I was told that when I was finished my novel, publishers would be coming out of the woodwork.
I dreamed of publishers, crawling out of the walls… my dresser… the floorboards, reaching for me through the darkness…
I’d wake up screaming, thrashing about.
That’s how the accident happened.
My wife tried to wake me up, and I knocked her down, head hitting the lamp…
The trial was a circus, and I ended up with a 20 year sentence.
I finished my novel in prison.
Publishers aren’t coming out of the woodwork for it.
Good. At least I can sleep now.
Tag: sick
Anyone For Tennis?
If you were to remove the lungs from an average human and spread them completely out, they’d have the surface area of a tennis court.
It would also get you disqualified from your match. It’s considered bad form to rip out your opponent’s lungs and spread them across the court. Although Andre Agassi coked up enough to do it, some say. And John McEnroe made people think he’d do that to a referee or two.
Then again, seeing how fierce Wimbledon is about playing on grass, I’m sure they’d change to lung-surfaced courts before they’d ever consider clay or concrete.
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.
Roughing It
When I was young, we’d go camping.
Well, almost.
It was more of a log cabin-themed motel with pine trees planted in the field by the parking lot.
A bed as uncomfortable as a sleeping bag.
There was a lake, but we never went to it.
Which was good, since I don’t like boats. Or fishing.
Or camping.
There were bugs, though. Lots of them.
I don’t remember any roasting marshmallows or hot dogs, but I do remember a fire.
I think everybody got out in time. I don’t think anybody got hurt.
We drove home.
My bed felt wonderful.
The Whales All Vanished
One day, the whales all vanished.
So did the dolphins.
And pandas.
And Tasmanian Devils.
And every other species on the planet.
Besides humans.
Then, the lights went out.
Things got really nasty right around then.
You’d think there’d be
A voice
Or something
Telling the human race
“What the fuck?”
A dramatic pause
For emphasis
And then:
“I turn my back
For a few centuries
And this is what you come up with?”
Followed by
A long
Heavy
Sigh.
There’s no point telling
What came after that
Because the
Whales
Pandas
Dolphins
Devils
Really don’t give a shit, Man.
The Hypocrite
They showed me the activist’s profile.
“Professional protester. Trust fund baby. San Francisco.”
They let that out slowly: “San Francisco.”
Photos of a Pride parade, love and peace.
I saw him in a Gaza City cafe, sat down, and said “If I shouted Gay and you shouted Jew, who would they kill first?”
“Don’t,” he begged.
Where’s your pride now?
Coward.
That night, in bed, I told my boyfriend.
“Fucking faggots,” he said, and he held me as we laughed.
When I heard he was dying, I wrote him.
Wished there was a cure for his condition: hypocrisy and hate.
Ode To A Troll
if i could press
a magical button
and wipe you
from existence
i’d press that button
but
i wouldn’t just press that button
i’d press that button
in style!
there would be a parade
with elephants
and horses
while marching bands played
girls in short skirts
twirling batons on fire
and old men in fezzes
what are they called?
shriners?
shriners!
went around
on those scooters.
and bringing up the rear
a massive cannon
that would fire me across
two football fields
my hand outstretched
smacking that button
and sending your
ugly
disgusting
evil
miserable
vile
obnoxious
ass
to
hell
Fix
Long ago, back before computers, I was a typewriter repairman.
People got all kinds of things stuck in their typewriters.
Once, I remember a guy dropping his old Underwood on the counter and saying “My colon is stuck.”
“You should eat some prunes,” I responded, and I got out my tools.
It took me just 20 minutes to fix it.
The next day, he comes in, and the typewriter is soaking wet.
“I tried the prunes,” he said. “I’m allergic and threw up.”
Into the typewriter. Which he ran through the dishwasher.
That took longer than 20 minutes to fix.
The Boy Who Never Laughed
Dr. Odd was presented with the case of The Boy Who Never Laughed.
The first week was spent reading joke books to him.
No reaction.
After that, he dressed as a clown and performed various silly acts, such as juggling Bunsen burners or constructing molecular formulas and atomic structures out of balloons.
No reaction.
Finally, the doctor tickled The Boy with feathers of various species of bird, common and rare.
“Coochy coo!” he trilled.
No reaction.
Exhausted, Dr. Odd slumped in his chair…. and fell to the floor.
The Boy laughed and laughed.
Dr. Odd punched him in the face.
Disaster Planning
Some experts say that the safest place to be in an earthquake is in a heavily-braced doorframe or in your bathtub.
I disagree.
I prefer to be passed out on my bed, completely oblivious to shit going on all around me.
That way, if I wake up, I’ll wake up to an even worse of a wreck of an apartment with a hangover and wonder if I did all that before passing out.
This is why I drink myself into a stupor every night… it’s disaster planning and preparation.
And, from the looks of things, my plan’s a total success.