Amiri Baraka is dead.
Good riddance, I say.
But that’s not enough.
I don’t just want to piss on his grave.
I want to dig up his coffin,
Pry open his mouth,
And piss into his throat.
And I don’t just want to dance on his grave.
I want to start a kickstarter campaign,
To hire the Rockettes
And dress them up like rabbis
Beautiful, long-legged rabbis
And they’ll dance a whole chorus line on his grave.
Amiri Baraka was buried in New Jersey.
Land of chemical plants and Superfund sites.
A fitting place: a toxic creature in poisoned earth.
Tag: sick
Swept Under the Prayer Rug
The bishop stuck Father O’Brien’s file in a drawer and locked it.
“Move him to Boston,” he said.
Two years later, the bishop pulled out O’Brien’s file and added the newest reports to it.
“Try New York,” he said. “Last chance.”
It wasn’t. A year later, O’Brien was sent to Los Angeles.
When the file was too thick to fit in the drawer, the bishop had O’Brien sent to South America on a teaching mission.
The locals took matters into their own hands, hanging the child molester.
“I should have sent him there in the first place,” said the bishop.
Batman
I saw the Batman movie today.
And that’s all I’m going to say.
Because everything I try to say about it gets me in trouble.
Before I went to see the movie, I tried to say “I’m going to see it when the crowds die down” but people called me an insensitive asshole after all those people got shot and killed in Colorado.
And then, after I saw it, I said “That movie was awesome. It totally blew me away.” People got even more pissed off at me.
So I’ll just say “I liked it” and talk about the weather.
Ever after
There are eight million stories in the big city.
I plan on ending them.
The problem is, it’s hard to come up with an ending that’s the opposite of the simple and succinct classic: “And they lived happily ever after.”
Although “And they died happily” would work, since the poison I put in the water supply has a euphoric effect.
“Ever after” doesn’t make sense, since they’re all going to die.
Including me.
Which is why I’m writing the ending of their stories now. Because I won’t be around to write it later.
Think I can get that phrase copyrighted?
Midnight Showing
If you’ve ever said “Nothing ruins a movie more than a screaming baby,” you should look at the headlines coming out of Colorado this morning.
That’s right: someone brought a 3-month-old baby to a midnight showing of the final movie in the Batman trilogy.
Don’t you hate it when that happens?
It totally ruins the movie.
And if you call the ushers in on them, you end up looking like an asshole.
“We can’t find a babysitter this late at night!” they whine.
Why are they bringing a baby to a midnight showing in the first place?
That’s just sick.
Cripple the cripple
Gordon Kane bet Stephen Hawking $100 that the Higgs-Boson exists.
And won, but despite acknowledging this, Stephen Hawking has yet to pay up.
How do you collect on that kind of bet?
It’s not like you can call your cousins from New Jersey into leaning on the guy.
“So, you think you’re some kind of smart guy?” your cousin Lenny says, and then he realizes, yes, this cripple in the wheelchair with the robot voice talking about black holes and galaxies is really damn smart.
At least he can’t put up much of a fight when they break his legs.
The Y
Unlike the Catholic Church, we here at the Y act quickly when we discover an employee behaving in a disgusting manner with a child or doing something inappropriate, like collecting child pornography.
It doesn’t happen very often, because we have a screening process and keep our staff under observation. Nobody is ever left alone with a child.
Plus, when one is caught, we don’t sweep them under the rug like the Church does.
We bury them under the baseball field.
By the way, the pitcher’s mound is getting a bit high. Better dig it up and quicklime the corpses again.
Too much of an mmmm mmmm good thing…
I’ve gotten into the habit of bringing cans of soup to work for lunch.
“It’s good food,” the commercials say. “Mmmm mmmmm good!”
But instead of following the directions, I pour two cans into a single bowl, stir it up, and heat it without adding water.
It’s just as thick as the chunky style soup, I figure. And cheaper, too.
And I don’t have to fish about for the vegetables and noodles as much.
That’s when it hits me… my stomach… my guts… too much!
Help me throw it up, or I’ll die of an overdose of Mmmmm mmmmm goodness!
The Killer Pool
Every week, I have to fish a dead neighborhood kid out of the pool.
No, they don’t drown in it. The coroner’s made that perfectly clear after every autopsy.
No water in the lungs.
And the fact the children have had their throats cut.
The blood. I don’t know if that gets taken care of by the chemicals and the filter. And I don’t care… I drain the pool, scrub it down, and replace the water.
The water bill is killing me.
One more, and I’m just going to fill the thing in with dirt and raise a vegetable garden.
In The Dead Of Night
The tooth fairies exchange money for teeth.
Then, the sandmen grind them up into dream dust.
Overprotective dogs aren’t a problem with a face full of dream dust, but motion-sensing alarms can be.
Then there’s the sandmen and fairies who think the whole racket is stupid, so they steal jewelry, credit cards, and MacBooks.
Don’t get me started with the bootleg videos of hot celebrities and models sleeping. The Council can barely deal with the Lindbergh baby incident, let alone Internet paparazzi stalker porn. Technology’s like magic to them.
We’ll pay for Lady Gaga’s dentures and a new laptop, okay?