Monthly Archives: August 2011

Itinerant Joke Farmer

In my guise as an itinerant joke farmer I sometimes have to go places to find work. I hate that part of it. It’s not that I mind collaborating as much as it’s the meeting part. Unless there’s a specific plan afoot it’s usually a waste of time.

As odd as it may sound, I have a very specific and deliberate work path:

1) Get subject
2) Think of subject
3) Come up with nothing
4) Go find funny cat videos

So, as you can see, having other people around tends to cramp my style. Some people would rather see funny dog videos.

I do brainstorm with others well but even that can only last so long. It can be helpful to dislodge ideas you may not have come up with on your own but, even with that, most of the heavy lifting is done alone. Two writers, one keyboard is even more difficult to watch than two girls, one cup.

I answered an ad for a scriptwriter and, a few weeks later, heard from this guy. He liked my samples and wanted to meet with me. That has never made any sense to me. You’re not auditioning me for best friend. Meeting me isn’t going to influence how well I churn out the pages. Tell me what you want, I’ll do my best, you decide to use it or not. None of that needs personal contact.

I know it makes me sound anti-social or agoraphobic or just an giant asshole but none of that is true (to a point). I’m actually just lazy. That and I’ll probably have to put on pants.

But he was adamant. He wants to meet me and discuss his vision for his company. What the fuck am I? Your optometrist? I don’t give a shit about your vision for your company. I’m only in it for the words. Just tell me what you want typed and let me type it. What pie-in-the-sky, half-baked, grandiose delusion you have is of no interest to me. I’m only in it for the words.

And the money.

And the more half-baked the pie-in-the-sky the less money seems to be there. So not hearing your plan for world domination is probably best for everyone. That way I’ll be distracted with the words and not yet disgusted that I’ve, once again, wasted my time and dwindling abilities.

But, duty calls, so I go. He wants to meet at his condo. Fine. Good. Great. Lets get it over with. I go to his building and up to his apartment. It’s a weird space. It’s large and packed with furniture that looks as if it hasn’t been used, or dusted, in twenty years.

He sees me looking around and explains that it’s a family condo and, since everyone moved out of the state many years ago, it doesn’t get much use.

“Or cleaning.” I say moving a pile of twenty year old, dust crusted Boston magazines out of my way to clear a space for my laptop. He’s bouncing around the room filling me with his master plan. It’s plan seventeen, ‘My concept is unlike anything ever. It’ll change media forever. I just need to surround myself with dedicated people.’

Meaning: I have this one idea I’ve been thinking about for years but can’t seem to get it on paper because I write like a gopher with dysentery.

After a few minutes I’ve already coming to the conclusion that it’s not all that original (I can’t say what it was but, trust me, you could come up with it by looking at a theater marquee, picking three flicks and mash ’em together) and, more importantly, I have no interest in the weekly meetings he wants, so have decided this isn’t for me. Besides, I’ve started sneezing from the dust and stagnant air so it’s about time for me departure.

Possibly sensing my disinterest (note: don’t close your laptop too early) he begins to play the good host. He offers a beverage. Then, to prove he’s classy, asks if I want a coaster.

“No thanks,” I say pushing some dust into a small pile. “I’ll just use this two inches of dust.”

It’s funny how easily people who think they’re funny get offended.

My girlfriend said. . .

. . .she wanted to have a simultaneous orgasm.

To which I replied,

“Do we have to share everything?”


I was talking to a woman while her sixteen year old stood quietly by her side. When there was a pause in conversation the young girl said,

“You know, whenever there’s an uncomfortable pause a gay baby is born.”

The mother is mortified. She begins to stammer so I decide to step in and try to smooth out the situation.

“It really wasn’t that uncomfortable.” I begin. “So maybe it’ll be bisexual.”

I was. . .

. . .being introduced to a six-foot, blonde Nordic woman.

While shaking her hand the gentleman doing introduction says,

“We call her the striking viking.”

Her hand still in mine I ask,

“Is that because she’s always hitting people?”

Don’t Invite Me

Trust me, you’ll be better off.

It’s not that I go out of my way to be an asshole, but, I also don’t go out of my way to fight it. I had to go to a BBQ meeting sort of thing I didn’t want to go to. I know the guy who invited me pretty well. He’s sort of a self-impressed bore (hi, Charles!) and I don’t like his wife at all (I know she doesn’t read this but I know Charles – “Don’t call me Chuck!” – is such an egotistical ass he’ll have to show it to her because he’s mentioned). It was business to go. That’s all. Charles, the fucking mental light-weight, is in the position to hire people. Over the years I’ve pulled his frying ass out of the fire enough he hires me. But I’m done. The only reason I’m going is to tell him in person to drop me. I have all good intentions to drop in, give a polite ‘it’s been real’ and end as gentlemen.

But things rarely play out as I script them.

I get to his house in a bad mood. Just knowing I’m going to have to spend time in the same area code with that troglodyte of a wife makes my nose twitch. I know she won’t want to speak to me much, so that’s good, but that facade with eyes would suck the shit out of a dog if she thought it would make the dog unhappy.

A guy I like hurries up handing me a beer. How can you not like a guy like that?


“Hey! Thanks.” We continue adding a word each time to our sentences until he imparts the information he’s been dying to get out gets out. At that moment, I fall back to a single word,


You see, I’ve just been informed that, per order of the house nazi, each guest will be limited to two drinks. Not per hour, which would be sensible, for the event.

“I’ll be outta here in forty minutes.” I say walking past some not very happy campers. It’s the topic of the party. I ask who gave up their beer for me and one of the guys said they circumvented the cunt by going to a local liquor store and having drinks in various vehicles.

You see, they know she’ll catch on so, when she does, everyone knows they’ll follow the next person to leave to the vehicle and confront them.

“So we’ve already got a sacrificial vehicle ready.” The vehicle has one lone beer in it which she’ll dramatically confiscate.

“See? THIS is why I don’t like you people!” Is the phrase we’ve all agreed she’ll use as she smashes the bottle on the ground.

It’s interesting to be in a group of pretty good writers. We can play scenes out before they happen with amazing clarity whether they’re true or not.

I’m standing there, with my first beer, when this woman comes up to me.

“You seem pretty unconcerned with this draconian situation.”

Oh yeah, then there’s that thing about hanging out with writers.

“It’s no big deal. I’m not much of a drinker anyway.” She looks from my eyes to the beer in my hand. I hold it up and say, “This? It’s just water.” I pause to allow her confusion to grow. “Mixed with hops and barley. I don’t know what they call it but it’s DEEEE-licious!”

See? Obnoxious.

I’ve been there less than half an hour and I’m ready to leave. Before I tender my resignation I know I have to thank the hosts for inviting me to their lovelyish home. So I head to the bar area to where the anteater faced wife is berating her esurient husband.

“Hey! Thanks for tossing this shindig.” I shake his hand then stick it in the air for her knowing she’d refuse it. “I wouldn’t shake my hand either.”

I point at her husband. “After all, look what I just touched.” Charles heartily laughs because he’s a soul less quakebuttock. “I have to talk to you for a minute before I leave.”

“Don’t you want a drink?” One of them asks. I apologize for my lack of specificity. I’d stopped paying attention.

“No thanks.” I say just as I feel a hand on my arm. “Come on,” It was that ass-lipped twat Charles. I stop. Turn and face the shrew. I know I have to follow protocol so say,

“Do you know how to make a PMS?” She grimaces.

“What’s in it?”

“It’s basically a bloody Mary served by a bitch.”

Their faces turned white for a moment before her’s turned red. I think, although I didn’t do it with the panache I’d planned, I’ll be off their mailing list after that.

I walk through a crowd, some of whom made their way over to see what, if anything, would happen. I turn to see, for one last time, Charles the human dingleberry, getting bitched at by the subhuman lusus naturae.

Sung to the tune of. . .

. . .All My Ex’s Live in Texas
(with apologies to George Strait)

In an unprecedented move, my girlfriend actually said she wanted to do a project. I wrote a parody of this song and she said she’d love to do a video for it. So, obviously, I had to change it to the feminine. So here ya go, All My Ex’s Have Changed Sexes 2.0!

All my ex’s have changed sexes
I can’t believe they no longer stand to pee
Yeah all my ex’s have changed sexes
I’m sure it has nothing to do with me

My Stevie had a great banana
That I’d happily consume
Big Robbie had bulging jeans
Which he swapped out for a poon
Yeah Robinson so masculine
It seems such a travesty
And Darrell who was so special says
She still got the hots for me

All my ex’s have changed sexes
I can’t believe they no longer stand to pee
Yeah all my ex’s have changed sexes
I’m sure it has nothing to do with me

Then there was Sonny who’d make me quiver
When I’d get with him
But that was a place and another time
Now what she’s packin’s a sin

They all say that it’s liberating
So maybe they’re right
They all say they’re being true to their self
But it’s quite a fright

All my ex’s have changed sexes
I can’t believe they no longer stand to pee
Yeah all my ex’s have changed sexes
Least they won’t need hysterectomies

Some folks said I’m thinkin’
It’s been rumored that I’d try
But I’m alive and I still sit to pee

Stupid Cat

Today’s Beginning

Gather round, boys and girls, to learn how to mortify while placing an image so disgusting into someone’s head they may never attempt that act again but definitely will not do it on your property due to the fear of your mere presence.

I’m walking into work and there’s a car parked on the property. Not unusual. I notice one head, drivers side, male but pay little more attention. Until I pass the vehicle closer. Oh boy! There’s some Wednesday morning love makin’ a goin’ on right here.

It’s not the first time I’ve seen something like there here so I go about starting my day. About five minutes after opening someone comes in, female. She has the same color hair as the bopper chick so I assume it’s her. I know her a fair amount, we have a friendlyish (my normal state) relationship.

While chatting I notice something on her jaw line. No! It can’t be. Well, it could. While processing the process I come away with the awareness that it is, indeed, what I think it is. I take a step back as the proceedings conclude with one tiny little question.

“What’s on your face? Sex snot?”

The flashes of ‘Huh?’ ‘What’d he say?’ ‘OH FUCK!’ while madly wiping her face and hurrying out of the establishment sped past at a frenzied pace.

I wonder what surprises are in store for the rest of the day?

We can only wait to see.