Posts Tagged ‘Excuses excuses’

Why I Was A Failure as a Standing-Up Comic, part one

November 27 2009


I am of the ever-increasing opinion that Fox News gets a bad rap.


Not because any of the criticisms against it are unfair–

basically anything you can say about them is true.


Uh, Roger Ailes, lost a Labor Day baby eating contest

because he wanted to savor every baby-eating bite

and he had run out of babyque sauce




It’s 98.9 percent true,

where the other 1.1 is whether it was held on Labor Day purely out of spite.


No, Fox News gets a bad rap because

on October 25th,  2007

the Year of the Boar

Journalism ended

And somehow, it wasn’t their fault


Because on that day

There was a headline, so perfectly crafted

by the events of life itself

That not even “Belgian beauty booed at pageant” could top it.


It was better, than “Man puts rattlesnake in mouth comma, gets bitten”

It was better, even still, than “Family hopes for miracle –>Comma<–… Gets only ashes”



Pitbulls, kill.

Cancer Boy’s.

Miniature horse.



Pitbulls kill, Cancer Boy… ‘s miniature horse.


Just the image of that happening:

Because, the family– the family didn’t own these pitbulls.

They weren’t the neighbors. And, as of press time, nobody knew Where the dogs came from.


Put yourself, in his electrical wheelchair

(and no doubt painful legbraces)

And try to fathom


Out Of Nowhere–

as if Metastasized into Existence by his Lonely Tears

A GANG of pitbulls– multiple pitbulls! not just one


Fly, through the air, tackle this tiny horse,

and eat it to death.



Maybe next time you, ‘Make a Wish’, you should ask for a pitbull-proof pony, You Stupid Asshole!









I used to live on the South Side of Chicago

Had to get out, though

had to get out.


Because: as a half-hearted parody

of an insincere impression

of a 1980s observational comedian

my imaginary material was starting to bum a crowd out.


Who are the Ad Wizards that came up with Rent-to-Own

Pay 16 times the sticker price for an off-brand Hi Def TV,

just because you’re desperately poor and woefully unaware of what value is?


That hardly seems fair.


What’s the deal with Outpatient Rehabilitation?

More like ‘In-and-Outpatient’: Am I Right?

(… Am I? I- uh..—)

I haven’t seen a recidivism rate this high since the DSM IV

declassified Gayness as a BRAIN DISEASE


We’ve all been there:

You’re sittting in Quiznos and ALL of a Sudden

a full grown man bursts in:

snot-nosed and crying,

torrents of hot tears streaming down his dirty face,

hard hands chapped and swollen to the size of catchers mitts:

not asking for anything; just crying

Completely broken down… in front of the Pickle Bar!



I hope the stains on his threadworn jeans mean his pants

are full of Giardinare

Because I nE-e-EED some Pickles!



That’d be my catchphrase?

It would not get me very far.






So that’s not actually true.

I really left Chicago because my roommate’s hairspray was

The Grinch Who Stole Christmas of male grooming aides.


It was so foul, and its reek was so pervasive, that I kept coming up with

more and more elaborate ways of telling him how much I hated it

until we were no longer on speaking terms.


What started off as:

Your hairspray smells like rancid hi-c

quickly became:

Your hairspray smells like Jonestown, two weeks after.

which, in turn, became:

Your hairspray smells like an herbal essences ad, shot entirely inside of a locked port-a-john that was built on a tilt-a-whirl (for some reason).


His hairspray smelled like an alternate Gangland cartoon universe

in which the My Little Ponies iced Strawberry Shortcake

and were hiding her bloated corpse in that very cannister until the heat blew over

— And the heat never blew over.


If I had to compare your hairspray to any putrid vanity project of the inordinately rich, it would be

a celebrity vineyard

built on top of the ruins of a cambodian killing field

from which all the human remains had been excavated

save a mile square pit of fossilized dongs,

with which Lorraine Bracco personally pestles the juice

[Ives-y] From every last grape. (duh nuh nuh NUH nuh, duh-nuh nuh NUH nuh).



Ah. Merry Christmas


Why We’re Binge Drinking

September 15 2009


Why ARE We Drinking To Excess?

@  Last ditch cure for son’s gayness.

@  In order to unleash charming-cum-monstrous demi-self.

@  A visceral hatred of the backwards alphabet.

@  Are Egyptian slaves, do not get eatin’ bread.

@  Desperately trying to enjoy live baseball.

@  Vomit contest.

@  Trying to work up the courage to cheat on spouse.

@  Didn’t want 11 remaining beers to get lonely.

@  Inventor trying to invent exciting new smells/textures and colors poop can be.

@  Scraped throat– need to clean wound.

@  Amateur Fire Breather, do not yet have access to Pros-only catalogue.

@  Genuinely love the taste of hops.

@  Have very specific instructions from parents’ genetic blueprint: must follow.

@  Trying to fit in with the cool homeless.

@  Need to steady nerves for big blood test. (The irony!)!/.

@  Tough hepatic love; desire to show hippocampus “who’s boss”.

@  Bored.

@  Require hydration to live.

@  7:52 AM and I’m not allowed  to drink at work.

@  Must change life (or die).

Why We’re Cheating

August 29 2009

Why ARE We Cheating??

+ Natural consequence of getting drunk on a plane; altitude agitates the blood, inflates the wiener.

+ Favorite uncle died, remembered the whole mortality thing.

+ Don’t remember: woke up with dick in my mouth, amnesia.1

+ Trying to impress neighbor kid.

+ Found someone WAY better.

+ Roleplay, pictures, non-participatory live sex shows, not even sophisticated animatronics can slake thirst for young boys. I mean, attractive women-of-age.

+ Sociopathy.

+ Had never before been complimented, desired.

+ Only way to break out of temporal feedback loop, end Arbor Day (Groundhog Day sequel).

+ A ghost told me to.

+ Took “Sexual Healing” too literally, confused it for a health care plan.

+ Freak ‘Naked Twister’ accident.

+ 29/83-and-3-months life crisis.

+ On divine mission to sow oats, sperm; must not disappoint God.

+ Deeply unhappy marriage, shitty kid just not doing it for me anymore.

+ Need to wipe that look off of Lance Armstrong’s smug face: will resort to sexual reproduction in order to win. (Cancer only).

+ Don’t blame me– blame the government! Stupid mandatory half-hour lunch, two 15 minute breaks per 8 hour shift.

+ Hand transplant has a mind of its own– and it”s hijacked my mouth and dick/cunt!

+ Somehow caught Reverse-AIDS and have medical dispensation from the CDC.

+ Spouse is a country singer and I really want him/her to win a Grammy or whatever country people get.

+ But I’m so good at it! And need to share my gift with the world! (Hips thrusting side-to-side)!/.



1“Whgrr Mmf Aghhi?”