Sunday, May 29, 2011

"The Proposal"

KIM: Sarah, we saw the video Bryan posted online and that is the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.
CYNTHIA: I would kill for a guy to propose to me like that!
SARAH: I know, it was nice.
KIM: Nice? He wrote out how much he loves you by laying thousands of photos of you two out on a field, then took you in a hot air balloon to see it!
CYNTHIA: It’s so romantic. When is the wedding?
SARAH: Oh, well I didn’t exactly say yes.
KIM: You’re kidding, right?
CYNTHIA: You have to be kidding.
SARAH: I know it was a nice gesture, but it doesn’t really erase the fact that Bryan killed my dad.
KIM: You have to get over that. It was three months ago.
CYNTHIA: I’d let a guy kill my whole family to get a proposal like that.
SARAH: It’s just a little complicated. You’ve got to remember that Bryan was in an insane asylum for sixteen years after he went on that rampage murdering sorority girls with a power drill.
KIM: But he played your favorite song when the hot air balloon took off! I’m just saying, if you look for the flaws, the flaws will seem bigger than they are.
SARAH: I’m just saying it may take a little more from him to balance out cutting my dad’s head off.
CYNTHIA: Oh my god, check your phones. Look what he put on Twitter.
KIM: It says he’s on the prowl for victims at make-out point.
CYNTHIA: Update the feed.
KIM: Oh my god! He says he can’t live another moment without you! He says he wants to marry you and he’ll slaughter high schoolers for you!
CYNTHIA: What are you doing?
SARAH: I’m tweeting Yes. You guys are right. He may have some faults, but I can’t let this kind of fairy-tale romance pass me by.

Saturday, May 28, 2011

"I'm Glad I Didn't Die When I Was 12"

Matthew David Burns, 12, passed away Tuesday after choking on two Swiss Cake Rolls while watching video game reviews on G4TV. Mr. Burns attended Webb Bridge Middle School where he received average grades and was often asked by teachers to change seats due to his loud comments about other students’ penises. His teachers remembered him as “seemingly unwashed,” “lewd,” and “generally a dusty guy who left a trail of powdery dandruff between his two favorite haunts, the cafeteria and the restroom.” Matt was a proud member of the GameStop Power Up Rewards club. According to Matt, his biggest accomplishment was a piece of feces he produced in 2002 which “looked like the letter S.” Matt had so much potential to excel at the fast food jobs he was destined for. Due to the unexpected nature of Matt’s death, he did not leave funeral preparations and our only record of his final thoughts is his Internet history, which implies his final days were hedonistic and disturbing. He is being buried in a customized sleeping bag-size Stridex pad, which will hopefully erase some of his grease so his rotting corpse is less appetizing to underground bugs. Funeral services will be held at Holy Innocents’ Episcopal Church on Monday at 2pm. Fumigation and a bacterial cleanse of anything that came into contact with Matt’s filthy carcass will begin at 5pm. Matt is survived by his parents and brother, Rob, who is looking forward to the upstairs smelling better. In lieu of flowers, we ask that you keep Matt’s spirit alive by wasting $15 on used Gamecube games.

Friday, May 27, 2011

"She Makes a Good Burger"

Up next on the auction block we have Paula Deen, a real sturdy lady who could provide meat for your family for months. She has been butter-fed for nearly her entire life, subsisting on a rich diet of creams, cream sauces, and fried dough, which give her meat pristine marbling and a wonderfully full flavor. She has been allowed to roam naturally throughout the southeastern United States, filling her maw with free-flowing sweet tea, troughs of biscuits with sausage gravy, and rivers of cheese grits, in which she stands nude and catches trout with her mouth. She bathes in natural lemonade springs and grazes on wild mozzarella sticks. Twice a day we shoot a dozen cheese hot dogs at her out of an air cannon.

She will provide several dozen steaks or hundreds of pounds of ground Paula. Personally, I would roast her on a rotisserie over a metal garbage can, so her meat would cook in its own oils, her skin browning to a beautiful golden crisp, and if you catch the drippings you could use them to heat your home for the winter. Her meat requires no marinades or seasonings, as it has been sugared and salted internally for over sixty years. Paula Deen steaks or burgers should be paired with a baked potato and a bucket of peanut oil to sip.

Additionally, Paula’s artificially-tanned hide would make an excellent teepee or throw blanket.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

"Dear Dev Patel"

Dear Dev Patel,

I just want to say thank you, from both me and my wife. Thank you for being an excellent actor and role model for teens entering the entertainment industry, but most of all thank you for helping me last longer sexually.

The thought and image of you have aided in prolonging my orgasms for the past three years. It’s not that you are unattractive or repulsive, but it’s more that you exist in my mind outside the realm of the erotic. You are a solid actor and seem like a quality guy, and images of you running down the crowded streets of Mumbai in Slumdog Millionaire or images I have seen in magazines of you just standing around in a field help take my mind off the sex act I am in long enough to bring my wife to a simultaneous orgasm. Without your help, I would finish far too early and would leave Laura constantly disappointed.

Sometimes I make up images of you to help me keep going, like one of you riding an elephant or walking on a tightrope. On my and my wife’s thirty-second anniversary I cooked up a whole scene of you snorkeling in the Great Barrier Reef that made me last about five extra minutes. I know that it was a younger actor playing your character, but I often use the scene from Slumdog Millionaire when Jamal falls through the floor of the outdoor toilet into a large pile of human excrement. That one can be dangerous, though, because a couple of times I have imagined it in too much detail and was not able to continue having intercourse.

Last year I had an artist at Walt Disney World sketch up a cartoonish caricature of your face which is now hanging above my headboard. I stare at it, into your bulging elephant ears and over your buck teeth, passing through your miniature beady eyes and explosive bush of hair, while I relentlessly pound my wife, thanking you with each thrust for keeping our sex life and marriage alive.

Keep doing what you’re doing,
George W. Bush

Monday, May 23, 2011

"The Vasectomy Pact"

Our pink skin was thin and raw and wrinkled. We had been hot tubbing for six hours, soaking up our last summer together, the one before college, cooking like lobsters by the kiddie pool at the Embassy Suites in Myrtle Beach. “I’ll be living on a co-ed hall,” said Mike, “and I’m going to bone all the girls. I’ll tell them my name is Dave and say I have a record deal.” We all nodded. It was a flawless plan. “Once we’re college guys all those girls on the beach will want us so bad,” Paul said, referring to the dozens of sunbathing girls who gave us the same attention they gave pelicans. In high school we were ponies, tucking our perpetually stiff manhoods into banana peels and pillows, but in college we were going to be studs, stallions ready to mount every babe who couldn’t resist our uneducated sexuality that was finally ready to be unleashed after seventeen years of fermentation.

The sound of children overtook our gurgling tub. Four young girls burst like wild cats through the gate and cannonballed, penciled, and belly-flopped into the deep end, instantly turning still water to rapids. Moments later came a dad, weighed down with bags of beach toys and towels and responsibility. We looked him over and saw tired eyes, boogie boards wrapped around his shoulders like ammunition belts in his constant war on his daughters’ boredom, and pink towels with television stars’ faces draped over his arms. He was covered in logos, a Nascar sponsored by Disney and Dreamworks. He collapsed into a beach chair, muttered, “Girls, don’t run…” and closed his eyes. He looked like a corpse. We were silent. We had all taken Sex Ed twice. In sixth grade we laughed about the names of the double-dutch jump ropes that connect our balls to our body and in ninth grade we laughed at pictures of cauliflower-STDs that made the female crotch look like an item you'd avoid at the Applebee’s salad bar. We knew you could get a girl pregnant if you didn’t use a condom or yank it out in the nick of time and fire a bullseye onto her belly button like Scott Porter from Walnut Creek told us to do, but we had never thought about this side of sex. We didn’t think about kids, we just wanted to pull up a seat to the all-you-can-screw buffet. We fantasized about all-night championship fuckfests, not afternoons at the pool wishing for death. We must have stared at the dad for five minutes. He just kept rubbing his eyebrows over and over. When he noticed us he unwrapped the Demi Lovato turban from his leathery face, looked every one of us in the eyes and said, “Cut your balls off, guys. Cut your fucking balls off.”

Room 1602 had only one blender, so we decided to go in alphabetical order. Alan, nude, climbed up onto the counter and squatted over the clear plastic pitcher, dangling his junk just above the blades, carefully holding his penis out of the way because it would be a tragedy to hurt this penis that was so close to pleasing so many women. He was a catcher hovering his balls over home plate, a disgruntled Jamba Juice employee about to make the world’s worst grape smoothie. He gave the signal, two fingers for frappe, and braced himself when there was a knock on the door. Dan opened it just a crack, but Maria Vasquez saw enough of Alan’s stance to say, “That blender will cost $300 to replace.” Dan said, “Okay, sorry,” and shut the door. Alan crawled down from the counter. We came up with a much cheaper plan while making a round of banana smoothies.

Chris found the hair dryer under the sink. All six of us stood on the edge of the balcony with our swimsuits at our ankles and stuffed our scrotums between the rails. We passed the hair dryer down the row and heated our bags until they drooped and stretched away from us, our nuts running past the rail bars like prison escapees. Our sacks must have dangled seventy or eighty feet. Paul, standing on the far right side, reeled his scrotum over his elbow and wrist the way a roadie coils up a microphone cable until he had the whole mass in his hands. He was a mother nursing an armful of hairy pizza dough. He found his balls and we all nodded, agreeing that the time was right for our testes to die. He threw his balls over the railing and they accelerated towards earth, a pair of stinky asteroids making lightning flashes of pink in the windows of a hundred vacationing families. His nuts made contact with mine, then mine with Alan’s, then Alan’s with Chris’s, then Chris’s with Dan’s, then finally Dan’s with Mike’s, whose nuts went soaring into the air in a gasping arc until they fell again and began the cycle once more by colliding with Dan’s balls. To the kids riding skimboards the Embassy Suites must have looked like a giant executive’s desk toy, our dangling scrotums clacking into each other, transferring perpetual energy from one set of testes to the next. Each smack caused a dull pain, but with it the satisfaction of knowing that dead nuts would mean carefree lady banging. This lasted maybe fifteen minutes until the cycle abruptly stopped when an old woman on the eighth floor grabbed Mike’s scrotum and said something we could barely make out about there not being a taffy-pulling machine here when she was a girl. Mike yanked his beans out of her hands and as the sun set and the temperature dropped our scrotums rose, inverse thermometers crawling towards us containing testicles that were bruised pale and dark yellow. Sure, our scrotums looked like sandwich baggies full of Grey Poupon, but as far as we could tell they could still make us dads.

The previous three days we had eaten at the breakfast buffet at 10 o’clock, but on Friday we were there when it opened at 7:30 so we could catch the older, blinder vacationers. We all snuck under the pleated skirt of the serving table, cramped inside the pitch-dark cockpit, paratroopers anticipating the launch that would change our lives. Chris cut the six holes in the table with his Scout’s pocket knife, then stabbed through the piping hot chafing dishes. We knew our targets were probably deaf, but we stayed silent under the table. Our check-out was in two hours and we were determined to return home sans testicles. I gave the signal. We rolled over into handstand position and stuffed our balls through the holes and into the serving dish full of hard boiled eggs. We were acrobats in top form and now we just had to wait for the audience to come in. Mike was the first to get a bite. He winced at the tug, bit down hard on a spoon, then looked relieved as he rolled right-side up and stuffed a wadded-up napkin down his pants. One by one we each got chosen, our burden of potential fatherhood relieved of us by the hungry seniors of Myrtle Beach. We emerged from the table with bulges in our pants, wads of bloodied napkins exaggerating our manhood, and saw six visually-impaired elderly women peeling, salting, and nibbling on our fertile nuts, alternating bites with sips of grapefruit juice.

We walked out of the hotel with off-balance limps and the confidence that only comes with a promise of a lifetime of responsibility-free fucking. “What girl wouldn’t do us?” said Dan on the drive home. “We can’t get them pregnant. We’re dildos that can take them out to dinner. I bet I nail five the first week.”

Sixty years later we all died at our high school reunion. We formed a human pyramid to impress some old flames into having sex with us when our brittle bones snapped and we collapsed into a heap of dead old virgins. It was only produce and socks that had ever pleased our lonely sterile penises, left on stage to sing a capella, ditched by their rhythm sections, their backup singers. We avoided parenthood and we never became the man weighed down by the accessories of his coitus. We stayed carefree eunuchs with successful careers, but did we ever become men? We thought that the only way to take the weight off of our shoulders was to take the balls out of our sacks. We wanted to bang girls but the thought of caring for little ones was too much to handle back then when our nuts were holding us back instead of driving our lives forward. We did succeed in never having kids but what we didn’t know then was that the best way to prevent a pregnancy is to mangle your genitals so badly that women would rather take you to the doctor than have sex with you. Don't feed your balls to old women in Myrtle Beach. Ladies aren't aroused by empty beanbags.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

"48 Hours in Heaven"

An excerpt from 48 Hours in Heaven: A Businessman’s Remarkable Story of His Trip to Heaven and Back
By My Dad

Heaven? Was that the 23rd? Yeah, right before Charlotte. I was in and out of meetings all day, so I didn’t really see any of the sights. The hotel had a decent gym.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

"Our Hens"

Our hens are not kept in cages and they are free to roam. Our hens are fed a certified organic version of all-natural, all-vegetarian hen feed. Our hens are protected from harsh sunlight by wearing customized tuxedos designed by Isaac Mizrahi. Our hens are provided with shade, shelter, and an exercise area consisting of ellipitcals, treadmills, three swimming pools, and a large selection of free weights. Each hen is assigned its own NASM-certified personal trainer to produce natural, steroid-free muscles on our customized chicken bench presses. To help cope with the potential emotional stress of the bulking process, our hens have a staff of body image counselors on-call 24/7 to strengthen the most essential element in a delicious egg: self-esteem. On Tuesdays the hens are fed lobsters.

Our sixteen chicken farmers live in one 4’x6’ cage where they eat dirty corn and discarded shoes. The hens humiliate us by doing offensive impressions of humans based on nasty stereotypes. They united and overthrew us two years ago. We never should have given them the organic feed.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

"The Hawthorne Effect"

-Hey, baby, come on inside. You look smashing.
-Why are you talking with a British accent?
-What? This is how I always talk. Come into the bedroom.
-What is all of this stuff doing here? Since when do you light candles?
-I am a man of romance, baby. This is par for the course. I always do stuff like this.
-You’ve never had roses like this. They’re nice, though. I have to go to the bathroom.
-I’ll be waiting in here reading a play by William Shakespeare.
-The toilet wouldn’t flush, so – why are you wearing a tuxedo? Where did you get that French hat? And why does that bonsai tree have a red light and a power cord running out of it?
-Baby, baby, baby. Shh. Forget the material world and fall into my realm of passion.
-Are you reading that from a script?
-Of course not, babe. Poetic words cascade to my brain whenever you are near.
-You keep looking at the floor. You’re reading from a script.
-Shh. Script, no script, it’s all romance to me.
-That doesn’t even make sense. Hey, I was thinking we should get a little crazy tonight and have sex in my car.
-What? But we always have sex in my nest of love.
-So let’s mix it up. Come on.
-Well...Can I bring my bonsai tree? I can’t have sex without it near. I’ll put it in the front seat.
-You need the bonsai tree?
-Yeah, the doctor prescribed help make my penis a little shorter. Because usually it's too long.
-No it isn't. Why do you keep looking at the tree when you talk? You’re acting weird. I think I’m going to go home and we can try this again tomorrow.
-A cliffhanger! Adieu, mon amour!
-Did you photoshop these pictures on the wall? You’ve never been to Egypt.

"Ask Dr. Steve"

Ask Steve Sharpe a mathematical stumper! Dr. Sharpe holds a PhD in Mathematics from Stanford University.

Q: A box contains two coins. One coin has heads on both sides. The other coin has heads on one side and tails on the other. A coin is selected at random, and the face of one side is observed. If the face is heads, what is the probability that the other side is heads?
-Rich Vinino, New Jersey

A: Let’s label the double-headed coin “Head 1” and “Head 2,” for each side. Then the regular coin we’ll call “Head” and “Tails.” So we have an equal chance of seeing any of these faces: 1 in 4 for each. Then in the puzzle, you see one of the heads which eliminates…Hey, what’s going on over there? Stop that! Put that down! That’s my TV! Oh come on. I can’t believe this. I just bought that TV! I guess I was so focused on these coins I didn't hear him come in. He left a note. Wait a second…Thanks for the TV and Good Luck with the Math Problem, Love, Rich Vinino? You’ve got to be kidding me. This is what I get for helping you idiots understand basic math? Well, for your information the answer is two out of three and also you cut your arm on my window and I’m going to sequence your DNA and find you and there’s also a 66% chance I steal your identity, Rich Vinino, because I can easily do that.

Monday, May 16, 2011

"The Conversation That Led to Jigsaw Murdering Another Nine People"

-Mr. Kramer, I see that you have rented several abandoned warehouses from us before.
-You guys are the best.
-And our records show that in most of those rentals you imprisoned seemingly innocent people in horrific traps where they were forced to inflict horrendous physical pain on themselves or face death.
-Possibly once or twice.
-Looks here like you’ve done that every time.
-That was just a phase I was in. The warehouse I would like to rent today is for storing my baseball cards.
-This warehouse is half a mile long.
-I have a lot of cards. Many complete Topps sets.
-Six months ago you said your rental was to house your collection of vintage motorcycles, yet at the end of your lease we found only a dozen mangled corpses.
-That was all a misunderstanding. I assure you, this one is for my baseball cards and other sports memorabilia.
-So no murders this time?
-Probably not.
-Okay, then. You’ve got yourself a warehouse! Would you like to purchase the insurance plan to cover your back in case someone dies while browsing through your cards?
-I guess so.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

"The Savings Add Up in the End"

26-cent cereal: Kroger’s savings gets you big discounts

Kashi Cereals: All varieties of Kashi Cereals are on sale for $2.49 (regularly priced at $3.29). Go to the Special Offers page on and sign up for the email newsletter to print a 75-cent coupon immediately, bringing the cost to $1.74 per box. There is also a coupon available in last Sunday’s Akron Beacon Journal in Akron, Ohio good for 20 cents off, so track that down to bring the total to $1.54. Another 25-cent coupon is available from Al Fleet who lives under an oak tree in Decatur. He will give you the coupon in exchange for two toes or one finger, your choice, which brings the total down to $1.29. Next, mail your first-born child to P.O. Box 113, Barth, Nevada. I do not know who operates this, but I do know from experience that you will receive a 50 cent coupon in return. The age of your child does not matter, as he or she accepted my 19 year-old whom I sent via DHL because they currently have a deal on 140lb crates.

To get that final $.53 savings, there is an exclusive one-time offer available from the Devil himself, Lord Satan. Find any crossroads in the woods and wait at midnight for Satan to offer you a contract for the eternal damnation of your entire family's souls in exchange for the 53-cent coupon good for two boxes of cereal. Sign the contract. But there are even more savings because he will give you two more coupons if you bring him a horse's severed head. To do this, you want to find a small-scale farm without security cameras. Climb into the stable and approach from behind. You may take a few kicks to the chest and face, but you're going to have to tough it out and take those broken ribs in stride. Find a large rock or cinder block and throw it at the horse's head to knock it out, being careful to stay quiet so as to not wake up the owners. Mount the horse and use your CutCo 10" Santoku-Style bread slicer knife (for which I posted a $10 coupon last week) to saw through the fur, muscled neck, and thick spinal cord. Blood will shower you and maybe some will get in your mouth, but keep going, knowing that this cereal discount is just so great. Return to the crossroads, tired and soiled with blood, with the decapitated head and offer it to the Lord Satan by placing it on the ground, assuming all fours, and barking like a dog. If He is satisfied with the size and color of the horse head, He will grant you two extra 53-cent coupons.

Your grand total will be a paltry 26 cents per box, and you can get four! I couldn't wait to share this tasty and healthy cereal with my son, but I got home and remembered I had shipped him to Nevada, so I guess I will just add my boxes the pile of six thousand other cereals in my storage unit.

Friday, May 13, 2011

"The Best Four Years of My Life"

Son, I always tell you that college was the best four years of my life, due to all the popsicles I ate and horses I made out with. I’m sorry, with whom I made out. But I have had other great four-year periods in my life and now that you are a thirteen year-old man I feel I can share them with you.

-1976-1980: Reading the appendices to The Return of the King while my friends started talking to girls
-1987-1991: The extended lovemaking session with your mother, which we recently realized lasted to long because my penis was penetrating her shoe the whole time
-1994-1998: Searching the house for my lost hat but finding myself
-2001-2005: Vomiting, and in effect purifying myself, after eating Mediterranean Skewers at T.G.I. Friday’s
-2005-2009: Sustaining an erection after watching American Pie 2

I hope my life inspires you to seek out and cherish your own favorite four-year periods. To start you off, your mother and I have enrolled you in the four-year Mighty Youngsters program at the Shotaro Kendo Dojo in Hirakata, Japan, where you will build character and strength while elderly Japanese men smack you in the face with bamboo rods. By the time you enter college you will be experienced, worldly, and in possession of the swollen, bruised sort of face horses like to lick. I envy you, son. There are so many horses out there for you to kiss.

Monday, May 9, 2011

"Pink Supernova"

Sweat sticks in my threaded eyebrows. Desert winds send my bangs flapping against my head and my dress, a tissue-thin turquoise sheet, seals against my frame; I am a shrink-wrapped Barbie doll. I am lying on a bamboo stretcher hoisted four feet into the air by six circus dwarves dressed as court jesters. I hear high-pitched chirps from wind instruments and the jangling of the jesters’ bells. A foreign mix of Moroccan sounds that remind me just how far from home I am. I lay still while the jesters run as quickly as their legs will allow. I tilt my neck down and see my target: a pink dot growing bigger and bigger, an infected eye dilating, a rose-colored supernova surrounded by grey. I am a guided missile shooting towards an elephant’s anus and the squealing eruption from his trunk tells me he’s not excited about this either. I am wearing a hat made of a beehive.

I wonder why I am doing this. My feet slip in and I am a child testing the water’s temperature. It is extremely warm. I wonder if this will be worth it. I’m up to my knees now and I am an adolescent zipping up a ski suit. It is full of goo. I wonder if I will ever be able to wash this off. I am in to my chest and I am a teenager in a sleeping bag. I can’t move my arms, locked in a colonic straight jacket while my feet balance on a bowling ball of feces. I wonder what my dad would think if he were alive to see this. I am up neck deep and I am at my father’s hospital bed, receiving the last hug he ever gave me. The elephant’s anus squeezes me just right and I feel more comfortable than I have in three years. I am confident and secure. Suddenly I know this is the right thing to do. I tilt my head up and smile big.

A firing squad of flashbulbs explodes in my face. I smile, I brood, I squint. Only my head is visible; I am just a hemorrhoid with sharp cheekbones. I do everything I’ve got, give them everything I can give them from the confines of this elephant’s rectum. The photographer yells it’s a wrap and a handler tickles the elephant’s trunk with a goose feather and he sneezes and I shoot out, a stinky human cannonball reborn with a drive to win. I am swarmed by flies and I have no more doubts. I will be America’s Next Top Model.

Friday, May 6, 2011


Hey Scott,

Jerry just gave me a tour of the build site. While the tower you are constructing is impressive, I have to let you know that my design for the William Monroe Memorial Office Complex was in red. The doodle of the smiling penis and scrotum on the side of the blueprints was not meant to be built at all, and certainly not fifty stories tall. No one wants to work in this thing. You have embarrassed the entire city.

Linda Powers
VP of Design
Denholm Architects

Thursday, May 5, 2011

"Email Signature"

-Hi, Scott, thanks for coming in.
-It is no problem at all, Bill. What can I do for you?
-Well let’s see here. A few people in the department have commented to me about your email signature. No big complaints, just some concerns.
-What’s wrong with my email signature?
-Let’s take a look. Six months ago your signature was Scott Furman, Director of Automotive Sales, Florence Banner-Herald.
-Right. Pretty stale.
-Two weeks later it became Scott Furman, Director of Automotive Sales and Hot Dog Sling-Shots, Florence Banner-Herald.
-What’s the problem? Hot dog sling-shots are really cool.
-That’s up for interpretation. Two weeks later it became Scott Furman, Occasional Seller of Car Ads But Mostly a Hot Dog Sniper, Florence Banner-Herald.
-There were two separate reports from people who saw you loading up some sort of home-made PVC sniper rifle in the parking lot and using it to shoot hot dogs at passing cars.
-I fail to see what I’ve done wrong here. My signature accurately reflects my interests. I'm branching out. That's helpful as an ad salesman.
-Okay. Next it was Scott Furman, Hot Dog Assassin and Apprentice of the Dark Arts. You left off any reference to your actual sales position or the newspaper and began using your company email account to converse with a Mr. Lucius Zanzibar, a self-proclaimed wizard regarding your “training” and “hot dog wand.”
-We also discuss current events in the wizarding world.
-You are a Hot Dog Assassin?
-I am not at liberty to discuss details, but I may have been hired to take out a head of state with a frankfurter.
-Are you taking any of this seriously?
-Why would I joke about my way of life?
-You are an advertising salesman. Your final and current email signature is the most unsettling of all. Scott Furman, Hot Dog Mercenary/Dark Lord of the Wizarding Arts, Specializing in Turning My Fingers into Hot Dog Bullets.
-Your point is?
-Your signature is scaring off clients. Car dealers don’t want to buy ads from a wizard.
-Then they are our enemies. Would you like me to take them out? I saw a pack of Oscar Meyers in the break room refrigerator.
-Please get out of my office.
-I could cast a spell to turn our enemies into hot dogs.
-Get out of my office.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011


I cruise into the conference room twenty minutes late looking like Al Jolson except my face is covered in barbecue sauce and I slam my empty briefcase on the table to show these clowns I mean business. I hoist up my stained khakis and say, “Let’s start this meeting off the right way with a half hour of off-topic bullshit. Over the weekend I spent a lot of time thinking about my friend Ron Tomato, who loves to rollerblade almost as much as he loves to lay around in bed all day.” Jill says, “What does your friend Ron have to do with our sales numbers?” and I say, “Well, Jill, I just can’t figure out if Ron Tomato is a fruit or a vegetable,” and Greg says, “Why are we having this meeting?” and I say, “Because we need to be on the same page so we can sell as many of these spicy nuts as possible,” and Greg says, “But we sell auto insurance,” so I throw a baggie of home-made Picante Cashew Blastz at him and say, “It’s time to start slinging these nuts, Henry.” Then Jill says, “Couldn’t we just do this through email?” and that set me off, I was absolutely livid after that. I say, “Email? On the Internet? Jesus Christ, Jill, I thought I knew you. The Internet is only for looking at beastiality and I can’t believe you just outed yourself in front of the whole staff. I am cutting off your Internet privileges.” Jill said, “But I need it for work,” so I said, “Go buy me a stork,” and sent her to the pet store with my company credit card. Then Rebecca says, “I’m hungry,” and I say, “Pretty sure you’re Rebecca,” and laugh for fifteen minutes and then I say, “But seriously, I brought snacks,” and sling some Ukrainian pysanka eggs at them. Greg says, “We can’t eat these, they're covered in paint” and I say, “It’s like horse hair, it’s an acquired taste. Now shove them in and get some culture, your American dirtbags,” and I cram one down my mouth and I feel my body being poisoned. Tim says, “We had a meeting yesterday. Why are we having this one?” and all I could think to do was eat my tie while screaming at Rebecca to tell me her sales numbers. She said they were the same as when she told me them yesterday and she says she has to get back to work and I tell her that’s bullshit, that we don’t do work here anymore, we’re outsourcing it all to Mrs. Henderson’s 4th grade class from Pine Brook Elementary because I saw those kids on a field trip to the nature museum and they’re all geniuses, every last one of them, especially this one named Peter who crammed his whole fist into his mouth, which impressed me so much I hired him as our new sales director, so here he is, staff, your new boss, Peter McMurray, and then Peter walks out with his hand in his mouth and his other hand's fingers are stuck together with jelly to form more of a fin than a hand and he’s barely taller than the table and Rebecca, Greg, and Tim ask if this is for real and I give Peter a standing ovation because he just stuck two fingers in each nostril. These Picante Cashew Blastz are going to be a top seller.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

"Tech Start-Up"

Welcome to your first day of work at Vingyz, everyone! Although work is probably the wrong word since what we do here is more along the lines of pure fun and excitement! We thrive on allowing you guys to work on the projects you enjoy in ways that you prefer. Our work environment is conducive to creativity. We have no cubicles here: Just bean bag chairs and open spaces. Each of you will be assigned a Segway scooter to ride indoors. We have six restaurants, nine coffee shops, and a taco cart. Over there is the game room with over one hundred ping pong tables, four licensed masseuses on call, as well as a wind tunnel for simulated skydives. On the south quadrant of campus we have a scale model of the Great Barrier Reef. Each of you will be assigned a scuba suit and personal scuba assistant. We have nine nightclubs, two bungee jumping platforms, an airport, and sixteen Dante's Inferno-themed roller coasters. As you may have noticed, there are no sidewalks here. Part of our philosophy is that the only way to travel from building to building is via water slide. We have a silo of bees for fresh honey to eat on Biscuit Thursdays and our secretarial staff is composed of Russian bears who ride motorcycles. There is a rock and roll music academy, a virtual reality dome, and astronaut Buzz Aldrin is here 24/7 to answer any questions you have about space. Finally, we have a high-tech system of hidden bunkers and underground tunnels we use to hide in when the investors show up and realize we spent the $48 million computer budget on smoothie machines and we don’t even know what our name means or what we’re supposed to be doing and…holy crap they’re pulling in now. Everyone to the bunkers! Quick! Everyone to the bunkers! Hide under the bean bag chairs! Buzz, distract them with a moon story!

"Rasputin's Diary"

Grigori Rasputin, Russia’s notorious Mad Monk, was considered a mystic, healer, psychic, and irresistible womanizer. This is an excerpt from his diary.

May 2

I was neck-deep into my usual Monday routine when there was a knock on my bedroom door. It was Anna Vyrubova, the sexiest lady in Russia. Or at least she was in the top one thousand.
“Why is your room full of trash?” she said. “Only your head is visible in this mountain of garbage.”
“I believe the answers to life’s deepest questions can be found in what we so carelessly discard. Also the stink of the trash masks my horrendous body odor.”
“I love your stink,” she said. “Bathing is for dirty vegetables. In fact I am here because of my powerful attraction to you. I saw your performance at last night’s Tsar’s Ball and I became just like a suburban mother at an overly-crowded baseball day game: hot and bothered.”
I tried to remember which performance she was speaking of. I routinely do several erotic performances each night to audiences of women or bears. “You mean when I spun my penis around in circles over and over until I hypnotized the Tsar himself?”
“No, not the Pinwheel. I mean the one where you stretched your scrotum over your head like a hood.”
“The old Stinky Putty Mask.”
“Right. I am here because my doctor said that if I don’t, how do I put this, get my rocks off in 24 hours, my heart will explode.”
I removed the rocks that were balanced on her shoulders. “There.”
“No,” she said, “I meant I need to have an orgasm. Those rocks are there to keep this from happening.”
She floated up to the ceiling like a balloon. There was a hot, sexy balloon on my ceiling that I now obligated to have sex with. It was just like the time I went to the fair.

Once my servant Sergei fished Anna down with a rake, we locked the door and cleared out a space in the mountain of trash I called home.
“Do you want to bang on the floor?” I said, motioning towards my rug made of Perun skin, that is the pelt of the Pagan God of War. I was confused and thought that Perun was a symbol for bears, not the other way around, so I murdered Perun to get his skin to honor bears, which I thought were more important but it turned out I slaughtered our most powerful God.
“How about in bed?” she said.
“But my bed is only for eating in.”
“Where do you sleep?”
“On the kitchen table.”
“We can’t do it in the bed because I’m allergic to peanuts.”
“I only use cashew-based lubricants.”
“No, I’m allergic to the shelf of Charles Schulz books behind your headboard.”
“Let’s bang on the floor.”
Since we only had 24 hours to have sex, I knew I’d have to figure this out quick. My usual lovemaking sessions are like Peter Jackson’s King Kong in that they are 48 hours long.
Anna got undressed and began to stretch. She said, "I want to show you my beaver."
I said, "I don't give a damn about animals that build them."
She said she was talking about her pubic hair.
I said, “No, you definitely said beaver. Anyway, who exactly was this doctor who prescribed this orgasm?”
“Doctor…Popovych. He’s new.”
I had never heard of him, but that’s not unusual because my unwashed ears are filled with mushrooms and mud. I took off my trousers and started greasing up my dirty penis, which looked like a dead rat soaked in maple syrup.
“I hear you’ve got a real reputation for pleasing ladies,” she said, eyeing down my dripping member.
“What can I say,” I said, knowing what I could say, “ladies love filthy, insane wizards who eat trash.”
I pounced and we were like a man stressed out because his Internet has been down for three days hammering a nail into his mailbox: banging really hard. She was loving it and I was tolerating it and I knew I had a job to accomplish. We switched from one disturbing position to another, and I felt nothing. This was merely a task for me; to me this beautiful lady who just another drop in the bucket of sexy ladies who crave a Rasputin ride. Our sex was like the USA Today, visually appealing but lacking real mental stimulation. My thoughts were a lot like USA Today charts, in that they were of pies.
I unrolled my trusty eleven-inch long index finger and began hunting for her pleasure button. I poked around the usual spot, but there was nothing to be found. I felt all over: her legs, her behind, her back, and it was just like my trip to Oslo when I needed to rent a car: There was no Taurus. Except this time it wasn’t a Ford that was missing, it was a cli.
Time was ticking. I only had twenty three hours and fifty eight minutes left. If I didn’t find the spot and make her scream, she was going to end up deader than my taste buds after trying my first electric PB & J.

I knew what to do. I had to ask the dark lord of the underworld Veles himself. I spoke to him routinely when I forced myself to briefly die, which was often. You see, sexually I am a lot like Boston Red Sox first baseman Bill Buckner because I love to choke.
While I was pleasuring Anna with my dirty penis, I held my breath for five minutes until I entered the mystical realm of hell. I found Veles. He was sitting on a throne of corpses eating a turkey sub sandwich.
“What do you need, Rasputin?” he said, adding, “Holy Christ you smell like genocide.”
“I need information. I must locate Anna Vyrubova’s clitoris or else her heart will stop and I don’t want that to happen because her heart is like Cal Ripkin, Jr.”
“It never takes a day off?” he said.
“No, I mean we call it Iron Man. Can you tell me where to find her pleasure nub?”
“It’s on the roof of her mouth,” he said, spraying lettuce on the demons licking his feet.
I gave Veles a curtsey of thanks and re-entered the world of the living and decided to try the one thing I had never done before: kiss a woman. It seemed barbaric to do that to a woman, an act reserved for dogs, but I did it. I plunged my tongue into her mouth and fished around until I found the nub. After a few licks, Anna was like a tailor on the eve of National Trouser Day: panting really hard. After an hour of mind-blowing pleasure for her during which I outlined in my head a script for an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond, she was done.
We cleaned up our filth and Anna looked back to me. “By the way, I made up the thing about the doctor. I just needed some reason to get you to make love to me.”
“If you wanted to convince me to make love to you should have dressed up as a pumpkin.”
“Any pumpkin?”
“The Great Pumpkin.”
“But I’m allergic to peanuts.”
She walked out and I was alone, buried in my trash, and hungry. I tried to walk over to my pile of rotten rabbit skeletons, but I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed!
It turned out that getting the location of Anna’s little lady wiener from the dark lord Veles was just like the time I bought Adele’s album 21 at Barnes and Noble: I paid a horrible price. But instead of twenty three dollars, this time it was the use of my legs.
I killed two birds with one stone by ripping my dead legs off with my own hands and eating them, then using the bones to bat a rock out my window and take down a pair of doves.