What If, on August 20, 2006, I Wrote Some Jokes for the Previous Year’s Comedy Central Roast (of Pamela Anderson), Sitting on the Couch (When I Should Be Sleeping), With the Conceit that the Jokes Are Delivered in an Aloof Manner, and Phrased (actually) Not Even As Jokes:
Courtney Love is here tonight. Courtney Love from the band Hole. Courtney, while it had its moments your most recent album, Celebrity Skin (which, at X years of age is a stretch to be considered recent), was not as great as I’d hoped it would be. Well hope isn’t fair, but Live Through This was actually pretty amazing. I g– oh, I was going to follow that with an expression of grief over Kurt Cobain’s passing but then that would seem to imply that I knew something about the authorship of the songs on that album that I actually have no factual information to substantiate.
Courtney Love you look like Bette Midler when you squint; I don’t know if that is a good or bad thing.
Andy Dick, I’ve heard you are a homosexual. Is that true?
Speaking of penises, Tommy Lee– why’d you have to beat Pam? (How cum?)
For Next Year– Insinuate in Each Joke that William Shatner Killed His Wife but Only Slightly (in a Gradual Build).
[Example: I saw you in the swimming pool yesterday, Lisa Lampanelli, and you looked like murder. Like a bloated, smellful corpse that became so by way of the wrathful acts of another human person.
(That might be one of the later ones) Also– try to work in how, since Betty White is there this year, and Bea Arthur worked the previous year’s roast, that Rue McClanahan getting excited that she’ll finally have work, ET AL].
The first non-Golden work since “A Saintly Switch” and “The Dreamer of Oz: The L. Frank Baum Story”.
Speaking of Poop:
I’m on the toilet in the Marshalls/Homegoods bathroom, waiting for my bowels to empty, reading the book that I brought to read on my 15 minute break.
I hate doing that in public restrooms (crapping not reading), but I had to because I felt like I was going to die.
I was barely able to get off the Floor without Pooping Myself.
So I’m on the toilet and this guy comes in, real loud. He almost knocks the stall door off its moorings. He just unzips, sits down, and starts crapping in loud, wet bolts1.
I’d already muscled through the first (wave) and was hoping to belt out another round (although, ultimately, it didn’t come to me) when he entered.
I was hoping to wipe and leave in private, but fate had other plans.
The man in the other stall got a call on his ‘walkie-talkie’ style cellular phone and he answered into it with complete pants-up/colon-shut confidence– as if he wasn’t,
At that exact moment, riding the side of the bowl (so as to knock off any on-hanging residue). Just sort of shouting into the thing.
And although the replies were muffled you could still make out the (sort of horrifying) gist of his conversation from his one, shit-covered side:
“Nah, I’m in Marshall’s now.”
“We’ve gotta pick out something for Marc’s birthday.”
He’s sniffing the whole time– loud sniffs, the kind with back-end sinus ruffle.
“Yeah. Taking care of business”
“I’m going to Planned Parenthood tomorrow.”
“It’s a clusterfuck.”
At this point I decide to write down the conversation in the back of my book for posterity, and as I’m writing, after missing some conversation de-escalating chatter, he says something fairly innocuous but also completely baffling/the perfect final note to his non-conversation:
“Yeah. It’s time for a refill.”
And he hangs up, wipes, and almost pulls the paper towel rack off the wall drying his hands.
Later a lady who looked like a rooster wandered the aisles becoming visibly distressed by the (superfluous) presence of her porcelain kinfolk.
A flap of fat hung from her neck, and the bristle of gray hair that covered the top of her long head had been molded into a proto-coxscomb. True rooster, all the way.
Footnote: one of the Crown Jewels of Homegoods is the Country section of its Decorative Accessories (read: too much disposable income) department.
Inside this sub-department you can find, among the celtic cross doorknobs and long wooden signs engraved with folksy sayings celebrating their own mediocrity:
“If only the birds who thought that they had the best voices sang then the forests in which they lived would be completely silent, albeit ‘not a cacophonous hellhole
in which a hundred off-key, sub-mongoloid, pieces of feather screech mercilessly trying to drown out the sound of any coherent thought’,”
[you can find] the world’s largest collection of porcelain roosters and otherwise rooster (or porcelain) themed knick-knacks, googaws, and paraphernalia.
1 a bolt is: a roll of fabric, originally used as a measure
A flap of fat hung from her neck, and the bristle of gray hair that covered the top of her long head had been molded into a proto-coxscomb. True Rooster, all the way.
Although to be fair
they probably would have used ‘caa-caw-phonous’.
1 a bolt is: a roll of fabric, originally used as a measure
A Short Conversation About What Pornographical Sex Talk Might Sound Like If Genders, and All Their Constituent Rights, Privileges, and Cultural Valences, Were Switched
-Please take me inside of you.
-I’m gonna take your brains out.
Do you want to spend your time shaping the media’s reaction to itself?4
There is no common ground. There is nothing that is not noting on its own occurrence.
A poll is the measure of the measure of the poll, or rather a ratio rating the reaction
of it’s subjects’ subjugation to the subjective subdivisions of suborned subfacts,
which shape their subjects’ sublimation to subordinance and to their
subsidized subsistence on the ordained ordinary and the religious relax.
Submersion, submission, sublation:
Veni, Vidi, Vacation.
I can’t think of anything to say.
My head always hurts and I can’t control the rate of my heart.
I drank soda again and last night I had a hard time falling asleep.
I’m tired now and not hungry.
My head hurts and I should probably drink some water.
Television soon and football starts tonight.
Maybe I’ll masturbate and take a nap.
I’m sort of hungry and I’m listening to songs.
I’m sort of thirsty I should probably have something to drink.
I wish I had a dimmer switch and that the lights
were inside the sides of the walls instead of on
the top. I think I’m thirsty you should call me tonight.
I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.
I think I’m sort of hungry.
I’m sorry. How are you doing?
I think I’m sort of hungry;
can you call me later tonight?
How was the test,
1Not sure what this means.
2Wait, was Rue McClanahan in a version of The Telltale Heart?
3No. It does not appear so.
5slash Take That, ‘Dating Me’!