There’s a civilization of tiny people living in my scalp. They think I’m some sort of god.
An evil god.
I pick at them and scratch them out constantly. Then I flood and smother them every morning with shampoo in the shower.
Then I smother them in darkness when I put on my favorite ballcap. Which I never wash, so they are blanketed in the stench.
And yet, they still call me their god. And sing hymns and shout prayers and conduct rituals and sacrifice crops and livestock in my vaunted name.
Stupid noisy fuckers. Time to shave my head.
Ted is a lion-tamer with rage disorder.
So, every now and then, when he throws a tantrum, the ringmaster calls for the lion-tamer tamer.
No, he doesn’t come in with a chair and a whip. Nor is it some hot chick in a low-cut blouse.
It’s actually Gus, the security officer for the circus. He’s a good shot with a taser gun.
“You want to go get a coffee, Ted?” says Gus calmly.
Ted charges, and Gus is forced to zap him.
The crowd applauds and cheers, and then screams as the pack of lions tear Gus and Ted apart.
An apple a day may keep the doctor away, but I’ve found that a leather bullwhip is just as effective.
Especially when it’s one of those doctors that tries to avoid patients as much as possible, packing in way too many appointments for the day and having the nurses do all those blood pressure and height and weight things.
“The doctor will be with you in a moment,” is such a lie, as same as “This won’t hurt a bit.” and “You don’t need that bullwhip.”
Oh hell yes I do! I say, and I crack the whip, grinning wide.
People said that after all these years of writing and podcasting stories, I’d jumped the shark.
No, not me. I’d never just jump the shark.
I’d jump a hundred of them. A hundred live sharks, all jumped at once.
And I’m not going to jump them Fonzie-style. Boats and waterski jumps are so yesterday.
I’m going to freakin’ bungee jump the sharks.
My awesome plan involves lots of rigging of cables and pulleys and safety harnesses. I’ll write and podcast a perfect story, sail gracefully over all the sharks, and make a perfect landing.
Um, where does this bolt go?
Before World War 2, bottlebrush mustaches were a popular form of facial hair.
After World War 2, they weren’t popular at all for the obvious reasons.
Just as Japanese-Americans were rounded up and sent to internment camps after Pearl Harbor, bottlebrush mustaches were rounded up and sent to barber shops.
Using the sharpest razors, the bottlebrush mustaches were quickly and systematically dispatched and eliminated, washed down the drains in a foamy and messy river of stubble.
Some tried to escape as disguised as eyebrows. Others fled as landing strips.
To this day, Simon Wiesenthal’s barber continues to hunt them down.
Usually, traffic cones are orange so you can see them at night. However, while I was walking back to the hotel, I saw a green traffic cone.
I picked it up and carried it back to the hotel, and I wore it as a hat for a selfie in the bathroom mirror.
I let it sleep on the other bed.
When I went down to the registration desk to check out, I left it in an elevator.
There are a lot of websites that sell traffic cones, but I don’t really want one now.
It’s just the moment, you know.
I don’t like to answer the same question twice, let alone a hundred times, so I tend to tell people to just Google something… I’ll say “Just Google it!”
If someone doesn’t know how to Google something, my answer won’t make any sense to them.
If someone is too busy to Google something themselves, then they are probably too impatient to listen to me and comprehend what I tell them.
If someone is too lazy to Google something themselves, then they’re probably too lazy to stop, drop, and roll when I drench them with gasoline and light them on fire.