Every ballgame begins with the playing of the national anthem.
Some local choir was singing, and they sounded great…
“Over the land of the free
And the home of the brave?”
The crowd cheered, and the home plate umpire shouted “PLAY BALL!” but the players didn’t take the field.
They liked the choir’s singing so much, they wanted to hear them sing for a bit more.
“We’re not in a rush, right?” said the managers. “The stadium’s got lights. And tomorrow’s a travel day.”
So, they laid out blankets on the field, got some sodas, and everybody enjoyed the choir.
Tag: music
Axl the Asshole
When did women start throwing panties on stage?
Some say it started with Tom Jones and his Vegas concerts.
Others say it was Wayne Newton, because women would mistake him for Tom Jones.
And still others say it started with Elvis, and panties that ended up on Tom Jones’ or Wayne Newton’s stages were there only because of the unusual updrafts and air currents on The Strip.
But the truth is, it started with Axl Rose.
Not because women were totally in love with him or were enthralled by his music.
No, it’s because he’s such a whiny rockstar pussy.
Diamonds Are
When Marilyn sang that diamonds are a girl’s best friend, she wasn’t talking about the precious stone.
She was actually talking about Diamonds. Capital D.
The Diamond Brothers, Sven and Olaf.
Oh, sure, you saw Marilyn in the paper with Joe DiMaggio and Arthur Miller, and then there were the rumors about those damned Kennedys, but that was nothing compared to things Marilyn did the Diamonds.
What? Were they a threesome?
No.
They did housework for her. Some heavy lifting, killing nasty spiders.
Very dependable, but lousy at reading prescription labels.
They quietly went home to Sweden after the funeral.
Ventilator
It was Christmas Eve. Grandma was in the hospital, so we brought the tree, presents and whole family to her room.
She’d had a stroke. A bad one.
But her living will told us to spare no effort, so there was the ventilator, pumping away, hiss hiss hiss.
It was sad.
That didn’t stop us, though. We sang Christmas carols, told stories.
“Let’s light the tree,” I said.
And I looked for an outlet.
Hrm. All full.
I pulled out what I thought was the lamp, plugged in the tree.
Everyone sang O Christmas Tree, and the ventilator went silent.
Angry At Birds
I started with a tree with a bird in it, chopping it down.
Shot two doves the next day.
Killed three hens in a local hatchery.
And then pegged four ravens off of a telephone wire.
Killing birds is easy, but collecting the five golden rings would be a challenge.
Rob a jewelry stand at the mall
Mug some housewives for their wedding bands?
I settled for ripping the ear off of a punk outside of a nightclub.
I’m going to the park to bag some geese today.
Hopefully they won’t notice before I go back tomorrow for the swans.
We Wish You
I don’t know who was more shocked… me or the genie that came out of the rusty hurricane lamp I rubbed.
He started talking about wishes when the doorbell rang.
“It’s Christmas,” I said. “Fucking carolers, I bet.”
We went upstairs, down the hall, and opened the door.
Yup. Fucking carolers!
“We wish you a Merry Christmas!
We wish you a Merry Christmas!
We wish you a Merry Christmas!”
I started to mumble something.
Genie clapped his hands together.
And then the carolers burst into flames and died.
“So, what’s wish number two?”
I wasted a wish on…
Fucking carolers!
Figgy
Some people get a bit carried away with Christmas.
I’m not talking about the trees and lights and manger scenes in front lawns.
What I worry about is the carolers.
Some stick to the basics, like Silent Night.
They sing the song, shake the charity tipjar, and move along.
But others, well, they’ve fucking lost it.
One roaming chorus took We Wish You A Merry Christmas over the edge, threatening people with demands for figgy pudding.
Who the fuck keeps figgy pudding around anyway?
Is the wassail boiling yet?
Good. Open the door and I’ll toss it in their faces.
It’s In The Way That You Use It
“It’s not how long it is, but what you do with it.”
Stubby Malone’s penis was the shortest of anybody’s I knew, but what he did with it sure put other guys to shame.
Remember when he conducted the Chicago Symphony with it?
When his critics said “You’re just waving it around” he told the glockenspielist to step aside and, boy, did he shut those wags up!
Painting… fencing… picking locks… wrote a best-selling novel… there was nothing he couldn’t do.
Well, besides please a woman properly with it.
(Which is why he got so good with his tongue, too.)
Bert’s Trumpet
Ah, Bert.
Knew the guy since, hell, All our lives. Work, Army, college, school. First thing I remember is Bert and me, playing in the dirt in our back yards.
Damn, I feel old.
Yeah, I’m the executor of his will (which reminds me, I’m making you mine, okay?)
Problem is, halfway down it, he asks to be buried with his trumpet.
Trumpet? What trumpet?
You remember any trumpet?
I don’t.
Seventy years, I knew him. No trumpets.
Piano, sure.
Maybe it’s a typo.
Piano. Trumpet.
See?
We’ll bury him with his piano.
Here’s a shovel.
We’ll dig over here.
The Music Of The Stairs
The music teacher in my high school was rather avant-garde.
Instead of learning to play our instruments in the traditional sense: blowing into them, stroking them with various implements, or smiting them with mallets in some semblance of rhythm and meaning, we tossed them down a flight of stairs to listen to the odd beauty of the cacophony.
The school administration tolerated his madness, and since the instruments were already in bad shape, tossing them down stairs was significantly less expensive than repairs.
It was when he filled in for the drama teacher than they had to let him go.