• Don’t walk on the tracks. “Check.”
• Be aware that trains can’t stop quickly. “Good to know.”
• Always expect a train. “This one would probably be tied in to the fact that these are railroad tracks, is that right? Correct me if I’m wrong on this.”
• Look for more than one train. “Frankly, this is one I never thought of. Maybe if I remember the others, this one will take care of itself.”
GET DOWN!
Here’s something to think about: In the course of history’s wars, many battles took place in the woods and the countryside. So, sometimes I picture a soldier waking up on a spring morning, wildflowers growing around his tent, birds singing in the trees, perhaps the comforting sound of a brook trickling by in the near distance. And then a ten-pound cannonball hits him in the face. It’s an interesting thought, don’t you think?
ON MY HONOR
I wanted to be a Boy Scout, but I had all the wrong traits. Apparently, they were looking for kids who were trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and reverent. Unfortunately, at that time, I was devious, fickle, obstructive, hostile, rude, mean, defiant, glum, extravagant, cowardly, dirty and sacrilegious. So I waited a few years and joined the army.
PASS THE MUSTARD
In New York State, the law says that the ingredients of hot dogs can legally include a certain amount or percentage of insect parts and rat droppings. It’s permissible by law. So, in New York, when you eat a hot dog, you more or less have to hope that the hot dog you’re eating contains only the most nutritious parts of the insects (not just legs and antennae) and that the rats whose feces you’re eating were on good, heart-healthy diets.
YOU’VE GOT A NICE VOICE, DO YOU HAVE INSURANCE?
I’ve been enjoying a new band from England called So Long, Mate! It’s a five-man heavy-metal band, and the reason it’s called So Long, Mate! is because at the end of each performance the other four members of the band kill the lead singer. As a result, the music has a certain urgency to it. Also, it keeps the tours nice and short; it’s basically one night, and then back they go to L.A. to hold auditions. The band plans to have an album ready in the year 2037.
DANNY NEEDS A TORSO
“Hello, this is David Nipplegripper, another insufferable Hollywood movie star who wants you to help some cause or charity merely because I say so. Today, I want to tell you about little Danny Pendejo. Danny needs your help; he was born with no torso. His legs are fine, his arms are fine, and his head is okay except for one really big, caved-in part on top. But he has no torso. Won’t you help by being a torso donor? Even a torso that’s too big will be better than no torso at all. Thank you. This is David Nipplegripper, reminding you to see my new movie, Breasts on the Moon.”
NUTS!
Another sign of America’s decline: Because a few people are “sensitive to peanuts” and have “allergies” that might “kill them,” America’s commercial airlines had to stop serving those little bags of peanuts. It wasn’t sufficient that the affected people could simply refuse the peanuts when they were offered; the argument was made that the people who did eat the peanuts were putting “peanut dust” in the air, creating a health hazard for the “victims.” What a load of shit. If someone is in danger of dying from inhaling peanut dust, why aren’t they dead already? Why didn’t they die at a baseball game or at the circus? America has gone soft.
INSTRUCTIONS: FOLLOW CAREFULLY
Release the handle by pulling down the strap and tightening the fasteners. Press the button and remove the safety cap, then turn the knob to unleash the spring and wind the excess slack onto the spool. Loosen the screws on the plate lid and insert the tabs into the slots. Rotate the control switch a quarter of a turn before lowering the two levers. Then drop the main crank into a neutral position. Be careful not to unscrew the housing before engaging the catch. Plug in and you’re set to go. If smoke fills the room, read the troubleshooting guide at the rear of this manual.
ACTORS, NOT ACTIVISTS
I like the good actors. The real actors. The ones who keep their lives private. Sean Penn, Harvey Keitel, Alan Arkin, Robert Duvall, Al Pacino, Jack Nicholson, Johnny Depp, Robert De Niro, Gary Oldman, William Hurt, Dustin Hoffman, Gene Hackman, Gary Sinise, Christopher Walken, Gary Busey. They keep to themselves. You don’t see them appearing all the time on TV. They don’t cooperate with Access Hollywood and Entertainment Tonight. They’re actors. Not celebrities. They keep to themselves. That’s why their work is so good. Good for them.
DEAR MA
Dear Ma,
Even though you’re dead, I wanted you to know I’m doing real well. No thanks to you, I might add. I now have my own TV show and it’s getting very high ratings. I play the part of a guy whose mother dies but it doesn’t really bother him. I know they don’t have good reception where you are, so I’m going to send you a tape. Do you think a tape will be okay in the intense heat?
Love, Dirk
TEAMS SUCK!
I don’t like ass kissers, flag wavers or team players. I like people who buck the system. Individualists. I often warn kids: “Somewhere along the way, someone is going to tell you, ‘There is no “I” in team.’ What you should tell them is, ‘Maybe not. But there is an “I” in independence, individuality and integrity.’ ”
Avoid teams at all cost. Keep your circle small. Never join a group that has a name. If they say, “We’re the So-and-Sos,” take a walk. And if, somehow, you must join, if it’s unavoidable, such as a union or a trade association, go ahead and join. But don’t participate; it will be your death. And if they tell you you’re not a team player, just congratulate them on being so observant.
IN THE GROOVE
You ever run over a guy with your car? And you kind of panic? So you back up? And run over him a second time? And then you realize you have to get the fuck outta there before the police show up? So you put it in drive again and run over him a third time? What the fuck—might as well. What else you gonna do at that point, drive around him? Anyway, as you drive away, did you ever reflect on the fact that each time you ran over him the crunching sound got fainter and fainter? That’s because he already had two good, deep grooves pressed into him that you kept driving through.
PRIDE GOETH . . .
Parents are such fuckin’ doofuses. I saw a bumper sticker that said “Proud parents of a sailor.” What the fuck is so special about being a sailor? How about “Proud parents of a tailor”? Isn’t a tailor worthy, too? The whole “proud parent” thing is bullshit. Pretty soon I’m expecting to see “Proud parents of a child.” Have a little self-respect, will ya? You never see the children with bumper stickers that say “Proud son of Mr. & Mrs. Klayman.” That’s because Mr. & Mrs. Klayman are such fuckin’ doofuses.
I’M IN THE MORAL MINORITY
I don’t think there’s really such a thing as morality. I think it’s a human construct designed to facilitate the control of people. Values, ethics, legal standards—all of these things are human-generated, and they’re lumped under some vague idea called morality. But suppose humans got it wrong? Suppose there’s no actual, objective morality? Suppose there’s just a natural, worldly, secular, common-sense standard of behavior whose purpose is what’s best for getting along and what’s best for survival? That would be a good system. Why should a system like that be overlaid with a sense of spooky, mystical, judgmental oversight?
JUST DIE, MOTHERFUCKER
When this Catholic guy, Cardinal Bernardin of Chicago, died, they praised him for accepting death gracefully. Excuse me, but isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Accept death gracefully? What’s that? You say many people don’t accept death gracefully? I see. So now we’re evaluating people’s behavior and praising them based on what other people don’t do? Wonderful.
I don’t think people should ever get credit for doing something they’re supposed to do, even if it’s rarely done by others. Condemn the ones who don�
��t do it if you like, but don’t praise the ones who do it. Only one of the two behaviors is worth commenting on, not both.
TRUE STUFF
You know those broken white lines that separate the lanes on a highway? Have you ever counted them? If you do, you’ll find that there are a hundred of them every mile. It’s true. Each line is a hundredth of a mile from the next one. Count them for yourself as you track your distance on the odometer. Just count how many there are each tenth of a mile; there should be ten. But while you’re counting, don’t forget to keep an eye out for that big eighteen-wheeler up ahead, parked sideways in the middle of the road.
CHOW TIME
“Hi, I’m Ferris Banderhead, another bothersome movie star who tells people to support some charity or other in order to make myself appear concerned and to increase my popularity. Not to mention easing the guilt I feel for having much more than I deserve. But enough about me. April is National Hunger Month. In Beverly Hills, we’re having our annual Hunger Banquet and Gala called ‘Hors d’oeuvres for Ethiopia.’ Send in your dollars today and help us feed people around the world who could certainly use a nice hors d’oeuvre. And remember, the sooner we conquer hunger, the sooner we can start working on upset stomach. Thank you. This is Ferris Banderhead, reminding you to see my new spy movie, The Snotlocker Papers.”
Mannheim Rehab: Call Today
“I’m Dr. Mannheim of the Mannheim Rehab and Recovery Center. People ask me, ‘How can I tell when one of my loved ones needs help with a substance abuse problem?’ And I say, ‘If you see them lying in a corner, naked, in a puddle of their own filth, it may be time to think about counseling.’ Call Mannheim today, and we’ll come over and pick them up. But before we get there . . . please clean up the filth.”
UNCLE BLITZEN
Uncle Blitzen was a troubled man. As a child, visiting backstage at a concert, he was fondled by a viola player and lived the rest of his days with an unnatural fear of stringed instruments. He was one of the nine hundred people present at the Jonestown Massacre, but he threw away the Kool-Aid and only pretended to be dead. When everyone stopped moving he looted the corpses. Subsequently, he moved to Stockholm, where he became the town scumbag. Years later, he reemerged in England as a self-proclaimed bishop, roaming the Midlands with a band of rogue altar boys, administering forced communion to lapsed Catholics. He died during Hurricane Shlomo in front of an adult sex shop when the store’s sign blew down and he was crushed to death by a giant neon dildo.
UNCLE PINOCCHIO
Uncle Pinocchio had twenty-three separate and distinct personalities; unfortunately, all of them were unpleasant. He believed that Porky Pig cartoons represented actual events, and he once stabbed his dog with a ceremonial Japanese saber in a dispute over a lamb bone. He always wore a three-piece suit. It didn’t have a vest, the jacket was just torn in half. He drifted from job to job: balloon vendor, freelance daredevil and stoop laborer among them. He finally settled in his basement, where he lost his mind trying to invent a rectal harmonica. After that, the family kept him tied to a linden tree in the backyard, where they fed him with a slingshot. After six years, they released him on Mussolini’s birthday, whereupon he married a passive-aggressive librarian who later beat him to death with a dictionary stand.
UNCLE SHADRACK
Uncle Shadrack felt he was special because one of his testicles was shaped like a Brazil nut and the other like a cashew. He loved to run up to women, screaming, “You want some mixed nuts?” He told me that in his younger days he was quite a lover and once fucked a girl so hard her freckles fell off. Alas, he didn’t marry well. His wife, Chlorine, looked like something that might be found in the Dumpster behind a cloning center. Her PMS was so bad she had a mood swing installed in her backyard. As a child, while watching a gay pride parade, she was run over by a float full of lesbians, and was eventually found dead in a military barracks, having ingested a load of bad sperm. Shadrack was electrocuted by a RadioShack pacemaker he purchased at a thrift shop.
UNCLE SHEMP
Uncle Shemp was alarmingly unexceptional. He had no detectable lifestyle, and his only accomplishment was the fact that he was a lifelong member of the general public. He started slowly, struggled hard and eventually clawed his way to the back of the pack. Occasionally, he would show a sudden flash of mediocrity, but quickly return to his usual pattern of complete insignificance. He was a man without memories. He didn’t have amnesia, he simply had no memories. As he put it, “Nothing big ever really happened.” As a result, he wore a Medic-Alert bracelet saying PLEASE LET ME DIE. His only pleasure was his hobby: picking through airline wreckage, looking for children’s toys. He died at seventy-five from a head injury suffered as the result of undue glee following a bowel movement.
TUMOR HUMOR: GUYS, GALS & CANCER
WOMEN: THE PRODUCE DEPARTMENT
MAE: I see where Ruthie Garrick went under the knife the other day. She had a tumor on her the size of a grapefruit.
AGNES: Well, that’s bigger than Estelle Mealy’s tumor. Estelle’s was the size of a large navel orange.
PAULA: Yeah, but sometimes a large navel orange can be almost as big as a small grapefruit.
KATE: That’s true. Especially one of them small Indian River grapefruits. I don’t like them. Too sour.
PAULA: Me either.
MAE: Listen, girls, this wasn’t no small Indian River-size tumor. The doctor said this thing was almost the size of a cantaloupe. He claimed if he’d-a left it alone any longer, it probably woulda wound up as big as a casaba melon.
AGNES: Earlene Miller had a tumor the size of a casaba melon. Actually, her sister claimed it was approaching honeydew proportions.
PAULA: Well, I don’t know nothin’ about no tumors, but when my aunt Ruby died, her liver was the size of a champion watermelon. I got a picture of it somewhere.
KATE: Really? You know, they say that after you die, your liver keeps right on growing.
PAULA: Well, I’m thinkin’ Ruby’s liver had probably reached its limit. I mean, where do you go from watermelon?
KATE: Beach ball.
MAE: Kate, a beach ball’s not a food!
KATE: You want food? I’ll give you food. Wait’ll you hear this. Ten years ago, when my sister Myra had her gallbladder out, they found twenty gallstones in it. Each one of them was the size—and the shape—of a different type of food: a raisin, a pea, a caper, a grape, a radish, an olive, a pearl onion, a melon ball, a hazelnut, a marshmallow, a Brussels sprout, a bing cherry, a kumquat, a gherkin, a filbert, a small whole boiled potato, a cocktail sausage, a meatball, a lima bean and a dwarf pumpkin.
PAULA: They took all of that out of your aunt?
KATE: They sure did.
PAULA: Jesus! Did she feel any better?
KATE: She said she was hungry.
MEN: THE SPORTS SECTION
JIM: I see where Petey Whelan died the other day. They say he had a tumor on him the size of a beach ball.
ED: No kiddin’? That one under his arm? Jesus, it musta grown fast.
JIM: It sure did. I can remember the day I first saw it; it was small, like a marble. Then almost overnight it looked like a golf ball. I couldn’t believe it!
TOM: That was the day he showed it to me. By the time I saw it, it looked more like a slightly enlarged handball, maybe just approaching racquetball size. I spent about an hour with him, and as I was leavin’, I glanced at it. The damn thing looked like a tennis ball. I don’t mean it had fuzz on it or anything. I just mean it was the size of a tennis ball.
JIM: Yeah. That’s when he went to the hospital. He said on the way over in the taxi it went from a baseball to a softball, and then, in the waiting room, it reached the size of a small, regulation volleyball. Finally, when he got into the examining room, the doctors were so alarmed at its growth they smashed it with a big fryin’ pan, and it temporarily flattened out into an oval shape.
ED: I remember that. For about an hour it resembled a football.
TOM:
Yeah. Then it slowly became round again, but it kept on gettin’ bigger. Suddenly, it developed big black spots all over it.
ED: The soccer-ball stage.
TOM: Yeah. Of course, by that time the situation was hopeless. Pretty soon the thing was up to the size of a basketball, and before you knew it, it had gone right past medicine ball and was headin’ for beach-ball status. They finally had to move him out of his room and put him in the gymnasium.
ED: Appropriate. How did he die, anyway?
When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops? Page 24
