Long ago, while I was walking in Hoboken, Frank Sinatra came down the other way.
He walked up to a lamp post and tied a string to it.
Tugging on that string, he muttered “What a world!” before untying it and moving to the next post.
He did this for 30 minutes before a limousine caught up to him, and some guys in tuxedos helped him into the back.
When he died, I wondered if they tied that string to the inside of his coffin.
I dug up his grave, but it was empty.
(Perhaps he’s sitting on a rainbow?)
Tag: silly
Brain
If I suffer some horrific tragic accident that reduces me to becoming just a brain in a jar, I want that jar to be a cookie jar.
Because, let’s face it: the kids these days are fat.
And there’s nothing that puts a kid off of between-meal snacks like reaching for a Chips Ahoy and coming up with a handful of grey matter.
But then again, kids don’t wash their hands, either. Disgusting, nasty creatures!
Pawing around my lobes, their booger-covered fingers scrambling my neurons… ewwwwww!
They’d reduce me to a drooling, blithering idiot.
(Unlike how I am now, right?)
Knowing
Whenever GI Joe used to say “Knowing is half the battle,” I wondered what the other half of the battle was.
My friends didn’t know.
“But knowing is half the battle!” I said.
“Yes, the other half,” said Ricky, the kid who ate paste. “Perhaps the other half is not knowing?”
“Just like that Socrates guy!” said Sue. “He knew that he didn’t know, so not knowing is… knowing you don’t know!”
“Maybe we just need to buy lots of their toys?” I asked.
We agreed, and played GI Joes in the sandbox.
Except for Sue; she played with matches.
To Don’t
A lot of people make TO DO lists to get their chores done.
I stuck mine to a corkboard, and I put colored pins in chores I need to get done, removing pins once they’ve gotten done.
However, some people make TO DON’T lists to list all the things they do to waste time, and then they try not to do those things.
I tried a TO DON’T list, but the first thing I put on it was my TO DON’T list.
A paradox wormhole opened up, swallowing everything in the room.
I scratched “Laundry” off my TO DO list.
Neighborhood Watch
WHAM WHAM!
Stan nailed a NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH sign to the side of the house.
“You have it facing the wrong way, Stan,” I say.
“Shit,” says Stan, and he pries it off with the claw hammer. He sticks the bent nail into the pocket of his tool belt, pulls out another, and tries again.
WHAM WHAM!
“Now?”
“Upside-down.”
“Shit!”
He pried it loose again, got out another nail, and…
WHAM WHAM!
“Third time’s the charm, but it’s my house.”
Stan unfolded his cane and grabbed his dog’s harness.
“Of course it is. They don’t take blind people, stupid,” he said.
The Auctioneer
The man
With the sexiest voice
In the world
Was as an auctioneer
And he’d auction horses
And houses
And cars
And other things people didn’t want
Or need anymore
But his commissions weren’t
All that good
Because his voice was so sexy
Instead of raising their hands
To place their bids
People had their hands
Elsewhere
(He didn’t want to think what they’d do
With auction paddles)
So instead of watching
For people to
Raise their hands
He’d listen for them to raise their voices
In climax
He’d count that as a bid
Coming once
Coming twice
Ohhhhhhhhhhhh… sold!
Elephant In The Newsroom
New York Times editor Abe Rosenthal said that he didn’t care if his reporters were fucking elephants, as long as they weren’t covering the circus.
However, Rosenthal changed his mind after paying a rash of elevator repair bills when reporters brought their dates to the office.
Then there was the stampede at the paper’s Christmas Party. I guess the peanut martinis were too strong, and there was an argument between two elephants wearing the same dress.
Abe put out a memo the next day: no dating elephants.
But clowns? Totally okay with him.
Care to sniff my flower, Mr. Friedman?
Felt
Have you ever felt a felt-tipped marker?
Truly felt it?
Close your eyes…
Twist off the cap slowly…
Feel the tip on your fingertips.
Feel the wetness.
Your fingers drink it in… drink in the color…
The felt tip against your skin.
Draw… draw on your skin…
Lines. Curves. Angles.
Then… stop!
Put down the marker, pick it up again, twist on the cap so it doesn’t dry out.
At the sink, scrubbing scrubbing scrubbing!
Stop!
It is a part of you now.
It’ll have to wear off.
Staring back, your reflection.
Your face. Your forehead, marked:
I’M WITH STUPID.
Delivery
I’m waiting for a delivery.
It’s supposed to be delivered today.
It’s something I don’t want delivered to me while I’m at work, and I couldn’t let them leave it on back patio either, so I took the day off of work.
While waiting, I’ve cleaned the kitchen, bathrooms, vacuumed all the carpets twice, and even scrubbed out a stain in the hallway that I’ve never had the time to get to.
Then, the doorbell rings.
And… it’s…
The exterminator?
Not the delivery I’m expecting, but at least he’s delivering a toxic cloud of death to my insect roommates, yes?
Bates
Back in the old days,
Norman ran The Bates Motel on a shoestring,
earning a few bucks here and there from people
who’d stay at the motel.
And for those who stayed
permanently,
I suppose he’d get a bit more,
since those folks didn’t really need all that
money and stuff they had with them.
If Norman had been around these days,
well, he’d have had a problem with social networking,
people tweeting
“A crazy guy in a dress
is stabbing me in the shower!”
and that kind
of hassle.
But at least the Yelp reviews
would actually be: “YELP!”