Tag: dirty

Crawling

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Once, when I was having a weird day at work, I spent the whole day crawling.
I was crawling along the hall, meeting with people, making copies, and getting some filing done.
A lot of people asked if I was looking for something or if I needed help.
“No,” I said. “I just feel really weird today.”
Of course, I wasn’t just crawling on the floor. I mean, there’s lot of nice walls and ceilings to crawl on where I work.
As long as I don’t crawl on Janet from Accounting again, I don’t think it’s violating any policies, right?

Elbow Job

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It’s hard to keep a secret.
Some women, they’re good at giving head, but have you heard about the one who gives great elbow?
Of course not. Nobody ever says “She gives great elbow.” That’s crazy, right?
Well, if you’ve ever gotten great elbow, you wouldn’t think I’m crazy at all.
And even giving great elbow is good.
Know the saying “There’s no such thing as a bad blowjob?”
Well, there’s no such thing as a bad elbowjob or a good elbowjob.
It’s all great.
Here, just tuck in your arm and stick out your elbow.
You’ll see. Trust me.

Broadway

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The house was packed. Every critic in New York was there, circling like sharks.
So when two minutes to curtain the propmaster shouts FRANK’S DEAD! I thought ohmigodtotaldisastershitshitshit.
“What do we do?” hissed Sally, my lead.
“Run with it!” I yelled. “I’ll call the cops.”
For 2 hours, the actors improved a murder mystery and my cousin Vinnie in the force played along.
After all, how often do you get a spotlight on Broadway without climbing the ladder, kissing ass, sucking cock, and all that crap?
Hell, yeah, Vinnie said yes.
The reviews were amazing. We ran for months.
Bravo.

The Disease

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Sometimes they say they’re with a church, other times they’re a representative from a support group.
They say they know how you feel. They lost someone to cancer, just like you’re losing someone to it.
Things move fast, you’re in too deep, and the next thing you know, you’re sitting in a diner, staring at the photographs. Or a movie clip on an iPod.
Pay up, or everyone sees them.
It’s a cruel setup, a vicious honeypot scam.
“If she sees these,” you say, “it’ll kill her.”
They don’t care. They just want the money.
And insurance doesn’t cover it.

Counting Sheep

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Oh, sure, you think those sheep you count to get to sleep are sweet and innocent, but I know better.
It’s a conspiracy. The counting sheep want to take over the world.
I was only pretending to sleep the other night when the sheep came by for me to count. I closed my eyes and made snoring sounds, so the sheep felt comfortable letting their guard down.
They used my bedroom as a staging area for their campaign of global domination, preparing signs that said “Eat Less Mutton” and “If You Eat Us, How Can Perverts Have Sex With Us?”

Monkey Joke

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Three monkeys go into a bar.
Bartender asks the first monkey what he wants.
Monkey says he wants a banana daiquiri
So, Bartender makes one, and he goes to a corner booth
Bartender asks the second monkey what he wants.
He wants a banana daiquiri
So, Bartender makes one, and the monkey goes to the corner booth
The two monkeys in the booth are all over each other, pawing and groping.
Bartender says “So, you want a banana daiquiri like your friends?”
Third monkey shouts: “What, you think I’m some sort of faggot like those two? Gimme a beer, dammit.”

Strippers

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Old Joe was a funny man, great to be around.
Every night, he’d shuffle from strip club to strip club, peeling off five-dollar bills from a roll as thick as a cabbage.
I don’t know how long he’d been doing this, but that roll never ran out. Not to his dying day.
At his funeral, the place was packed wall-to-wall with strippers, and by the end of the service, the floor was a sea of veils and black dresses.
One final party.
There in the center, old Joe, smiling in his coffin, gripping that bundle of fives.

Angels Blush

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At first, my picture was up in the Post Office. Then, they took it down.
“Racy,” they called it. “Too damn sexy.”
I have done things in the line at the Post Office that could make angels blush and The Devil bite his lip.
They got rid of the stamps you lick because of me. How I’d lick a stamp, postal carriers fainted by the dozens.
Calling my actions sinful and “moral cancer,” the Postmaster General declared war on me, and stamps became stickers that weekend.
Don’t ask me where I stick mine. You couldn’t handle the thought of it.

War Is Hell

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You know those letters than the Post Office digs up now and then from a World War 2 soldier writing his wife or girlfriend, but it doesn’t get delivered until fifty years later?
I found one of those under some carpet I was ripping up in the office.
Policy says to go get a supervisor to read it before delivery, so I did.
He steams it open, takes a gander, and smirks.
Blah blah blah… killed some Germans… blah blah blah… screwed a bunch of whores… blah blah blah… stole artwork…
He pulls out a lighter and burns the letter.

Finished

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We went to the hospital to visit Grandma.
She wanted to say goodbye to the kids, so we brought them along.
They were scared at first, but Grandma told them life was a long, marvelous journey. You meet so many amazing people while you take it, and she told the kids they were the two most amazing ones she’d known.
But that journey, as wonderful as it is, doesn’t last forever. When God decides you’ve earned your rest, well, it’s time to stop.
“Then God tells you to shit yourself,” said a guy mopping the hallway.
No, that didn’t help.