Hindenburg (which, as you know, was marketed as a “Concentration Camp in the Clouds”).

For shame! You shouldn’t even consider it!!

Yes, it’s a great bargain. And those shiny gold buttons (for everyone knows Jew bones are marbled with rich ribbons of 14k gold) … hoo boy are they pretty!

But seriously, I don’t think you could handle the guilt associated with wearing a garment adorned with such hatred and genocide. It’s totally uncool. Totally.

Nazi gold, my friend, is still frowned upon, even after all these years.

Look, to help you out, I will just buy this jacket so it’s no longer a temptation for you, OK? I’ll buy it and only wear it when I don’t think I’ll run into you. I wouldn’t want to remind you of the terrible mistake you almost made.

Axed

To Whom It May Concern at the offices of Unilever United States, Inc.:

This letter shall serve as my official grievance regarding your product, Axe Body Spray and the resultant advertised Axe Effect.

After watching your commercials over and over, I mailed away for a free sample of your spray. I do not know if the specific batch I received was faulty, or what, but the effect I expected to benefit from by way of female attention and sexual attraction/passion was not garnered. In fact, quite the opposite was true. I am not saying women were repelled by me and my Axe musk, but more that men were drawn to me, sexually. A lot.

I am not gay. Not even curious.

Three or four days of trying to attract women, and instead attracting men, the wrong kind of men I might add, caused me to ultimately stop using the spray. The attentions did not subside for many weeks. I’m not sure if there is some secret chemical in the formula that is pheromonal, or what, but guys were on me 24/7.

While I do not expect you to be able to do anything about my particular circumstance, I do want you to be aware that this problem exists and your advertising is misleading. I also want you to be aware that as soon as I get released, I will probably murder you.

Sincerely,

Prisoner 24601

Assrape Penitentiary