She tells me that I have no fucking clue.
But, truth be told, I have no glue
Without the glue, my thoughts don’t stick.
I draw a blank, I don’t know dick!
She says:”Make a note and write it down!”
Do you take me for some dumb clown?
Of course I write it down on notes.
And then I lose them, this shit blows goats!
The doctor wants to scan my brain
He hopes that scan just might explain
Why I haven’t ever got a clue
Is it okay if I tell you?
(Alright, I’ve sniffed way too much glue.)
Tag: sick
Joe
Thank God Joe was wearing his safety helmet.
Some jackass at the site dropped a brick from ten stories up.
Instead of killing Joe, it just knocked him silly. Spent a week in the hospital.
He’s fine, except that he’s now got this imaginary friend he calls Luthor.
To Joe, Luthor’s real, and he gets really mad when you try to tell him otherwise.
Or point out that Luthor can’t hold a welding torch or the other end of a safety line.
Joe’s on permanent disability now.
But, we hired Luthor.
Guy never complains, and he never cashes his checks.
The Radio
There’s something special about our song playing on the radio.
Sure, we have a record of it.
A tape of it.
A CD of it.
It’s on both of our iPods, iPhones and laptops.
But it’s not the same as it playing on the radio.
Chance. Serendipity.
It is luck or is it fate?
I don’t know, but I do know it means something.
I pick up the radio, go into the bathroom, and say “They’re playing our song.”
You look up from the tub. “What the hell do I care?”
I nod, and toss the radio into the tub.
When it rains…
Mother used to say “When it rains, it pours.”
I’d walk out to the patio and say “Mom? That’s just Grampa on the roof with the hose.”
Mother never said much about that. It was bad enough that Grampa lived with us, making a scene at every meal, accusing Germans of poisoning his soup…
“That’s meat loaf, Grampa, not soup.”
“DAMN THE KAISER!” he’d shout, diving under the table.
The stories he’d tell me, well, they were magical. Tales of… well… I mean… magical stories…
Okay, fine. I ignored the crazy old coot.
Pass the meat loaf… I mean soup.
The Evening Hunt
I used to have trouble sleeping.
Yeah, I tried everything. Mattresses, high thread count sheets, pills, diets, exercise, music…
And pillows. So many different pillows. Piles and piles of pillows.
Different shapes, different materials.
What the hell is Space-Age memory foam? Smells like tar, feels like a marshmallow.
Awful.
That’s when I prayed.
All day, all night.
Days. Weeks. Months.
And then, my prayers were answered.
Standing there, an angel said “How can I help you get to sleep?”
I whacked him with a rock, plucked the feathers from his wings, and stuffed them into a pillow.
Never slept better.
A Wise Man
A wise man once said that it you’re fat, surround yourself with people who are even fatter and you’ll look thin by comparison.
This works for people who are any kind of extreme in appearance.
If you’re tall, hang out with taller people.
Or if you’re short, hang out with smaller people.
Dark skin, light skin, any color skin, really.
If you’ve got green skin, find a freaking Martian to stand next to, and you’ll look less green.
Sounds crazy, right?
Not really. Because I’m standing next to a bunch of crazier people.
They have knives. And wicked, evil grins.
Curiosity
Curiosity killed the cat.
Then, Curiosity killed the dog.
Next came the goldfish. Curiosity put those in a blender and hit the big red button.
After that mess was flushed, Curiosity went outside with an air rifle and started shooting birds off the telephone wires.
She ran out of ammo right around the time we got home.
“Check on the babysitter,” I told my wife.
She went inside, found her tied up in a chair, and checked for a pulse.
“Weak, but it’s there,” she said.
Still alive?
Strange. Usually, Curiosity kills them.
I scolded her: “You’re getting sloppy, kid.”
Adrenalin Junkie
Bob’s an adrenalin junkie, but he’s also a lily-livered coward.
Unlike other adrenalin junkies who seek out extreme sports like skydiving and rock climbing and scuba diving, he’s barely able to make it out of bed without going all freako and diving below the covers again.
So, to get his adrenalin rush, he has it shipped to him.
Then, when he’s finally able to get out of bed and sign for the package, he scurries back to his bedroom and opens the box.
And then, staring at the contents, he dives back under the covers.
(Bob’s afraid of needles, too.)
Cause Of Death
My cousin died the other day.
We’d just been talking on the phone, telling each other about everything like we always do.
She was found alone in her chair at home.
Everyone in the family worried that it had been suicide.
Because if it had been suicide, she’d not get a proper burial in the family plot.
So, I confessed… it was me… I murdered her.
I refused bail and sat in jail, thinking of her.
The guards came to tell me the autopsy showed it wasn’t suicide. She’d had a heart attack, that’s all.
And they set me loose.
The Boxer
Take a deep breath.
Smell the gym.
It’s a different smell than anywhere else.
Get on the scale.
Get in the ring.
Get these gloves on.
Now open your mouth so we can swab your cheek and put in this mouthguard.
What’s the swab for? Painkillers?
No. It’s for DNA.
The league wants us to clone you.
That way, your opponent can have you as a sparring partner to train against.
And you can have him.
That way, you’ll both be ready and give a good fight.
Better than the last one, where you got your ass killed.
Literally.
*DING*