Monthly Archives: March 2008

Personal Question

I was listening to someone talk at me when he said,

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

Now we all know how much I like that question. So, I answered a question with a question,

“Can I ask you one?”

He nodded in agreement.

“If you were fucking your wife and she died would you keep fucking her?”

Funny thing, he didn’t get around to asking his question.

Bush Lover

Unlike most other humans I like public transportation. I think of it as the time during my day when I can let humanity wash over me like a lithium shower.

I don’t have to react to much of it. I just get to sit there and let it come served up like a psycho salad. All I have to do is pour on a little dressing from time to time.

Today a rather loud guy started ranting about the war. He went on to express his hated for Bush up to and including removing the twins uteri to stop the scourge from infecting other generations (Dressing!).

Then he said,

“There’s only one Bush I like and you know what that is.” Everyone sat there hoping upon hope he’d leave it there. He didn’t.

“And it’s not the human kind.”

You Caught Me

I guess I’ll have to give it to you sharp-eyed readers. Yes, now that I look at it, the Back Away Table Tents are similar in tone to the classic, Danger Signs:

But, trust me when I say, shut the fuck up! Do you give Paulie Shore shit for playing the same character in every movie? No! And do you know why not? That’s right! You don’t care a whit about him!

Us, on the other hand, you care enough to bitch the very best.

Although similar, please, I beseech you to believe when I say there was no malfeasance on the part of any member of the Bound & Gags comedy consortium.

But, to be on the safe side, I will take a few of them outside for a little something I like to call the ball peen ballet.

As always, thanks for the feedback!

Back Away

Yesterday’s little adventure got me thinking. Always a dangerous thing, I know; illegal in six states, I got the restraining orders. But sometimes you’ve got to throw caution and potential incarceration to the wind for the betterment of humanity.

There should be a way to warn people you may not be the type of person kinder, gentler people should approach. Not that you’re unkind or rude, maybe you just want to plow through lunch to get back to work on time so your boss doesn’t chew you out. Or you want to sit there unmolested by the world at large.

Nothing personal. You just want some me time in public.

So we’ve devised a way to get your message out without having to say, as I did last night when someone wouldn’t back away politely,

“If you don’t back down I’m going to tear your brain out, eat it, shit it out, then put it back in your skull to remove any doubt that you’re a shit head.”

To alleviate those embarrassing and potentially messy moments, we at Bound & Gags have created the:


Let’s say you want to concentrate on the ball game, your meal, hell, your job, plop a Back Away Table Tent down and consider the world warned!

The Back Away Table Tents come in many varieties to suit your personal warning level. The Back Away Table Tents come in sentiments like:

No Speak Zone
No, Just No
Back Away Slowly, I Have A Knife
Be Polite! Fuck Off!
Speak Only When Spoken To
If I’m Not Talking, Take My Lead
Off Thy Fucketh
Will Speak For Beer
If I Wanted To Speak To You I Would Be
I Love Conversation! Just Not With You.
Mom Said, “Don’t Talk To Strangers.”
I’m Not Here For Your Amusement.
I Think, Therefore, You Bore.
Our Relationship Is Better Unrequited
Wanna Get Laid? Go Fuck Yourself.
Because I Care, I’m Warning You Now.
WARNING: Does Not Play Well With Others
I’m Here For Fun So Shut Up.
WARNING! Engaging May Be Hazardous To Your Health.
I’d Hate To Tell You What I Think So Don’t Make Me.
I’m Here Alone On Purpose
Shhhhhhhh!!!!!!!! It Sounds So Much Nicer Than Fuck Off!
I’d Be Interested If You Were Interesting
And, for those times when you may have a change of heart, You May/You May Not

We’ve also included a blank to jot in your own sentiment to fit the occasion.

So grab a Back Away Table Tent or dozen and let people know just because you’re alone doesn’t mean you’re lonely.


We stopped for bite last night. It was going fairly well. By that I mean there was an entertaining group at the end so I got to sit there, eat, and watch the basketball game.


Possibly taking my silent chewing and staring straight ahead as a sign of loneliness, a guy decided to talk to me. I will say, in his defense, I wasn’t the first person he chose. I will also say that, proving what a damaged sort he is, he winnowed his way to me.

He was your typical gung-ho, young salesman type. The kind of kid who’ll, with no irony whatsoever, use the phrase, “Location, location, location.” To a gentleman who stated (loudly enough to reach my ear) that he’d owned his own business for many years and wasn’t in the market for a sales lecture.

“Hey, you come here often?”


“It’s nice, huh?”


“It’s my first time here.”

Not being a question I feel no need to respond. I’m not the fucking welcome wagon. I’m not PR for this place. I’m not someone people should randomly begin conversations with. Not that people know that. At first.

“Food’s good here, huh?”


“What do you suggest?”

“Leaving me the fuck alone.”

I must admit to relishing the moment when people get up in arms whenever I respond like that. Truly, I don’t understand why they get upset. I didn’t invite them to my ear space. I’m not being loquacious in any way, shape, or form. I’ve not even turned my head in their general direction.

I’m sorry, where I come from those are signals.

“You don’t have to be rude. I was just trying to make conversation.”

The defense of those who cannot shut the fuck up.

“Why is it,” I say turning my chair towards him. “I, the person being invaded by inane and meaningless conversation from someone who hasn’t had an original thought since the first time he reached for his momma’s tit, am considered rude? Since when is it rude to be sitting quietly bothering no one with sound or deed? Or is it rude because you expect, due to some divine right, anyone who happens to be within earshot to become a willing participant in your blabbering?”

It’s not like I try to cause psychic damage to itinerate talkers in the world.

It’s more like my divine right.


I was talking to someone who, for whatever reason popped into their head, asked me what my hobby was. I thought that was an odd question for an adult by an adult. I guess I’m missing out on some great things, if this person was to be believed, but I’m not much of a hobbyist so informed them as such.

“Oh, come on, everyone has a hobby.”

Now why do people have to ruin a perfectly ridiculous conversation by being idiotic? After all, if I did indeed have a hobby isn’t talking about it one of the joys?

No, I explain again, I don’t have an interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation not as an occupation. I don’t have an occupation pursued for pleasure or relaxation either but I don’t want to sully the mud of this conversation with my stupidity.

“There must be something you do to relax.”

“Does passing out drunk count?”

Turns out that wasn’t in the big book of official hobbies. Too bad because that would be a great hobby. I was also informed telling people to fuck off wasn’t in the book either. That wouldn’t be my hobby anyway. I’d be on the pro tour!

Am I a model trainer? No. Do I collect life-sized replicas of celebrity poop? No. Am I a devote of German-style board games ? No, but I think I’m starting a collection of stroke inducing blood pressure readings.

By this time I knew he wasn’t going to stop without me having some type of hobby.

“Does blood splatter painting count? Because soon you’re going to be my work of art.”

Now if you have any familiarity with me, you are aware that, usually, after a line such as that I am left to my own devices. But what is it about hobbyists? Are they lonely? Starved for interaction not related to spelunking? Whatever it was, this pitbull wouldn’t let go.

“Yeah,” I say. “You got me. I have a hobby.” He smiles gleefully in anticipation. “But I’m a little embarrassed about it.”

“No need to be embarrassed!” He coddles. “Whatever brings your life joy is good.”

I pause an extra moment kicking invisible stones with my toe.

“I collect business cards.”

The man is shocked!

“What’s embarrassing about that? Many people collect. . .”

“. . .and scratch out the persons name and number then write in my own. . .”

“. . .ing. . .oh.”

“I have one that says I’m a United States senator!”

I love this moment. It’s that netherworld between them wondering if I’m crazy enough to do this or I’m messing with them. They never seem to arrive at the truth.

“I even did it to my own business card. I thought that was quite post-modern quixotically ironic.”

After all, how can they get to the truth if I’m not sure myself.

Old Bartender

My girlfriend and I were at a wing place. We’re eating and drinking, even saw our first green beer of the season. The bartender, an older guy, had regaled us with a few stories about his younger days. They were entertaining in a rotary dial phone sort of way.

He walks off to take care of a couple closer to his peer group and comes back a little while later. He has a look of disdain on his face when he snaps his head in the other couples direction and says, “Old people should be fish food.”

“Hey,” I say. “You’re too close to chum yourself to be making that joke.”

It may be my imagination but I think our service was worse after that.

Strange Conversations

As you’d expect, I’ve had some very strange conversations. And I’m just talking work related. I’ve talked to, for lack of a better term, a killing expert about the damage done with specific damage inducing implements (”No,” I remember saying one time. “The poison can’t cause paralysis. I need writhing, damn it!”); a lengthy discussion with a brain surgeon about the effects something would have on a characters skull (at the end of that conversation she said, “I’m sorry to disappoint.” I assured her I was thrilled. “I didn’t want death or seizure. That’s just an attention getter. I don’t kill him for another few minutes.”); and, just yesterday, how to handle outraged melon baller fans with my attorney.

You know, just another day at the office.

But I just had a conversation with someone who is writing a script and needed my help. He’s stuck on a scene and wanted to see if I could come up with something to push it through.

“Okay, send me the pages.”

“No, I want to do it now over the phone.”

That’s not even in my top ten ways to do this. But, when Client-9 calls you lube up and know it may sting a little.

He begins his story. I’m half hearing what he’s saying because he’s outside and 3000 miles away. But I get the gist. It’s a sex scene between an actress and an octopus. No, I don’t mean a grabby guy. I mean a tentacle owning, sea-dwelling, bug-eyed bastard.

Yeah, not all my calls come from the ‘A’ list.

As the scene comes clear (it is not my job to judge art, it’s my job to forge ahead until the check clears) I see where there may be some issues. It seems, for some reason, the actress isn’t down with OPP (Octopoda Penis Penetration). Prima fucking donna, eh?

He finishes reciting the scene and, well, I can’t go into what we discussed but, trust me, he was happy with my turns and, when you see this scene in a major motion picture, it makes sense!


I can only work within the perimeters I’m given.

One of the funniest moments came when we’re wrapping up and he has a moment of trepidation because of the chlorine in the pool.

“After what you just bought into I’m sure a little red eye is the least of your bounds of reality stretching worries.”

American Hero

If you haven’t heard, there have been some issues in NY with the states government. I don’t want to ruin it if you haven’t heard, but it seems as if everyone I know has heard.

Some of us were talking about it and decided that if you cheat on your wife (professional or amateur levels) it’s said that you ‘Spitzer.’

With that out of the way, the conversation turned to the bullshit united front thing the wife always has to do. My girlfriend said she’d never do it. I pointed out it would be the perfect opportunity to become a national hero.

As usual, no one knew what the hell I was talking about.

“I’d become a national hero by standing next to a lying, cheating, embezzling scum?”

“No,” I say. “That’s just part of the negotiation to get your pay out. The hero part is when he’s doing standard public apology #97 and gets to the point where he says, ‘my lovely wife’ you punch him square in the face. Immediate national hero! Cover of Time. You would become Newsweek. Cosmo would send you a box of dildoes.”

People laugh and debate the action when something dawned on me. Maybe thoughts like this are the reason I’ve only worked on one political campaign.

Cancel It, Please

I was just trying to cancel a service and the guy, who’s paid to talk to me until I give in and keep the service, talked to me until I almost gave in and kept the service.

So, before I crumbled, it was up to me to think of something to get me away from his venomous grasp.

“I’m moving out of your service area.” That’s a good one, I think.“I’m sure that would be difficult because we’re a world wide company with affiliates everywhere. Where would you like to to transfer you account to?”

Damn, he’s good. I didn’t think I’d actually have to think of something else.

“Ah,” I say giving my brain a moment to do it’s job. “Namibia. I’m having a baby so I’m moving to Namibia. Ya got service there?”

He pauses. A little too long. I’m not full on confident yet that I’ll render him useless. But, as the moments tick by, I’m starting to think maybe I caught him.

“So, sir, when would you like us to cancel your service?”

Man, I like winning.