Back before the Internet and online services, you had to look things up in reference books for answers.
However, when you’re playing poker in the basement with a bunch of drunk teenagers, the idea of calling Information has appeal.
“Does a full house beat a straight or a flush?” I asked.
Information had no idea.
So, I called Information in Las Vegas.
No, they didn’t know the answer, either.
But they connected me to a casino, and they knew. And I won.
However, by then, someone had puked on the cards.
The money was clean, and I took it all.
Pete Townsend may have written Won’t Get Fooled Again, but for all his bluster, Pete was really easy to fool.
The rest of the band was always fooling Pete, smashing up their hotel rooms and then switching the numbers around when Pete went to get more ice. Then they’d smash up his room too.
Keith Moon managed to stick Pete with his bar tabs, and then he bought a car with the money he saved.
The one that he ran himself over with.
The bass player? What’s his name?
When Roger Daltrey dies, Pete will get the last laugh.
Johnny went through the whole bar, kissing everyone who had on a Kiss Me, I’m Irish button.
Some kissed him.
Some pulled away.
And a few screamed and slapped him.
One girl’s boyfriend threatened to punch out Johnny’s lights.
But the boyfriend had on one of those Kiss Me, I’m Irish buttons, so Johnny kissed him, too.
And the boyfriend punched out Johnny’s lights.
The incident got in the paper, then started a debate on dressing provocatively and free speech.
It wasn’t like shouting fire in a movie theater, but they wore those buttons, right.
Johnny’s still laughing.
In a few years, the drug companies will have mastered the art of medicating out of existence every condition that interferes with the competitive consumption our society and economy depends on.
Drug A treats Condition A, but causes Condition B.
Drug B treats Condition B, but causes Condition C.
And so on, in an endless circle of pills and ointments and drops and vapors, we will torment our chemistry into a constant state of not-quite-well-enough.
We will be so saturated with these drugs, our souls will sweat bizarre toxic compounds, and devils will get deliriously high with a single lick.
Rumors spread across the sporting world that the greatest athlete in the sport was using performance-enhancing drugs.
But then, everybody was doing it back then. The sport was rotten with cheaters and juicers. Everybody doped and juiced to keep up with him.
He just did it more effectively.
Finally, on his last race on the last tour in his career, he performed clean.
No blood doping.
No enhancements at all.
And he came in last place.
Until, of course, he ratted on everybody.
He was the only one to pass the tests, and was declared winner by default.
Whenever I go to the mall to sit on Santa’s lap and tell him what I want for Christmas, I ask for “The Black Santa.”
The mall added him to their Christmas Village a few years back, and he’s got better drugs than the regular Santa.
“What do you want for Christmas?” asks Black Santa.
“Just my two front teeth,” I reply.
He hands me 2 pills, and I hand back a twenty.
I swear, on these pills, I can fly higher than a reindeer.
They found his body on New Year’s.
Must have gotten on his supplier’s naughty list.
Due to budget cutbacks, the school district laid off all the guidance counselors. They were replaced with hats that contained strips of paper with the names of careers written on them.
Students line up, pick a career name out of a hat, and then pick classes based on the skill requirements of that job.
They used to flip through a book and stick their finger on a page to pick out a career.
But the book was in alphabetical order, and word spread fast that the last career in the book was Zymurgist.
Speaking of which, care for another beer?
As we sat on the floor of the dorm room and passed a joint around, one chick said “What if we were brains in jars in some science lab imagining all this?”
I laughed and said “Then I imagine I’d like to do this.”
And we kissed.
Later that night, as we held each other in bed, the scientists read the voltage meters attached to our jars and watched the needles twitch.
“Five units of red,” said a researcher.
A technician stuck a syringe into a brain and administered the formula.
I woke up alone, and never saw her again.
Some folks call it pop.
Other folks call it soda.
And there’s people in the South who call it coke, even if it’s Pepsi or some other brand.
Around here, we call it The Forbidden Elixir, although even saying that will get you hauled before Mayor’s Council for questioning.
It wasn’t enough to warn people of the risks of tooth decay and obesity. Not that we miss it much, what, with the fountains of vodka and bourbon at every street corner.
Still, it would be nice to have mixers. Besides orange juice, limes and bitters.
Oh well. Cheers.
“Why don’t you believe in me?” asked God.
I put down my drink and thought about my answer for a moment.
I mean, it’s God. And He’s drunk.
But then, I don’t believe in Him, so why worry?
So, I turned to my right…
He was gone.
I asked the bartender where God went.
He shrugged and put the tab in front of me.
Holy crap! God sure can drink, and He has good taste in what He drinks. Expensive, too.
As I pulled out my wallet, God pulled out his credit card.
“I was in the bathroom,” He said.