by David Cross
But don’t think that I’m trying to imply that it’s just the Catholics who are at fault. There’s a certain across-the-board kind of egotism that accompanies so many of those who are anointed God’s very own spokesperson. This is for real; I know TWO different dominatrices who say that the majority of their clients were or are Orthodox rabbis. Beautiful!
It’s certainly no secret that many priests are hypocrites and that one of their favorite ways of demonstrating this is by molesting little boys. And really, what better way to unwind after an angry, vitriolic denunciation of the evils of homosexuality then engaging in some man-on-boy frottage? And some people revile them as monsters, preying on the innocent and gullible (and I will not be dragged into that age-old polemic about how anyone who is religious should automatically be considered gullible—put a sock in it, Bertrand Russell!), using the powerful blackmail of entrance into Heaven as a way to cow the fearful. But I see them as humans. Humans who are the product of a confounding, medieval, intolerant religion based on superstitious nonsense and word-of-mouth that tolerates no dissent and is so proudly out of step with even the most basic tenets of modern, civilized thought that it all seems to resemble a game of Magic: The Gathering gone horribly awry.
I guess the lesson to be learned from the church is that while homosexuality is a sin against GOD, molestation and rape, well… they’re just sins against a child.
Cigar Corner: Bonus Story!
BY NOW, YOU MAY HAVE SEEN THE EASILY ACCESSIBLE AFORE-mentioned YouTube video of me jumping up on stage at a Jim Belushi and the Sacred Hearts “concert” ( idrinkforareason.com/Belushi!) he had the fucking audacity to charge forty bucks a ticket for (that’s getting into Beck or Brooks and Dunn territory!). This isn’t about underscoring a very rich man’s greed, unless of course he pays all the money to the band and doesn’t take any for himself. Still… back in the summer of 2006, my then-girlfriend and I went to Martha’s Vineyard for a couple of days to stay with some friends whose family had rented a house there for the summer. On the ferry heading over I was leafing through the local paper, the Martha’s Vineyard Tattler, or whatever it was called, to see what weekend activities there might be. I saw the ad for the show and got as excited as Bruce Vilanch at a convention for fat, hacky fags who wear “funny” T-shirts that your never-married great-aunt might find edgy. I ran up to my girlfriend and showed her my discovery. I was thrilled and I breathlessly told her that we all have to go and I should fuck with him. I think it was even her idea to videotape it. Eventually the night arrived and we all headed over to the Outerland, where almost two decades ago I did a mediocre comedy show (meaning I was mediocre) back when it was called Hot Tin Roof. If memory serves, nothing had changed much about this standard “road house” bar. Still, forty dollars to see a less-than-mediocre blues cover band consisting of mostly middle-aged white men living out some clichéd unimaginative fantasy as they plod their way through the millionth trotting out of “Sweet Home Chicago” should be considered a misdemeanor. If not legally, then at least morally. My girlfriend (let’s call her Sarah) suggested that I wear a T-shirt reading simply “Worse than your 2nd wife,” which is nothing short of brilliant. Anyway, you can see the results of that fun night of well-worn blues covers, the likes of which were virtually indistinguishable from the offerings of a band you might see at the Burbank Airport. Or playing in the lounge of the exact same shitty fourth-rate casino that Jim Belushi’s character managed in Destiny Turns on the Radio. Delicious irony!!
Cigar Corner, Part 2
HEY, EVERYBODY, CAN YOU SAY “HOLY SMOKES!”
Guess what, kiddos? I just got back from the Fifth Annual Great Cigar Smokeout on the White House lawn with the Pope of Cigars himself—Jim Belushi!!!! This yearly event is held to raise awareness, educate, and eventually legalize cigar smoking. Which is why you can bet donuts to dollars (dollars you can light on fire and then use the fire to light your cigar with—like the rich guy in Monopoly!!!) that if there’s a cigar to be smoked, the Belush-Mobile will be pullin’ up to the curb of Cigar Smoking and Jim Belushi will get out and smoke up a fatty! Which is exactly what happened!!
I was at Houlihans in the Georgetown area having some “Vertical Onion Rings” for lunch when all of a sudden there was this hullabaloo going on outside. I got the day manager from Staples, who was blocking my view, to move to the side, thus revealing one of the most glorious sights a CS (cigar smoker) could ever hope to see. It was—ready for this?—Jim Belushi!! He was getting his tip back from the valet when I spotted him in all of his Belush-filled splendor. I went outside to say, “Wasssssuuuupp!” (One of Jim’s favorite “gags” is the Whasssuppp sketch from the Budweiser ads) and to see if Jim had any of the money he owed me from the crazy Hooters night in New Orleans. Jim saw me, and before I could even get out a “Whaaaa . . .” he grabbed me, put me in a big ole bear hug, lifted me up, and slammed me to the ground… ouch! He laughed, so then I started laughing, too. Man, that guy!!!
The Bubbaloosh lit up a Davenport Squish, took a few hits, and decided that we should go to see this friend of his named “Cheyenne Spread.” She worked in a “gentlemen’s dancing club.” He said he had a surprise for her. I knew something wasn’t kosher in Denmark by the way he spit on the ground and my shoes after he said the word surprise. My CS sense was telling me they weren’t really friends after all.
We got in the Belush-Mobile (the same one from K-9!) and sped off. But first things first. I waited in the car while Belulu took a dump behind the parking lot of SaveTown. He borrowed my shirt to wipe his ass, and off we went to see Cheyenne. We got to the club, which, I have to say, gave off some strange vibes immediately. Right away they see Jim coming, and they make all nice with “Hello, Mr. Belushi” and “How’s your current suite” and “We must insist that you leave a credit card this time” etc. etc. Enough with the ass kissing!! It’s the Belush! He’s just doing his thing. Which at this point was seeing one of his girlfriends. Jim lit up a beautiful Coco Havana Tanacana #6 and sucked away. I joined in the spirit by lighting up my own Rhapsody in Cigar (one of my faves!) and ordered a shrimp cocktail. After about a minute, “Cheyenne” came over and sat down.
Now, I don’t consider myself the smartest chip in the cookie, but I ain’t the dumbest, either. I figured out pretty quickly that this “girl” at our table had a bit of a secret, if you know what I mean; and what I mean is, that secret is that she’s a he! In other words, a DUDE!!! I started trying to figure out a way to tell Jimbo without getting him upset or embarrassed. I needed to head this thing off at the pass before Jim got his horndog on.
I turned my head for maybe five seconds when they announced the latest dancer, “Big Man Tate,” and when I looked back, Jim and Cheyenne were walking off to the VIP room hand in hand. Oh, man, I wish I could’ve seen the look on Jim’s face when he felt around “down there” and instead of “tuna valley” he grabbed a hold of a dude’s cock!!
I grinned like the Devil’s nephew as I thought about that and lit up a Dunkirk Frightener.
After what seemed like an hour Jim and Cheyenne came strolling back looking like they were in love or something. I guess they just talked, because…
Oh, well. Leave it to the Belush!!!!
More later, kiddos,
David
Truck Stop
HEY, EVERYBODY. IT’S ME, DAVID, WITH MORE “SMOKIN’ TALES” in the world of cigar smoking and smokers and also plain, old cigars that haven’t been smoked yet, too, also.
Not much to report about this month. I’m heading out to Providence, Rhode Island, tomorrow for the fourth annual “Clowns, Cupcakes, and Cigars” bash, a family-friendly event benefiting “Cigar Smart,” a worthwhile organization that raises money for impoverished children in poor, Third World, cigar-producing countries. All the money goes toward new shoes and finger skin for the little ones who work so hard rolling cigars so that we can unwind with a much-needed smoke at the end of our difficult days. Hats off to those kids down there; they work their
tushies off!
Hold the phone! You’re never going to believe it! It’s tomorrow, and I’ve had a helluva day. I decided to rent a car and drive down to Providence. Driving allows me to catch up on my reading with my Books on Tape. Right now I’m in the middle of reading/listening to The Pritikin Diet, read by Gavin MacLeod. Anyway, I left at night so that I would have less Mexicans to deal with on the way. About an hour into the drive I thought, “I could use some more Arctic Chill POWERade and Focus Nuggets.” And, folks, let me tell you, those things really do work, by the by. It’s definitely worth the extra dough for the fortified water. Treat yourself—it’s your body, after all! Seriously, imagine that your body was a Christian temple. A temple that you’d want Jesus to get up into when he comes back. Well, you wouldn’t build your temple out of simple bricks and wood and other junk like that, would you? Of course not. Not if you wanted Jesus to get up into it! He doesn’t care to be insulted like that. You need gold and colorglass and precious marble. ’Cause when Jesus comes back he’s gonna have a lot of temples (churches) to visit. And I’m sure the brick ones are gonna be way down on his list! Look, what I’m saying is, you should eat the food versions of gold and colorglass for your temple (church stomach).
Anyway, so I pulled over at the Lazy Cook truck stop just outside of Huntswallow. I got out of my car, stretched my legs, and pulled out a Dominican “Whistleblower.” I had just started sucking on that baby when I heard a commotion over by the men’s bathroom. I was a little apprehensive because I had a suitcase full of not-so-legal Cubano “Lil’ Dictators” that I was intending to sell for the aforementioned charity. I stubbed out my cigar and fed it to a stray dog wandering around. As I quietly opened my car door, a truck-driverish man came bursting out of the bathroom in a panic. He was bleeding from his mouth and nose, and his “My wife’s a fat pig, but I fuck her anyway” hat was askew. He ran right past me just as a lady came out of the same men’s bathroom! Woah! I don’t know what was going on in there, but this lady was pissed! She yelled out in this deep, guttural, manly voice: “Give me my money, asshole!” She lurched past me, but she didn’t get two steps before her heel broke. She fell to her knees and skidded forward. She stayed there for a minute on all fours, staring at the ground. It was really awkward, and I wasn’t sure what to do. Then it seemed like she was laughing. “Heh, heh. I guess he didn’t know that it was occupied, huh?” That’s what I said. She just kept looking at the ground. Then she grabbed the bumper of my car and started to lift herself up, but then she just collapsed. I went to help her up but realized that she wasn’t laughing; she was crying. Her crying was soft at first but then became big, hot, gulping sobs. Shit. I walked over and put my hand on her shoulder. “Ma’am? Are you all right? Did that hillbilly steal your money?”
She stopped herself from crying and looked up at me for the first time. She did that thing that dogs do when they don’t understand what you’re saying. Where the dog will tilt its head to one side and look at you quizzically. That’s when I noticed, through the tear-streaked eyeliner and the cheap, green-apple-scented lip gloss, just how much this lady looked like my good friend Jim Belushi!! It was uncanny! It was as if Jim himself had dressed up in a lady’s dress and put makeup on. I sat staring at this odd lady, when she said, again in a deep voice, “What?!” She sounded like the Belush in that scene with the monkey robot from Mars in Blues Brothers 2002. I snapped out of it and helped her up.
“You look kinda like a friend of mine,” I said. “Have you ever seen Mr. Destiny? It’s about this asshole, and a magic bartender gives him a wish—”
“Hey, look, you dumb motherfucker, leave me the fuck alone,” the lady interrupted. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m not exactly having the greatest day.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, it’s just that—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” The lady then suddenly softened her look toward me. She seemed to be studying me the way an ape does when it wants a banana. “Jesus,” she said tenderly, “you really don’t get it, do you?” She brushed my one hair out of my eyes and touched my cheek. “You’re sweet.”
“Oh, well, thanks… uh . . .” It was starting to get even weirder. I got a sense that this lady wanted to thank me in a way that I wasn’t very comfortable with. Then, in her thick Chicago-style accent, she said, “Do you want a date?”
“Oh, no, that’s all right, I’m—”
“Come on. I’ll suck your balls through your cock and then fuck ’em back on for forty bucks.”
“Uh… huh?” I said, not sure that I heard her correctly. “Look, I gotta get going.”
“Sure,” she said, and dropped her hands to the ground. She hoisted herself up, wiped away her running mascara, and sniffed.
“Look at me. I’m a mess.” She half laughed. “What the fuck happened to me? One minute you’re giving a naïve intern at the House of Blues a hummer, and the next thing you know . . .” She trailed off and just stood there. She started to cry again, and that’s when I took my cue.
I quietly got back in the car and headed out to Providence. I never got my snacks, but it was just as well. When I got to the end of the truck stop, I glanced at my rear-view mirror, just in time to see the lady fix herself up and then slowly and sadly walk into the men’s room and shut the door behind her. She made the same mistake twice! No wonder she’s so miserable. Oh, well. I can’t wait to tell my good buddy Jim Belushi about this one! He’s gonna freak!!
See ya later kittens,
David
This is reprinted with permission from Playboy magazine, whom I will never write for or patronize until the guy who hired me to do this piece is fired. This is the piece as I originally wrote it, but this fucking asshole goes and, without ever consulting me, adds his own lame jokes! Without ever mentioning it. That should be illegal, I believe. So now attached to my name is this piece with some of my stuff removed and his corny, obvious jokes added. Infuriating. I think the original is pretty good, so I’m including it in this book. Why not? It’s called “Letter from the Future,” and it was written a long, long time ago.
Letter from the Future
HELLO, I AM FROM THE FUTURE. MY NAME IS TULLY SPETERTRENCH, and I am writing from my home state of Baja California Mexico California. The year is 2118. I would normally just use my Teleporter 3000™ and simply hand deliver the letter, but my teleporter got fucked up after the Not Enough Beer Riots of last quarter, so here it is. I have mailed it to a Mail Boxes, Etc. in the fall of ’98, but we all know how lame the post office is, so who knows when it will get there. By the way, how much are stamps back then? Now they cost over two chickens apiece!
Anyhoo, hello there.
I woke up this morning to the official headline floating above my bed-like Pseudobed™. It read, “Nigger Elected President!” I couldn’t believe it. A black man was in the White House. Jason Nigger had actually won. Mr. Nigger was able to overcome an unfortunate and ironic last name to claim the third most powerful position (more powerful are the positions of vice president and Emmy Award winner for Best Actress in a Dramatic Series) in the United States of America and Friends©. Personally, I had “rooted” (as voting is now called) for Devry Ahmad, a pre-post-op transsexual and scion of the wealthy Ahmad family. The Ahmads made their fortune in the artificial heart sauce business, creating over twenty different sauces for artificial hearts. I didn’t mind Nigger, but I was swayed by Ahmad’s promise of a free maid for every true American citizen. Oh, well. There are some things I’m looking forward to with this new administration. I’ve seen so many pictures of the olden days when there used to be snow on the artificial trees. If the energy policies are reversed, maybe I’ll get to experience that without having to use the Teleporter™.
After I woke up and popped a few Shower Pills®™, I put one of my penises (evolution!) in the penis scanner and left my quadrent for workfun at the local Water®™ Treatment Plant. Officially my workfun title is Head of Crybabies. I guess I should explain, when the last source of fresh water was
poisoned in the Year of the Officially Recognized Lord 2042, the country instituted a bold and exciting new plan to replenish our Water®™ supply. Desalinization of tears! So, after it became legal to clone immigrants, Senate Pro-Tem Wal-Mart (R-America) came upon the solution of torturing them and extracting their tears! Now Water®™ only costs fourteen tap dances! When I got to my workfun station, my boss, Angela Lansbury’s Cousin the Third, told me that she needed to see me in her office. “Your orifice?” I asked, thereby fulfilling my pun quota of the day. “Very good,” she replied, “but seriously, I need to see you in my office.”
When I got to her office she motioned me over to her bed. I took off my jacket, put on a hat, and crawled in. She told her assistdog to forward her calls to the bed. The assistdog barked her understanding and nudged the door shut behind us. I was nervous because I rarely let anybody see me in a hat, much less my boss, but here I was.
“You have a beautiful hat,” she said rather coyly. “Do you mind if I fuck with it?” “No. No, of course not, Ms. Habigan. Go right ahead.” She took off the hat, put it on her head, and then knocked it off with her tongue. I hadn’t seen a trick like that since my great-great-great-grandfather took me to the Jim Rose Circus Circus Casino in Las Vegas. We had a couple of minutes of sex, and then she fired me. I had a feeling this was going to happen and had a contingency plan for earning money. I collected my severence pay, cashed out, went home, got in my Teleporter™, ported back to 1999, invested in American flags manufactured in China by prison labor (I also invested in Chinese prison labor), and then went back to my bank account. Viola! The old “Teleporter Switcheroo.” I can’t believe it took me that long to figure out an ending to this little story.
