Monday, November 30, 2009

"Taking Things Too Far"

Mark and Steve were best friends. I say were because they are now both dead. This is how their competitive natures led to their demise.
“Mark, check this out. Blood drive at the bookstore today at three.”
“I bet I could donate more blood than you.”
“Bull shit.”
“I doubt you could give up a gallon, you pansy lightweight.”
“A gallon? I give up a gallon of blood every time I take a dump, asshole. Compared to me you’re practically anemic.”
“Get in the car, dipshit.”
They continued their argument on the way to the bookstore.
“At my last check-up my doctor thought I was menstruating because I was bleeding so much without even noticing.”
“The only reason you seemed to be menstruating was because you’re a weak little girl who needs every last drop of her blood for her body to function to process the fear she is experiencing every time blood is even mentioned.”
They got to the store and sat down in two chairs, side-by-side, to have their blood drawn.
Mark said to the nurse, “Can you put a few more needles in me to speed up the process? I’m going to make a significant contribution today. The most out of anyone here.”
“Shut up,” said Steve. “Nurse, can you please use a thicker tube on me? Maybe a garden hose inserted into my heart? I could give you all my blood in ten heartbeats.”
The nurses ignored the men and drew their blood the standard way. After taking two pints from each of them, Mark and Steve demanded more. And more and more. They began to feel light headed.
“Hey Mark, I bet you feel pretty tired over there! Well this is nothing! I’ve stayed awake for a month straight on just one red blood cell before.”
The nurses agreed to draw more blood. Eventually the needles came up dry.
One of the nurses said, “Sir, I’m afraid it looks like we’ve sucked you dry. Can you hear me?”
“Loud as a horn, ma’am.”
“This is unusual. Both of you are out of blood, yet still seem to be alive.”
Steve was furious. “We both gave up all our blood? So there’s no winner?”
“Sir, we’d like to think the only winners here are the sick people who are very thankful to receive your contribution.”
“No. This is purely a contest of will. Do you accept marrow?”
“Do I accept it? This isn’t a bank, sir.”
“Yeah,” said Mark. “Take our marrow. Someone could use it.”
With a sigh, the nurse unloaded the marrow-drawing equipment. Ten minutes later, Mark and Steve were all out. The tubes were sucking empty bones and bags were filled with the men’s marrow.
“I gave so much marrow,” said Steve. “My bones are so hollow there’s an echo in there.”
Mark sighed. “What about teeth?”
For fifteen excruciating minutes the men had their teeth pulled out with pliers and without any painkillers. Since they were out of blood, the teeth came out dry, like plucking keys off a keyboard. The men just stared directly into each other’s eyes the entire time, without blinking. When the last tooth came out, Mark felt a single tear slide down his cheek.
“That’s it!”
Vacuum tubes were attached to their eyeballs and sucked their tear glands till they were hard and porous.
Both of them were weak and their bodies were very dry, but neither showed signs of giving up. Mark was feeling frustrated and spat on Steve. The nurse knew what was next.
She attached tubes connected to a hydraulic motor to their tongues. It sucked and sucked everything out of their salivary glands and mouth until their tongues felt like
cotton.
Mark looked to the nurse. “What is our saliva used for anyway?”
“Honestly no one wants or needs your saliva. I just want someone to win.”
Both of them, still alive but their voices reduced to dry hisses, demanded more.
“Can we give skin?”
The nurse rolled her eyes, found a knife, and skinned them. While she skinned them, Steve read a book and didn’t make a sound. Mark made a sarcastic fake phone call to his mother about how everything is fine and he’s in absolutely no pain.
“Well this is just great,” Mark said, staring at his skinless friend’s red body, looking like an anatomical diagram of muscles, hollow bones, empty blood vessels, and a deflated heart that looked like an empty balloon. Their skin lay like old jackets in a pile in the parking lot. “No one is closer to winning.”
The Nurse had an idea. “I can take your fingers and your penises, but that’s it. We were supposed to close fifteen minutes ago.”
“Okay, said Mark. Whoever gives the most fingers and penises wins.”
The nurse sawed off all of their fingers and both of their penises. “Looks like you’re both alive. I guess there’s no winner.”
“What about all the people you said needed our parts?”
“They needed your blood and marrow, but not your skin or your saliva. Is this seriously coming as a surprise to you? Not only is it common knowledge, but I told you while this was happening.”
“I guess you did,” said Steve. “So we’re stuck as disgusting bloodless muscle-monsters for life? That makes me not want to live.”
“That’s it! Whoever kills himself the best way wins.”
“You’re on!”
On the drive home, Mark waited until they were going about 70 miles per hour on the highway. He climbed onto the back of the car and did a graceful swan dive directly into the windshield of the car behind them. He crashed through it and the glass cut his head clean off. His red, muscular face screamed at the car’s driver until he ran out of breath.
Steve was furious. How could his best friend do his part of the contest so suddenly and without warning? He drove to the hardware store and then to a fifty-story building downtown. He set up razor wire at neck-height in front of a window facing the highway on the top floor, then put a flamethrower in front of it. He doused himself in gasoline and ran through his trap. His red form caught on fire, then his head was severed, then his flaming, limp body crashed through the window and sailed five hundred twisting, spinning feet down to the highway below, where it landed right on the dashboard of the very same car that Mark had dived into.
They were finally dead, although neither won their contest.
The driver of the car they landed on still doesn’t know what he did to deserve it.

Monday, October 26, 2009

"A Simple Mistake"

“Where is it? Where is it?”
“The salt? It’s in my backpack.”
“Come on, man, get it out! The witches are, like, two miles away. They already know where we are.”
“Chill out. I got the salt. We just have to put it in a circle around us and their spells can’t penetrate the barrier. We’ll be fine. It was all in my grandpa’s spellbook.”
“That thing better be right. Come on, get it out!”
“Help me open the bag. I can’t get it.”
“What the hell is this?”
“It’s the salt.”
“This bag says cinnamon sugar.”
“What? Oh shit, you’re right.”
“Are you kidding me? All you had to do was get some salt at the store on your way here. Now we have no protection from the witches. They’ll turn us to stone, you asshole.”
“Sorry I’m not perfect like you. I make one little mistake and now I’m an asshole?”
“A little mistake? Those witches have already killed most of the town! We’re the only ones who know how to defend ourselves and your one duty was to buy some salt. How do you screw that up? There’s half an aisle of salt and, what, six bags of cinnamon sugar in there?”
“I was in a rush.”
“This is ridiculous. You do this all the time.”
“I accidentally buy cinnamon sugar all the time?”
“You screw up simple tasks all the time. And now we’re going to be statues for all of eternity.”
“Look, man, I’m sorry. What do you want me to do?”
“It’s too late to buy salt. All we can do is sit here and wait until the witches kill us, and then they’ll move on and kill everyone else.”
“Can we eat cinnamon sugar while we wait?”
“Fine.”
“Hey, the spellbook says cinnamon sugar will make the witches melt.”
“Seriously? Let me see.”
“Here.”
“What the hell? This spellbook is titled Southern Home Cooking Volume 2.”
“Yeah, I found it in his kitchen.”
“This is a cookbook.”
“Where? Wait. Oh, Jesus. You’re right. Man, I really did screw this one up.”
“I hope you die first.”

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Sleep Trouble

I went to my doctor because I’ve been having trouble sleeping. He asked me how I sleep. I told him I lay on my back with my legs and arms sticking straight up in the air and scream at the top of my lungs until I fall asleep. He said, “I think the problem is that you’re screaming at the top of your lungs.” I said, “I think your suit is too big. It looks like you put on your dad’s coat.” He told me he recently lost a lot of weight. I told him that if he wasn’t such a pussy he would gain it back. He told me that was rude and to take it back. I told him I lost the receipt. He said, “What the hell are you talking about?” I said I didn’t want to get into the details of retail customer service, since it would only confuse him. He asked why I came into his office if I wasn’t going to show him respect. I asked why he came into this world if he was going to be a pussy and not even try to be the fattest man on the earth. He asked why he would want to do that. I told him to read a fucking book every once in a while. He said, “I’m a doctor; of course I’ve read books before.” I said, “Before what?” He said, “What?” I said, “Jesus Christ, how old are you? You look fourteen.” He told me he is sixty-one. I said, “I’m surprised you haven’t died yet.” He told me most people live longer than sixty-one. I asked from which asshole he pulled that bullshit statistic out of. He said he read it in a book. I said, “Nice going, you fucking bookworm. I’m sure the ladies love your numbers and equations.” He told me he’s been married for forty years. I said, “Last night I drank forty beers.” He told me I was lying. I said, “You’re right. Yeah, I came into your office just so I could make up fairy tales for you. Let’s cut the shit, doc. Want to get a burger?” He declined and I ate my burger alone. I still can’t get to sleep.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

"Pure Class"

“Holy Christ I have to fart. Good god, man. Come on, why now? This thing is gonna be huge. One of those fifteen-second rips that’s so long the stink hits you before the show is even half over. Don’t expect an intermission: This is one straight-through, non-stop bass guitar solo from the inner depths of my bowels, played in the key of regret. I bet there’s gonna be skid marks. Yeah, pretty much a guarantee of long brown streaks in these underpants. I might as well just commit myself to throwing them out as soon as this thing erupts from my asshole and belches a brown haze of grime all over the inside of these Hanes. I bet the fart came from those three meatball subs from lunch. I had a few of them last week and my farts that afternoon were so disgusting I had to get up and leave my office for an hour. It was one of those times where I was on my computer and the fart cloud just sat directly between my legs and under my nose, stagnant and humid, for what felt like an eternity. As soon as I felt the vomit creeping up my esophagus, I ran out of there. I’m glad the asthmatic kid from across the street is not here because this fart would kill him. He would instantly drop dead from the stench of this hellish and nauseating gas. His young, weak lungs would literally drown in this fart. When I die I certainly don’t want the fowl stench of a grown man’s colon bacteria clogging my nostrils like a cork made of diarrhea. This will be one of those rips that reeks of death, like a hundred rotting corpses. The kind that makes me briefly consider putting a bullet through my brain just to escape the odor for one god damned second. I can tell already that as soon as this thing wrestles its way past my sphincter and ruins our evening, I will be ashamed for, and disgusted with, myself. But before it does, sweetie, will you marry me?”

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

“The New Fall Line Up On ABC”

“Good morning, Mr. Cooper. Please take a seat. I’m excited about your presentation. I’ve heard good things.”

“Oh, wow. Mrs. Tarses, let me say that it is an honor to be in the same room as you. Thank you so much for taking the time to hear my thoughts on the new fall line-up.”

“Of course. Please, go ahead.”

“Okay. First off I suggest we move Desperate Housewives to Wednesday, right up against Idol. It’s a tough market, but there’s definitely a spot for some heavyweight counterprogramming, and I think the ladies of Wisteria Lane are a perfect fit.”

“That’s an interesting idea. I think it could work.”

“Great. Next, I’m thinking we re-brand Dancing with the Stars as Beating the Shit Out of Pedestrians. It’ll keep many of the same features as the current Dancing, only now it’s about beating the shit out of pedestrians.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I understand.”

“Contestants get aluminum baseball bats and are unleashed on the streets of Los Angeles, viciously beating the shit out of pedestrians.”

“How do we determine a winner?”

“Blood spilled, bones broken, teeth lost. Anything, really. Have the stat department look into it.”

“That’s a terrible idea. We cannot allow our network to be affiliated with a program that endorses senseless violence and lawbreaking.”

“Seriously? Oh, then forget that one. I was just kidding. Here’s a fresh idea. In an effort to cut costs, let’s replace all of the cast members of Lost with specialty pizzas from Papa John’s. For instance, instead of being played by Matthew Fox, Jack Shephard will now be played by a large Tuscan Six-Cheese pizza.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. We’ll do that. We’ll replace the cast of Lost with pizzas.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic.”

“I’m not.”

“Well okay, then.”

“All right.”

“Okay.”

“Yep.”

“Well…”

“There it is.”

“What?”

“All righty.”

“Hey…”

“Yeah?”

“Wait.”

“Okay.”

“So…”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, then…”

“Hey, want to go to Quizno’s?”

“Yeah, sure.”

While they drove to Quizno’s, deep underground a thousand ants looked at each other and thought the same thing: It’s cold, man. Real cold.

Friday, January 2, 2009

"Immature Romance Novel"

She was vacationing in Italy for the summer. She was alone and she figured if she met a man, she met a man. If not, then there’s always next year. She was eating at a corner restaurant, having some spaghetti, when he walked by. Vincenzo, he said his name was.

“Well hello, Vincenzo,” she said. He had a dirty beard, the sort of European look American women dream about. “Would you like to come to my room?”

They walked back to her hotel holding hands and flirting. As soon as they stepped through the door Vincenzo threw her on the bed and touched her boobies. He gave her a quick purple nurple.

She was more interested in his wiener and nuts. She grabbed his bing-bong.

He exhaled in ecstasy. “I love it when you touch my schlong.”

She played with his ding-a-ling some more. And his balls, too. “Wow,” he said. “You sure are fond of my penis.”

“I won’t lie, Vincenzo. Nothing makes me happier than your dong. I really enjoy it.”

“Same here.”

He fiddled with her nips some more and put a hand on her tush. “Your booty is spectacular.”

“I know. Let me check out your rod again.”

“What?”

“Your rod. Your package. Your gear. Your junk.”

“Oh, right.” He handed over his taliwhacker.

“This is one solid wiener you’ve got here.”

“Cool.”

Vincenzo was gone when she woke up. All she could think about for the rest of her trip was his ballsack.