Where do I get my ideas?
I don’t know. Everywhere, I guess.
I’m walking along, minding my own business, and I see something that inspires me.
I used to keep a spiralbound notebook with me for those times, to write down the ideas.
Then I got a smartphone, but when my hands were full, or I got ideas in the shower (sometimes the same thing, really), I’d end up forgetting them.
Now, I have a monk write everything down for me, any hour of the day.
Brother William is loyal and efficient.
While I am a complete and total douchebag.
Tag: dirty
Property Values
The housing market’s in trouble, and everybody’s worried about property values going down.
Somehow, that building you live in stopped being a home and became an investment.
A bad investment.
So, you come up with a plan.
Drag the treadmill to the front porch, find the tightest traffic-stopping spandex you can fit into, and see what happens.
A week goes by.
Two weeks.
Three weeks.
You check the online property values map site your friend told you about.
The numbers have gone up.
“I’ve still got it,” you tell yourself, heading for the shower.
(And leave the window curtain open.)
Who gives a damn?
Excuse me, but may I interrupt you for a moment?
Thank you.
I’m sorry, but why are you telling me all this?
Obviously, you have me confused with someone who gives a damn.
Me, I only have damns for sale. Three bucks a damn, thirty bucks for a dozen.
Quality damns, too. Mint condition, right from the factory.
No refurbished or recycled damns here.
Unless you’re paying for a damn, I’m not going to just give you one.
I mean, what would happen to my business?
I think you want the church next door.
Unlike me, they give a damn.
The Only Way
Whenever someone tells me that something is the only way to do something, I challenge myself to try to think up another way to do it.
Sometimes, I come up with a much better way, and I propose it to them as a viable alternative.
“It’s easier, less expensive, and is much safer to do,” I say, going through the plans. “Plus, it doesn’t cause any pollution.”
The other person scowls angrily. “You cannot do this because God says not to.”
I do it anyway, because if God doesn’t want me to do things cheaper, safer, and easier, fuck Him.
Bottle Or Can
Oswald, laying back in his weekly bath, not that there’s much room in the tub left for water to call it a bath, shouts “BEER! NOW!”
Bertha’s sick of being treated like a damn servant. She brings up a bottle and a can. “Which would you have?”
“Bottle,” he says.
She breaks the bottle over Oswalt’s bald head. Glass shatters all over him.
A torrent of profanity fills the air. “What you go do that for?” growls Oswalt.
“Oh, you’d prefer the can?” asks Bertha, and she puts it in one of his dirty socks and bludgeons him to death.
The Tip Of The Iceberg
For some reason, no matter what the circumstances, Jackson and I always end up arguing.
“This is just the tip of the iceberg!” shouted Jackson.
I ask him to show me the tip.
So, he pulls it out of his pocket.
I thought about my high school Physics: buoyancy and displacement will lift the rest of the iceberg up to replace the tip.
Then I thought of English classes: Hemingway said writing is like an iceberg: ten percent above the water while ninety percent below.
Finally, I thought of Jackson’s sister, the cheerleader.
Man, she’s hot!
I love these arguments.
The Masturbation Fairy
You’ve heard of the Tooth Fairy, but what about the Masturbation Fairy?
She shows up at night and slips porn under your pillow. Or between the mattress and the box spring of your father’s side of the bed.
What she collects, well, maybe that’s better left unsaid.
What she does with all that stuff, well, I have no idea.
For certain, she’s busier than Santa Claus.
He just flies around the world once a year, and he only visits the good boys and girls.
The Masturbation Fairy visits everybody, all year round.
And the lump in their stockings isn’t coal.
Sled
I live in the south where it’s warm most of the time. When it gets cold, I can feel it. Deep.
Growing up, I lived north where it snowed. The cold didn’t bother me then. I loved it. It was fun.
We didn’t have sleds or saucers. Instead, we hosed down sheets of cardboard, let them freeze, and slid down hills, holding tight.
We crashed. We laughed.
One kid wanted to bobsled like they do in the Olympics.
A portable toilet on it’s side, door hanging open, full of kids.
And spilled shit.
Thank God I was the one pushing.
St. Pancake Day
Remember that crazy chick who got run over by a bulldozer in Gaza?
Truth is, she was one of those “late bloomer” girls.
Any bra she owned before she turned twenty was just wishful thinking.
She tried special diets, exercises, and even some weird gels and extracts she got from mail order catalogs.
None of them worked. Not even the hormones that transexuals use as part of their reassignment surgery.
Then one day, she woke up, and she had breasts.
Big ones.
“I’m not flat anymore!” she shouted.
Later that day, she went out to face the bulldozers.
Ironic, yes?
The Clown Bitches Need Oral
My life is a three ring circus.
A swarm of clowns flows from ring to ring, leering at the audience and pumping their hips in crude, suggestive ways.
Thrust thrust in your face, don’t look away, that just makes them laugh more.
The clown bitches don’t want your applause, they just need oral.
Drop your popcorn.
Drop your soda.
Drop to your knees.
The band is getting louder and you can’t hear yourself think.
Reach for the clown cock… pull it out… unwinding longer… and longer…
Tied-together handkerchiefs… then their dirty underwear.
All over your face.
(You can cry now.)