Monthly Archives: July 2009

Things I’ve Recently Said

A guy said, “I don’t know what it was. About six weeks ago something knocked me out.”

I said, “Was it a boxer?”

A woman asked, “Why would your wood smell?”

I answered, “Anal sex?”

A man who knew me when I was a tennis player said, “You would have been great if you’d played with more emotion.”

I answered, “My Mother was emotional and she was a horrible tennis player.”

A woman griped, “I’ve had no confidence lately.”

I offered, “Then lower the confidence of everyone around you.”

A woman eating a snack asked, “Did you taste this?”

I responded, “No, it’s in your mouth.”

A woman asked what I did for a living.

“I’m a stripper.”

“A male stripper?”

“Amazingly, no.”

A telephone solicitor said, “Can I speak with the person who handles your telephone carrier?”

I answered, “We don’t have a telephone.” And hung up.

“I’m the same weight as when I was in school. I love saying that. It’s why I stay in night school.”

A guy likes to rile my girlfriend up. I’ve told her not to pay attention but that’s impossible. I told her I’d take care of him but she’s a big girl.

He said I was gay (of course he used another term) which pissed her off because he said it when I wasn’t there. It pissed her off for whatever reason and he got his way.

A few weeks later I ran into him. Now I’m not defending her, I’m defending myself.

“So, I heard you called me gay.”

Silence.

“The only way someone could say that with any authority is if they blew me.”

Oh boy! You would have thought I’d called him. . .ooops!

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Comedy Movies

I received an email from some stranger. That’s not too unusual. I just wish they’d stop talking smack about my dick.

I get others asking questions or commenting. They ask about writing or comedy or comment on my writing and comedy. If the comments are any indication, many more people hate me than anything else.

This one wasn’t really one of those but got right to the point.

“I’m collecting a list. What are your favorite comedy movies?

Thanks.”

I checked to make sure this email didn’t originate from Nigeria (they are tricky) but it still bugged me.

The email address didn’t give me any clues, no business address, no discernable name. No reason for asking me for such a list.

But it also intrigued me. So I figured I’d answer.

“Because you asked so nicely, here’s my list of favorite comedy movies (in no particular order):

Blue Velvet
Seven
Silence Of The Lambs
Exorcist
Carrie
Rosemary’s Baby
Texas Chainsaw Massacre
Shining
Henry: Portrait Of A Serial Killer
Schinder’s List

Glad to help!”

I’d forgotten about this. Just another response in my day of responding to randomness. About two days go by and I get another email.

“CAN YOU READ??????? I said COMEDY movies. Can you submit again? COMEDY movies. This is important!!!!!!”

To which I replied,

“Thanks for inquiring and, yes, I can read. And I clearly read the words ‘comedy’ and ‘movies’. Can you read? My list is filled with classic examples of the most hilarious movies I’ve ever seen.

If you don’t like my list don’t use it in your important project. BUT, comedy is subjective so, in the future, do not make fun of the comedy loves of others.”

Think he’ll be getting back to me?

Sunday Song

Sexy Octogenarian

Trust me, if you were shivered by the title don’t bother reading this. If you’ve never trusted me before, do so now.

Seriously, back out gently and safely. I’m going in now and it’s ugly. Last chance to exit the ugly train.

Okay, here we go.

I walked into this scummy bar around the corner from work. It’s the only place to grab a quick beer since they tore down the Chinese restaurant.

Every now and then there’s an old lady who makes passes at me. Usually I can turn it around with a quip, a gentle retort, a few words before polishing off my beer and exiting.

It does get tiresome. I just got out of work. I’ve listened to enough bullshit to fill congress. I’m tired of my voice. My coddling filter has shut down. All I want is ten minutes to drink a beer in peace and go home.

Is that too much to ask?

Like I said, I can usually fend off my admirer with a few words and a hefty chug. But this time she was fucking relentless.

She said things that would make a rapist blush. You don’t expect someone’s nana to sidle up to you and say,

“I’ll take out my teeth and let you slip into my velvet head.”

I know! What did I tell you? You’re washing your eyes out right now, aren’t you. I know!

I’m going to save you the real ripe things because I like you. You have a good life. You shouldn’t be subjected to things like this.

That’s my job.

I listened just to make sure I should respond in kind. Of course by ‘in kind’ I mean my kind.

Once I was cleared for take off (I won’t tell you exactly what gave me the okay, suffice it to say go wash your eyes again) I took the last sip of my beer and said,

“As interesting an offer as this may be, I’m afraid the first time I thrust my dick into your sand paper pussy your hips would break. Then, when I tried to pull out, I’d get stuck on the bone shards which would be cutting my cock into string cheese. Although the pain would be excruciating, I’d keep pulling because your tits slapping my ass would be freaking me out.”

Think she’ll ask me out again?

And It’s Hot Too

Have you ever had a day you knew was going to suck starting at 6AM? You flat out, undoubtedly knew the suckosity needle was going to be buried deep into the red. Well, that’s the knowledge to which I began my day.

My eyes weren’t open when the first nudge of hell crinkled in my head. It was so muggy it was like breathing through gauze. I’m not talking a layer of gauze. I’m talking two, three mummies full jammed up your nose.

I walked to the shower, ankles dripping sweat to the soles of my feet allowing me to skate across the hardwood floor.

The shower itself didn’t matter. Because no matter how cold I placed the controller, by the time water hit my body, it had absorbed twice it’s weight in air molecules so was pounding my flesh like thousands of tiny evaporating fists.

The act of toweling off, a simple, often enjoyable task was rendered an Olympic endurance event. The act of gently allowing the towel to move across my body caused me to sweat so profusely it was rather Sysiphisian.

Resigned that I will indeed be rather moist today, I dress and steady myself to enter the world. I do so with a resolve to avoid my fellow man with all the will one can muster without actually moving, blinking or undue breathing. After all, I only took six changes of clothes with me.

The reason to avoid humans is directly due to the humidity. No, I’m not frightened by the odor I know will waft from them like a road kill carcass on a steamy highway.

It will be due to their demeanor and topic of conversation. They will take their piss poor attitude and use it to snipe and grumble while making sure I am up to date with today’s hot topic.

“Fucking humid as a bastard today, ain’t it?”

What gives you that idea, Gomer? The puddles collecting beneath my eyelids?

I’m sure, even after my years of experience dealing with folks of various ilk, the seventeenth time I heard that I would not only take a hostage I’d make him subsist on cups of his own sweat. Yeah, it’d be that bad a mood.

While standing, as still as possible, at the bus stop to go to work I notice the weather has altered the wildlife around me.

A squirrel is rubbing his fur off on a rock. A bird is flapping it’s wings wildly without flying. A homeless guy is down to sixteen parkas.

Right on time I see my bus come ’round the bend. I reach into my pocket (how come it’s wet in there?), pull out my public transportation card and watch as the bus speeds past.

I attempted to flag it down but all that did was flick fingertip sweat onto the windshield of a passing car causing their windshield wipers to automatically turn on.

Now what? The next bus isn’t for an hour which is not convenient for my work schedule. My only option is to trudge up the incredibly steep hill (if you don’t believe me check out the story on ass lugeing or if someone who’s been to my house would confirm this that would be nice) and ask my neighbors for a ride.

They are such great people they leave the chilled sanctity of their well sealed, cool home to venture outside into the broiling, concrete air. And directly into their ice producing air conditioned vehicle.

Finally, I get to my hot box of an office. Oh, there’s the theory of conditioned air but, as with most theories, it’s flawed.

The flaw is it doesn’t fucking work. If the door opens once the air conditioner writhes in agony like a supermodel after a two Fig Newton binge.

But I have solace. A few, albeit painful and difficult, steps away from is a supermarket fully stocked with cool, breathable air.

Good thing I have to get cat food, huh? The fact we were at a grocery store last night and walked directly past cat food – cheaper than this stores – means nothing to a man who hasn’t had a full, unobstructed breath in longer than is medically advisable.

Going out of my way to avoid contact – eye, physical, alien – I blissfully enjoy cat food wrangling. While slowly walking to the check out area I hear, to my side, a woman’s voice.

“Excuse me,” she intones. “Do you think my husband would like this?”

I stop because, to ask that question, she must know me. That is a logical assumption, am I correct?

Turns out, I wasn’t.

I look at her and have never seen her before. But, and here is where I err, I give her a benefit of the doubt. I meet many people. I don’t care about many people. I don’t remember many people I meet. Combine those, I meet a lot of people I don’t care about remembering.

“Do I know you?”

“No.”

I will admit to being happy I’m inside this cool area because, if I wasn’t, at that moment I’m sure I would have burst into tiny beads of water that gently dropped to the ground to be quickly absorbed back into the atmosphere.

“Then why would you ask me if I thought your husband would like something?”

“Oh, you know, men are all alike.”

“You obviously weren’t promiscuous.”

I know what you’re saying, ‘Boy, Chris, even when you smell like a junk yard dogs testicles, you can still say truly offensive and tasteless things.’

Why, thank you. You’re right, that line deserved, no, forces some type of response. But it stealthily zipped past her like a grasshopper fart in a wind tunnel.

What to do? What to do? A normal person would walk away. But a normal person wouldn’t, first, be me and second have to go back into the malaise bouillabaisse. I figure if I linger longer I have a slim chance of survival.

So I attempt to out non sequitur her. I know, it’s not fair, I am a non sequitur but cut me some slack, I’m moist.

“Wouldn’t it suck if there was a heaven?”

Stricken, the woman gasps, “No! It would be wonderful. How could you say such a thing?”

“I’m kind of a wise ass, but that’s beside the point. Truly, it would suck. You’d be reunited with everyone you knew, right?”

“Yes.”

“Even the uncle who touched you?”

“Ah, well, I’m not sure about that, but, it would be the greatest homecoming ever.”

“Yeah, that’s why it would suck. It would be too much work hiding behind clouds, ducking under Saint Peter’s robe avoiding all the chicks you said you loved just so you could fuck ’em.”

Have you ever stood in front of someone so speechless they couldn’t blink? I have and, to quote Ferris Bueller, I highly recommend it.

A Little Tweak

If ya ever wanna fuck with a Deadhead (I know there aren’t many left and there should be even fewer but go with me here) it turns out to be rather simple. BUT, one little thing has to be in place. They have to say a sentence similar to this,

“Dude, I’m gonna see Ratdog at the Casino Ballroom Friday.”

For the uninitiated, Ratdog has members of the Dead so are considered gawdhead to these heads. So, if you are ever as fortunate as I, and one of these patchouli scented bastards mentions Ratdog, to get them to go all wobbly in front of you, say,

“You know, Ratdog is Godtar backwards.”

Sure, it may only be seconds of fun for you but, for them, it’s hours of cosmic debris.

Compassion

“What you need is a good dose of Jewish guilt!”

Says a friend of some years standing. He’s a sweet man who I’ve often questioned the sanity of because he goes out of his way to have this proximity to me.

“You need to have more compassion for others.”

“I have plenty of compassion for others.” I state with as much passion as one can con. “I feel real bad for people with stuff missing or something wrong in the melon, you know, real disabilities. Like Jews.”

“What? Are you saying my religion is a disability? I’m sorry, Christopher, I think you’ve gone too far this time.”

“No way. You can’t eat pork. That’s a HUGE disability in my book.”

It’s funny, over the years as often as I’ve fucked with him (just about every time) he always looks at me with that same expression of love.

You know the look. Filled with the compassion you have for that meshuggener cousin who’s always sticking his schmeckle in the krupnik.

It’s that kind of love.