As a society, we’re obsessed with bacon.
If it isn’t bacon-flavored, it looks like bacon.
I’ve seen a bacon-patterned knit scarf. It’s like wrapping a slice of bacon around your neck.
And I know a fashion designer who is making photograph-sourced bacon stockings.
They have the all striations and marbelization of natural bacon, very lifelike.
And very creepy.
But, if you think about it, it’s a lot more sanitary than using real bacon on your legs.
Sure, the grease will help them stick, but once a stray dog catches the scent, you’re going to get chased all the way home.
Tag: dirty
The Revolution
People are talking about a revolution with this Occupy Wall Street thing, but I’m not so sure about it.
I’m busy watching television, surfing porn, and eating Big Macs. The most I’ll do is Retweet or Like or Plus One the revolution.
The first man up against the wall when the revolution comes will be Banksy, because he’ll be tagging it with something insightful and cool and clever as the crowd starts lining up the crooked bankers and dirty lawyers and inside traders and economic traitors.
The problem with being famously anonymous is that you can’t prove who you are.
Rich
Some parents tell their children about the birds and the bees, but Richie Rich was taught about the bears and bulls.
This made for a troublesome learning curve when it came to dating.
Where others were making out in malt shops, movie theaters and Lookout Point, Richie had a hard time convincing any girls to play “Red Capes And Picnic Baskets.”
Until he started paying them to do it.
I mean, come on. The kid was loaded. He could by the finest ass available.
Instead of graduating from Wharton, Richie mastered Whoredom.
Cadbury the butler saw it all.
And wept.
Out Of Network
Growing up, my pediatrician was Dr. Mengele.
Yes, it’s true. The infamous war criminal who did medical experiments in the Nazi concentration camps.
Sure, he went under the name Dr. Sherman, but he couldn’t fool me: he was Mengele.
How did I know?
Well, instead of “Feed a cold, starve a fever” he’d say “Gas a cold, gas a fever.”
When I sprained my ankle, he prescribed gas.
Same with upset stomach, chicken pox, and everything else that happened to me.
The worst part of it was that he was outside my Dad’s HMO network, so the co-pays were murder!
Separate Volume
It started when the Oxford English Dictionary created a separate volume for epithets, slurs, and “dirty” words.
Some words were moved from their main volumes to the “ghetto” volume without much fuss, such as “nigger” and “faggot” but others were debated heavily before their demotion.
The collection grew from a pamphlet to a booklet, then a book, and eventually outweighed the main set.
The Polite Laws are next. The segregation of words are to be enforced in public.
Maybe even private, depending on how effective the public ban is.
Me, I think censorship of words censors ideas.
Fuck that noise.
Love Potion Number…
Love Potion Number One was too acidic. Burned through the flask, ruined the countertop.
Number Two tasted weird. Like bathwater. And grease. Ew.
Three and Four were highly volatile. Evaporated the moment you opened them. Inhalers? Nah. Asthmatics would get confused. And horny.
Five turned the subject violent.
Thankfully, Six acted as an antidote, but turned their skin green. Kinda kinky.
Number Seven was a deadly neurotoxin. We sold it to the CIA.
Eight makes a good stain remover. See my pants? Spotless!
Oh well.
Care for some tea?
Good. I’ll pour.
And be sure to drink it all, darling.
Punxsutawney
Let’s face it: nobody gives a shit what goes on here in Punxsutawney during the rest of the year. Nobody comes here when it’s not February second. It’s as if this place didn’t exist.
Isn’t that the truth?
Once the cameras are off and the reporters go home, we break down and fold up the houses, rolling them back into the abandoned coal mines.
The streets are disassembled, the signs and lampposts packed away, and the robot citizens marched into the storage facilities by the few actual humans.
Close the freeway off-ramp, and… done.
Race you to the cryogenic chambers!
Crazy Horse
There’s been some speculation regarding Crazy Horse’s name, and I’d like to set the record straight.
He got his name from his father, who had also been named Crazy Horse, but gave his name to his son.
Some legends say Crazy Horse stole his father’s name, but all he ever did was rifle under his cot and look at his porn collection.
Oh, and Crazy Horse’s horse wasn’t crazy. He was a rather well-adjusted horse, a good mount.
His name was “No, I’m Not Crazy, But This Crazy Motherfucker Riding Me Is, So Cut Me Some Slack, Dude.”
Any questions?
Fancy Labels
I have a rule: The fancier the label, the worse the product.
I made this rule based on the assumption that the more a company spends on label design, the less they have left over for quality parts, ingredients, manufacturing, or anything else related to the actual product.
Good products don’t need eye-catching gimmicks or advertising to get you to buy them. You can sell them in a brown paper wrapper if you wanted to.
I wrote a book about this.
Okay, so it has an orgy of blood, sex, and explosions on the cover.
Hey, gotta sell it, right?
Making Things
Groucho once said: “Why it’s so simple, a four year-old child could understand it. Now go out and get me a four year old child cause I can’t make head or tail of it.”
His assistants would load up their child-catching van, head to the playground, and capture a four year-old to bring back to Groucho.
Not only did the child not understand, but their parents were disagreeable about the kidnapping.
Most were mollified by an autographed photo, but others insisted on money.
Once, they threatened to press charges.
Harpo killed them. He knew how to keep his mouth shut.