Some girls strip to pay for college, but Candy did it the other way around.
Growing up, she wasn’t much to look at, so she put everything into learning, studying and getting good grades.
She graduated early at the top of her class, and she burned through college, grad school, and her PhD like an academic wildfire.
There wasn’t an academic journal published without a research paper by her, and it didn’t take long before she earned her Nobel Prize.
“Thank you,” she said, and she called a plastic surgeon.
She looks like a million kroner now.
Brains and body.
Tag: dirty
Whelm
I see the word overwhelm all the time.
And I see the word underwhelm all the time.
But I never see the word whelm.
Is there even such a word? If there is, is it just a word that exists to stick prefixes and suffixes on?
If I ever have a kid, boy or girl, I’m going to name them that. Because with all the goddamned Jennifers and Chrises and Williams, they’ll stand out from the rest.
Of course, I can’t have kids.
And there’s no fucking way I’ll name a cat Whelm. That’s a stupid name for a cat!
Bowling
Martin was from one of those frozen European countries.
Finland?
Denmark?
Sweden?
Fuck if I can remember. I was nine. It was a long time ago.
What I do remember was that the teachers encouraged us to expose him to culture and that kind of crap.
So, we took him bowling.
“Knock down the pins with the ball,” I said to Martin.
He grinned, ran down the lane, and swung the ball like a wrecking ball.
“I go on strike!” he shouted, and went to the next lane… and the next one…
We got thrown out.
Martin kept the shoes.
The Caged Bird
I don’t know what that Maya Angelou is getting on about, but she’s so full of shit.
I know the real reason why the caged bird sings: it’s a trick.
If you look closely, the bird’s stuffed. And when it sings, the beak doesn’t move. (It’s broken)
The singing came from a tape recorder built into the perch. Look. See it?
The switch is here on the electrical cord.
So that’s why the caged bird sings.
Why it sings Van Halen’s 1984 album? Because, I like classic Van Halen.
And I lost the bird songs tape that came with it.
What’s the deal with the Cookie Monster?
Sometimes, I wonder about the Cookie Monster.
Why does he talk that way?
And why is he obsessed with cookies?
I did a little research, and found out that he was a foreign exchange student, but the file didn’t say where he was from.
Only that he’d never left.
He keeps saying C is for Cookie, but his permanent record says he got caught sleeping with the home economics teacher in an attempt to get that upped to an A minus.
As for his English grades, there’s no amount of fur that blue furball could shag to keep from flunking.
The Ghost Shouter
I don’t watch much television these days, but there’s this show I used to like called “The Ghost Whisperer.”
Some chick with big tits sees ghosts, talks to them, resolves their issues, and convinces them to head off into the light so they can move on.
If the producers were really serious about getting ghosts to move on, they could have gone with Gilbert Gottfried, though.
Anybody who talks to him for more than a minute, ghost or not, would be running for the light regardless of how fucked up their shit was or any leftover business here on earth.
Sonnet 18
I see him, wrestling through would-be Plaths, Frosts and Burkowskis at the coffeeshop:
It’s Open Mike Night, and, like a schoolchild, he’ll recite Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 from memory.
Dreadful.
From the stage’s barstool, he’s downright singsongy, ruining the verse, digging up Shakespeare’s grave, skullfucking the corpse…
Enough! I shout. I would rather be beaten across the face and chest with a volume of Shakespeare’s work than hear you open it and read from it!
The crowd is stunned. Shakespeare’s torturer stares blankly.
Reciting from memory, he has no volume to beat me with.
But he’s got the barstool.
I run.
Black Cats
Most black cats I’ve known get named Midnight or Blackie. Or Shadow.
We named ours Bruwyn and Myst.
Bruwyn is short for Bruce Wayne, because his ears are pointy and tall like Batman’s cowl.
Myst was called Michelle, but we don’t like Obama much in our house, so she got renamed Myst because she likes to hide and she’s easily missed.
Well, when I say we named our cats, I really mean my wife.
She got naming rights on both of these cats.
I call them Boo Boo and Baby.
Or “Get in here, you little shits!” when it’s dinnertime.
Neighborhood Watch
WHAM WHAM!
Stan nailed a NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH sign to the side of the house.
“You have it facing the wrong way, Stan,” I say.
“Shit,” says Stan, and he pries it off with the claw hammer. He sticks the bent nail into the pocket of his tool belt, pulls out another, and tries again.
WHAM WHAM!
“Now?”
“Upside-down.”
“Shit!”
He pried it loose again, got out another nail, and…
WHAM WHAM!
“Third time’s the charm, but it’s my house.”
Stan unfolded his cane and grabbed his dog’s harness.
“Of course it is. They don’t take blind people, stupid,” he said.
More Circles
The world is a mess. And Hell is filling up quickly.
So, The Devil is adding circles to it to handle new sins.
For instance, there will be a circle for Spammers. They’ll be force-fed herbal supplements and smeared with noxious creams, giving them painfully massive erections and swollen breasts.
The rest of the damned will need to be moved to make use of the new space.
Diverting the river of fire.
Replanting the suicide wood.
Changing harpy flight paths.
And that’ll be a nightmare in logistics.
But then, it’s Hell. That’ll be a punishment for condemned change management consultants.