Wednesday, July 30, 2003
STEPHEN KING OF ALL MEDIA
Entertainment Weekly has signed author-uber-alles Stephen King to write a monthly humour column on American culture.
I have obtained the first draft:
STEPHEN KING
TAKES THE PULSE OF AMERICA
Deep in the heart of the American subconscious, there lies a mortal dread. As cavemen cowered in their lairs, afraid of the howling wolves and the crasging thunder, inventing myths of angry otherwordly gods and demons to explain their otherwise mortal terror, so do modern Americans create their own creeping, pulsing, stalking fear. Inb other words, a Demi Moore comeback. And while the ancient eldritch beings who exercise their control over Hollywood attempted to revive her career - as a mouldering, decaying corpse is revived through voodoo - in Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle, they didn't succeed nearly as well as the nascent witch-doctor . . .
Speaking of reviving the long-dead, the Kutcher-Moore romance gives me a boner. Anyone else? . . .
There's a demon, a darkness, an all-consuming void of light in - oh, that reminds me, I'd better call my agent, and find out what I'm getting paid for this thing. I'd better be getting paid some good money for this column. In the twenty minutes it's taking me to finish it, I could write a miniseries at least as good as The Langoliers . . .
Deep in America's heartland, the ever-pumping, ever-atrophied clogged ventricles of the American soul, there approaches even now an unspeakable monstrosity. Stalking through the corn fields as a weasel intent on stealing the young from the henhouse, gliding through the air as an eagle searching with its keen eyes for prey, it comes. Hanson's recording a new album. Perhaps the lurch of a heart attack is what caused the media to term them heart-throbs. Perhaps not . . .
All I know is, if that oldest boy still looks like a young teenage girl, he's gonna give me a boner. Anyone else? . . .
I kind of look like a rabbit. No, no, you're trying to be kind. But I was just looking in this mirror attached to my monitor, and I think I look kind of like a rabbit. Hmm, what would my name be if I were a rabbit? Fluffkins? Sir Mittens? Dropsy? I like that - Dropsy. I would probably be an evil rabbit with telekenesis, who could send rabits flying through my enemies' brains. Hmm, that might be a good childrens' book . . .
Okay, I just finished writing it. Let me make a note to call my agent and tell him that The Evil Dr. Dropsy of Watership Down is ready to go to the publisher . . .
Two souls stood at the crossroads at midnight on All Hollow's Eve. Each looked uncomfortably at the other. They hadn't planned on this rendeszvous. Neither knew the other was going to be there. And both knew what the other was there for - as a large wraith-like cloud formed in the dust before them. Soon it resolved itself into a figure - large and ugly and nasty. It's yellow teeth glinting in the full moon, its red scaly skin setting off its fiery eyes.
The man spoke first: "Oh Lord Satan, I have no talent, yet I need to be the biggest most successful actor in the world."
"Me too," said the woman.
"Fine," said Old Nick, "But you must do one thing in return. You must marry and stay together. For so long as you two shall be married you shall be the biggest stars in the world. But the minute you seperate, your fame shall disappear. Thus shall your fates be forever interlinked."
Anyway, that's my theory on the J. Lo/Ben Affleck marriage . . .
Oh, who am I kidding? She gives me a boner . . .
Stephen King is the #1 best-selling author of over 3,000 books.
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Entertainment Weekly has signed author-uber-alles Stephen King to write a monthly humour column on American culture.
I have obtained the first draft:
STEPHEN KING
TAKES THE PULSE OF AMERICA
Deep in the heart of the American subconscious, there lies a mortal dread. As cavemen cowered in their lairs, afraid of the howling wolves and the crasging thunder, inventing myths of angry otherwordly gods and demons to explain their otherwise mortal terror, so do modern Americans create their own creeping, pulsing, stalking fear. Inb other words, a Demi Moore comeback. And while the ancient eldritch beings who exercise their control over Hollywood attempted to revive her career - as a mouldering, decaying corpse is revived through voodoo - in Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle, they didn't succeed nearly as well as the nascent witch-doctor . . .
Speaking of reviving the long-dead, the Kutcher-Moore romance gives me a boner. Anyone else? . . .
There's a demon, a darkness, an all-consuming void of light in - oh, that reminds me, I'd better call my agent, and find out what I'm getting paid for this thing. I'd better be getting paid some good money for this column. In the twenty minutes it's taking me to finish it, I could write a miniseries at least as good as The Langoliers . . .
Deep in America's heartland, the ever-pumping, ever-atrophied clogged ventricles of the American soul, there approaches even now an unspeakable monstrosity. Stalking through the corn fields as a weasel intent on stealing the young from the henhouse, gliding through the air as an eagle searching with its keen eyes for prey, it comes. Hanson's recording a new album. Perhaps the lurch of a heart attack is what caused the media to term them heart-throbs. Perhaps not . . .
All I know is, if that oldest boy still looks like a young teenage girl, he's gonna give me a boner. Anyone else? . . .
I kind of look like a rabbit. No, no, you're trying to be kind. But I was just looking in this mirror attached to my monitor, and I think I look kind of like a rabbit. Hmm, what would my name be if I were a rabbit? Fluffkins? Sir Mittens? Dropsy? I like that - Dropsy. I would probably be an evil rabbit with telekenesis, who could send rabits flying through my enemies' brains. Hmm, that might be a good childrens' book . . .
Okay, I just finished writing it. Let me make a note to call my agent and tell him that The Evil Dr. Dropsy of Watership Down is ready to go to the publisher . . .
Two souls stood at the crossroads at midnight on All Hollow's Eve. Each looked uncomfortably at the other. They hadn't planned on this rendeszvous. Neither knew the other was going to be there. And both knew what the other was there for - as a large wraith-like cloud formed in the dust before them. Soon it resolved itself into a figure - large and ugly and nasty. It's yellow teeth glinting in the full moon, its red scaly skin setting off its fiery eyes.
The man spoke first: "Oh Lord Satan, I have no talent, yet I need to be the biggest most successful actor in the world."
"Me too," said the woman.
"Fine," said Old Nick, "But you must do one thing in return. You must marry and stay together. For so long as you two shall be married you shall be the biggest stars in the world. But the minute you seperate, your fame shall disappear. Thus shall your fates be forever interlinked."
Anyway, that's my theory on the J. Lo/Ben Affleck marriage . . .
Oh, who am I kidding? She gives me a boner . . .
Stephen King is the #1 best-selling author of over 3,000 books.
Monday, July 28, 2003
I PERFORM IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD TOMORROW
I'm a little bit nervous. The last thing I want is for people to see me bomb and then keep running in to them in "da hood." (LOL! I'm white, sit it's funny that I talk like a black kid from '97!)
Anyway, if you're also in Queens and want to see me and some other funny people perform:
At:
Stella DiNapoli
Tuesday, July 29th, 10:00pm
107-02 Queens Blvd.
Forest Hills, NY, 11375
718-520-8563
Two Item Minimum
More info: The Comedy Soapbox.
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I'm a little bit nervous. The last thing I want is for people to see me bomb and then keep running in to them in "da hood." (LOL! I'm white, sit it's funny that I talk like a black kid from '97!)
Anyway, if you're also in Queens and want to see me and some other funny people perform:
At:
Stella DiNapoli
Tuesday, July 29th, 10:00pm
107-02 Queens Blvd.
Forest Hills, NY, 11375
718-520-8563
Two Item Minimum
More info: The Comedy Soapbox.
Friday, July 25, 2003
MY GETTING-DRUNK SCHEDULE FOR TONIGHT
9pm - Start drinking at Rudy's on 9th Av
10pm - Crash Cantor/Fitzgerald 'do in midtown. Open bar! Announce, "My name is Dr. Partystein, and I'm here to bring this party to life!" Get ejected thirty seconds later, but not before snagging a free bottle of Abolut that I will cling on to like the last bag of cookies at fat camp.
11pm - Drink, drink drink. Try vodka gimlet, Sex on the Beach, a Frozmo (a frozen Cosmo) and a whiskey sour with a brandy chaser.
11:30pm - get kicked out by bartender "for your own good."
12:00am - Go to different bar. CHeerfully give him car keys - why not? I don't actually own a car, just a set of really convenient keys.
1:00 am - At the Cutthroat Saloon on 13th Ave., announce that I am "The King of Drinkytown!"
1:30 am - Officially inaugurated as "King of Drinkytown" by man who claims to work for the Federal Government. Or Federal Express. Or American Express. Near enough dammit.
2:00 am - By official edict of the King, Drinkytown declares war on Luxembourg.
4:00am - on the Red Eye flight to Luxembourg with my entourage. At first the stewardess refuses to serve us drinks, but after I make her the Duchess of Drinks, she is sworn fealty to do my bidding. Score!
7:00am - My bleary-eyed army Storms the Palace of Luxembourg. Encounter token resistance from surprised Palace Guard, who are easily intimidated by my army's broken-bottle bayonets.
7:45 am - The King of Luxembourg, in his silk bathrobe, signs an official Peace Treaty - the Pax Drinkytown. He pledges an annual tribute of Fifty thousand tons of handmade choclate fudge, as well as many fine wooden crafts and toys for children. The Drinkytown Army withdraws, leaving "One-Eyed Jake" as residual occupying force.
NOON - Wake up in bed. Not sure what I did the night before, but sure I'll be reading about it in the Post again.
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9pm - Start drinking at Rudy's on 9th Av
10pm - Crash Cantor/Fitzgerald 'do in midtown. Open bar! Announce, "My name is Dr. Partystein, and I'm here to bring this party to life!" Get ejected thirty seconds later, but not before snagging a free bottle of Abolut that I will cling on to like the last bag of cookies at fat camp.
11pm - Drink, drink drink. Try vodka gimlet, Sex on the Beach, a Frozmo (a frozen Cosmo) and a whiskey sour with a brandy chaser.
11:30pm - get kicked out by bartender "for your own good."
12:00am - Go to different bar. CHeerfully give him car keys - why not? I don't actually own a car, just a set of really convenient keys.
1:00 am - At the Cutthroat Saloon on 13th Ave., announce that I am "The King of Drinkytown!"
1:30 am - Officially inaugurated as "King of Drinkytown" by man who claims to work for the Federal Government. Or Federal Express. Or American Express. Near enough dammit.
2:00 am - By official edict of the King, Drinkytown declares war on Luxembourg.
4:00am - on the Red Eye flight to Luxembourg with my entourage. At first the stewardess refuses to serve us drinks, but after I make her the Duchess of Drinks, she is sworn fealty to do my bidding. Score!
7:00am - My bleary-eyed army Storms the Palace of Luxembourg. Encounter token resistance from surprised Palace Guard, who are easily intimidated by my army's broken-bottle bayonets.
7:45 am - The King of Luxembourg, in his silk bathrobe, signs an official Peace Treaty - the Pax Drinkytown. He pledges an annual tribute of Fifty thousand tons of handmade choclate fudge, as well as many fine wooden crafts and toys for children. The Drinkytown Army withdraws, leaving "One-Eyed Jake" as residual occupying force.
NOON - Wake up in bed. Not sure what I did the night before, but sure I'll be reading about it in the Post again.
Thursday, July 24, 2003
LAUGH IN LOOKS AT THE NEWS!
FREE AT LAST!
Charlton Heston was given the Congressional Medal of Freedom yesterday.
Heston, accepting the honor, said, "This is great, but who's Charlton Heston?"
UDAY'S THE DAY
Uday and Qusay Hussein were slain yesterday by Americans in Iraq.
This is great, but isn't the war over now?
This is become some weird The Untouchables personal revenge scenario. "When they send one of your guys to the hospital, you send two of their sons to the morgue."
Apparently Uday would take women to nightclubs and rape them in front of a paying audience.
That's terrible.
But as a professional comedian, I can only imagine how awkward it would be to MC that kind of show.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this next guy kills everywhere he goes. All the way from the Rape Room deep in Hussein's Bunker, you may remember this guy from his appearances on 'Please Don't Kill My Family,' and 'You Can't Do That Under the Geneva Convention' - Uday Hussein and friend."
Yikes.
More later today.
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FREE AT LAST!
Charlton Heston was given the Congressional Medal of Freedom yesterday.
Heston, accepting the honor, said, "This is great, but who's Charlton Heston?"
UDAY'S THE DAY
Uday and Qusay Hussein were slain yesterday by Americans in Iraq.
This is great, but isn't the war over now?
This is become some weird The Untouchables personal revenge scenario. "When they send one of your guys to the hospital, you send two of their sons to the morgue."
Apparently Uday would take women to nightclubs and rape them in front of a paying audience.
That's terrible.
But as a professional comedian, I can only imagine how awkward it would be to MC that kind of show.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this next guy kills everywhere he goes. All the way from the Rape Room deep in Hussein's Bunker, you may remember this guy from his appearances on 'Please Don't Kill My Family,' and 'You Can't Do That Under the Geneva Convention' - Uday Hussein and friend."
Yikes.
More later today.
Wednesday, July 23, 2003
{SIC}
I've been sick the last couple of days, I'm still not feeling 100%, so this is going to be brief.
Here's a poem I wrote as I was first feeling ill:
As women started dating him, they found his habits strange,
And each made a mental laundry list of things that she would change.
And each woman, upon leaving him, having tasted of defeat,
Vowed twice as many changes on the next man she should meet.
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I've been sick the last couple of days, I'm still not feeling 100%, so this is going to be brief.
Here's a poem I wrote as I was first feeling ill:
As women started dating him, they found his habits strange,
And each made a mental laundry list of things that she would change.
And each woman, upon leaving him, having tasted of defeat,
Vowed twice as many changes on the next man she should meet.
Monday, July 21, 2003
NOT MUCH TODAY
Sorry to say.
Usually i can just pull one out of my ass (yes, that's why most of my comedy is shit - LOL!), but i've just been runing around like a soy chicken what had its bean cut off.
Instead, enjoy this post from a year ago.
PLEASE FILL IN THIS BLANK - it's driving me crazy
"So I says, ___________, I says, monsters lead such interesting lives."
Thank you, the mind you save may be your own.
(As a side-note, this past year I discovered the blank is "Sadie.")
THOUGHT FOR TODAY
Why is it that the guys with the least sense of personal space also have the worst BO?
NO, NO, THANK YOU
I was leaving my bank after using the ATM machine, and I was pushing the door open. Outside there was a very large woman, and what must have been her slightly larger sister. As I've almost got the door open, the woman pulls it open the last quarter inch. Then, the two seperate by about an inch so that I can almost pass through. As I pass through, the woman says very sarcastically, "You're welcome."
All right, you know what? That was not a "You're welcome" situation. What am I supposed to say? "Thank you for almost not being in my way"? "It was awesome, the way you didn't completely inconvenience me. I mean, you did inconvenience me, butn ot as badly as you could have, which is awesome."
But since she did say, "You're welcome," I figured I had to reply in kind, so I said, "What a friendly bank. The doorman welcomes you as you leave."
GET LAID, GET FUCKED!*
Speaking of banks, Citibank has this really weird ad campaign where the attitude is like, "Life's too short to worry about money." I think the ad line is something like, "Live richly." And they say, "Yeah, just leave your money with us and don't worry about it. There's more important things in life to worry about."
And now Chase's ad campaign is all about, "We have a great relationship." They have these ads that say things like, "You know it's a good relationship because you see our number on Caller ID and still pick up." Something like that, but I'm sure not as snappy or concise, because I write brilliant copy.
But here's my question; who the hell wants a banker that's your buddy and doesn't care about money. Seriously, give me a money-grubbing bastard whose every waking thought is about protecting my money.
Because, let's be honest; I love "It's A Wonderful Life," and just like everyone, I root for George Bailey. But I'll be damned if I wouldn't have done all my banking with Potter. Who the hell wants to trust his paycheck with a guy who sends someone like Uncle Billy with the week's deposits? If it wasn't for George running interference, that guy would have been in an asylum!
I mean, Potter might have been a sleaveball, but when Bailey found out what life would have been like if he'd never been born, we discovered that Potter actually knew how to make good investments.
I don't want want to get off on a rant here, but...
* Reference to the Billy Idol version of "Money Money," where people listening to it would chant "Get laid, get fucked!" during the chorus. Ahhh, those crazy crazy '80s.
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Sorry to say.
Usually i can just pull one out of my ass (yes, that's why most of my comedy is shit - LOL!), but i've just been runing around like a soy chicken what had its bean cut off.
Instead, enjoy this post from a year ago.
PLEASE FILL IN THIS BLANK - it's driving me crazy
"So I says, ___________, I says, monsters lead such interesting lives."
Thank you, the mind you save may be your own.
(As a side-note, this past year I discovered the blank is "Sadie.")
THOUGHT FOR TODAY
Why is it that the guys with the least sense of personal space also have the worst BO?
NO, NO, THANK YOU
I was leaving my bank after using the ATM machine, and I was pushing the door open. Outside there was a very large woman, and what must have been her slightly larger sister. As I've almost got the door open, the woman pulls it open the last quarter inch. Then, the two seperate by about an inch so that I can almost pass through. As I pass through, the woman says very sarcastically, "You're welcome."
All right, you know what? That was not a "You're welcome" situation. What am I supposed to say? "Thank you for almost not being in my way"? "It was awesome, the way you didn't completely inconvenience me. I mean, you did inconvenience me, butn ot as badly as you could have, which is awesome."
But since she did say, "You're welcome," I figured I had to reply in kind, so I said, "What a friendly bank. The doorman welcomes you as you leave."
GET LAID, GET FUCKED!*
Speaking of banks, Citibank has this really weird ad campaign where the attitude is like, "Life's too short to worry about money." I think the ad line is something like, "Live richly." And they say, "Yeah, just leave your money with us and don't worry about it. There's more important things in life to worry about."
And now Chase's ad campaign is all about, "We have a great relationship." They have these ads that say things like, "You know it's a good relationship because you see our number on Caller ID and still pick up." Something like that, but I'm sure not as snappy or concise, because I write brilliant copy.
But here's my question; who the hell wants a banker that's your buddy and doesn't care about money. Seriously, give me a money-grubbing bastard whose every waking thought is about protecting my money.
Because, let's be honest; I love "It's A Wonderful Life," and just like everyone, I root for George Bailey. But I'll be damned if I wouldn't have done all my banking with Potter. Who the hell wants to trust his paycheck with a guy who sends someone like Uncle Billy with the week's deposits? If it wasn't for George running interference, that guy would have been in an asylum!
I mean, Potter might have been a sleaveball, but when Bailey found out what life would have been like if he'd never been born, we discovered that Potter actually knew how to make good investments.
I don't want want to get off on a rant here, but...
* Reference to the Billy Idol version of "Money Money," where people listening to it would chant "Get laid, get fucked!" during the chorus. Ahhh, those crazy crazy '80s.
Saturday, July 19, 2003
MORE LIKE BIEN-ITEZ!
The NY sports media is all happy and surprised that Benitez didn't choke as his first day relief-pitching for the Yankees (yes, I know this sentence is not well-grammitically-constructed. I'm on a tight deadline here).
But what they don't know is the George Steinbrenner is a somewhat better motivational speaker than Mets owner Fred Wilpon.
Thanks to a friend in the Yanks organization (don't worry Charles Meyers, I won't rat you out), I was able to obtain an exclusive audio recording of Steinbrenner's pre-game meeting with Benitez.
STEINBRENNER: Ah, Armando, come on in.
BENITEZ: Ah yes, Mr. Boss. It is a pleasure to -
STEINBRENNER: Please. Let's skip the formalities. Look, we're paying you an awful lot of money, and I know you had some problems choking at Shea.
BENITEZ: It is those damned fans. When will they learn they do not pay my salary -
(sound of desk drawer opening, large metal object being taken out)
STEINBRENNER: Forget that, Armando. You see this cage? What's in this cage?
BENITEZ: A bat?
(sound of cage door opening)
STEINBRENNER: You see this bat - ?
BENITEZ: Oh my God what are - YOU BIT ITS HEAD OFF!
STENBRENNER: Next time - you. Now go out there and make us proud.
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The NY sports media is all happy and surprised that Benitez didn't choke as his first day relief-pitching for the Yankees (yes, I know this sentence is not well-grammitically-constructed. I'm on a tight deadline here).
But what they don't know is the George Steinbrenner is a somewhat better motivational speaker than Mets owner Fred Wilpon.
Thanks to a friend in the Yanks organization (don't worry Charles Meyers, I won't rat you out), I was able to obtain an exclusive audio recording of Steinbrenner's pre-game meeting with Benitez.
STEINBRENNER: Ah, Armando, come on in.
BENITEZ: Ah yes, Mr. Boss. It is a pleasure to -
STEINBRENNER: Please. Let's skip the formalities. Look, we're paying you an awful lot of money, and I know you had some problems choking at Shea.
BENITEZ: It is those damned fans. When will they learn they do not pay my salary -
(sound of desk drawer opening, large metal object being taken out)
STEINBRENNER: Forget that, Armando. You see this cage? What's in this cage?
BENITEZ: A bat?
(sound of cage door opening)
STEINBRENNER: You see this bat - ?
BENITEZ: Oh my God what are - YOU BIT ITS HEAD OFF!
STENBRENNER: Next time - you. Now go out there and make us proud.
Friday, July 18, 2003
SKETCHES OF PAIN
EIGHTEEN YOUNG MEN AND WOMEN - all white except one black guy and one Asian guy, in matching red shirts, take the stage. All have that slightly-manic wide grin that sketch performers wear in the hopes that the audience doesn't hate them.
THE LEADER OF THE SKETCH GROUP stands in front and addresses the audience.
LEADER: Ladies and gentlemen, we're Skit Row, and we're here at your college/community center/rehab clinic to impart a sense of positivity - through comedy!
BLOND WOMAN: Save the negatives for the photo lab.
LEADER: Exactly, Shelia! You know, I think that we've all been overcome by temptation in our pasts. Addiction.
TOO CHEERFUL TALL GUY WHO TOOK A LOT OF IMPROV CLASSES AND IS OVERLY PHYSICAL: I might as well face it, I'm addicted to love.
Skit Row laughs.
The Leader laughs for exactly five seconds, then cuts himself off with a "serious" look again.
LEADER: But seriously, battling addiction is no joke. It can turn you into a Dr. Jeckyl -
BLACK GUY WILLING TO STOOP TO STEREOTYPE: And Mr. Heckyl.
LEADER: Right. That's why our first sketch is an attempt to educate, and entertain. You might say we're about to edutain you. It's called, "Count Drinkula." We take you now to an alley outside a bar.
LIGHTS DOWN, THEN UP
The Tall Guy weaves across STAGE RIGHT. "How Dry I am" plays in the background.
TALL GUY: Now that was some good booze. Now all I have to do is find my car and drive home.
He peers at nothing.
TALL GUY: Hey Mr. Pink Elephant, who are you looking at?
He takes a swing at thing air and ends up spinning around a couple of times. He falls down and scratches his head.
The Leader, now dressed as DRACULA, steps in STAGE LEFT.
"How Dry I Am" plays again.
LEADER (to audience, in bad Bela Lugosi accent): Ah, the children of the night, what beautiful music they make.
(to the Tall Guy)
Blah blah blah. I vant to suck your -
TALL GUY: Hey, I'm not that drunk!
LEADER: Blood. I was going to say blood.
TALL GUY: Who are you?
LEADER: I am Count Drinkula, and I suck the blood of alcoholics.
TALL GUY: It sounds like you have a drinking probelm.
LEADER: I don't have a drinking problem. I can drink okay.
TALL GUY: No, I mean it sounds like you're an alcoholic.
LEADER: But I only drink the blood of alcoholics.
TALL GUY: Hey, if you can be a second-hand smoker, why not a second-hand drinker?
LEADER: But what can I do?
TALL GUY: Well, you've accomplished the first step - admitting that you have a problem. How about an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting?
LEADER: Are there meetings for monsters like me?
TALL GUY: Please, there are no monsters n the world - except the Jews.
LEADER: Thanks. I think I will find an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.
BLACKOUT
Much muffled swearing and scraping of chairs.
Lights up on a circle of a half-dozen chairs. The Leader is standing CENTER STAGE
LEADER: Now, we're in the basement of a church.
Exeunt.
Enter the BLOND WOMAN, a FAT GUY WRAPPED IN TOILET PAPER, the BLACK GUY with bolts coming out of his neck, a RIDICULOUSLY GAY GUY in a wig, and a couple of other people.
BLOND: Well, I'd like to welcome you to this week's meeting. We have a guest - where is he?
She makes a big show of looking around, walks offstage and drags the Leader onstage.
BLOND WOMAN: Why don't we all introduce ourselves?
LEADER: My name is Count Drinkula, and I'm - an alcoholic.
ALL: Hi Count Drinkula.
The BLACK GUY stands.
BLACK GUY: Yo, what up. Me name am Crack-enstein. Me am addicted to crack - and bitches.
ALL: Hi, Crack-enstein.
Black Guy sits. The Fat Guy stands.
FAT GUY: I'm the Mumm-eats. I'm an overeater. I am wrapped in toilet paper because i'm a mummy - and I tend to be a blogger.
ALL: Hi, Mumm-eats.
He sits. The Gay Guy stands.
GAY GUY: I'm a Cher-wolf. Every full moon I turn into Cher.
(doing the worst Cher impression I've ever heard)
I've got you to walk with me, I've got you to talk with me. I've got you to hold my hand -
ALL make a big show of putting their hands over their ears.
BLOND WOMAN: Now that's monstrous!
LEADER: You know, I thought I was a horrible freak because I had a drinking problem. But that's normal.
BLOND WOMAN: Yes, over sixteen million Americans have a degree of a drinking problem.
LEADER: It turns out I'm only a horrible freak because I'm a vampire.
BLACK GUY: That am spirit!
He slaps the LEADER on the back, knocking him down.
LEADER: Thanks. And I have someone else to thank.
He stands up, puts his cape over his face, and runs off.
BLACK OUT
More scraping of chairs as te stage is reset.
LIGHTS UP
The Tall Guy is back, lying Stage Right. The Leader is center stage.
LEADER: Now we're back outside the bar.
He turns to the Tall Guy.
LEADER: I guess I owe you a debt of gratitude. You really saved my life. Or I guess, unlife. Is there any way I could repay you?
Tall Guy makes a big show of thinking, so does the Leader. At the same time, they both make a show of having "inspiration" strike. They raise their forefingers.
BLACK OUT
Scraping of chairs.
LIGHTS UP
All are sitting in the same positions.
The Leader is standing in the middle of the group.
LEADER:(to the audience) We're back in the church basement.
(to the group)
I have a newcomer -
He makes a big shwo of looking around, and runs offstage and drags the Tall Guy back onstage.
CRACK-ENSTEIN: What am that?
LEADER: That's a human. And an alcoholic.
BLOND WOMAN: Let's all introduce ourselves.
ATOM BOMB FALLS ON THE THEATER.
THE END
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EIGHTEEN YOUNG MEN AND WOMEN - all white except one black guy and one Asian guy, in matching red shirts, take the stage. All have that slightly-manic wide grin that sketch performers wear in the hopes that the audience doesn't hate them.
THE LEADER OF THE SKETCH GROUP stands in front and addresses the audience.
LEADER: Ladies and gentlemen, we're Skit Row, and we're here at your college/community center/rehab clinic to impart a sense of positivity - through comedy!
BLOND WOMAN: Save the negatives for the photo lab.
LEADER: Exactly, Shelia! You know, I think that we've all been overcome by temptation in our pasts. Addiction.
TOO CHEERFUL TALL GUY WHO TOOK A LOT OF IMPROV CLASSES AND IS OVERLY PHYSICAL: I might as well face it, I'm addicted to love.
Skit Row laughs.
The Leader laughs for exactly five seconds, then cuts himself off with a "serious" look again.
LEADER: But seriously, battling addiction is no joke. It can turn you into a Dr. Jeckyl -
BLACK GUY WILLING TO STOOP TO STEREOTYPE: And Mr. Heckyl.
LEADER: Right. That's why our first sketch is an attempt to educate, and entertain. You might say we're about to edutain you. It's called, "Count Drinkula." We take you now to an alley outside a bar.
LIGHTS DOWN, THEN UP
The Tall Guy weaves across STAGE RIGHT. "How Dry I am" plays in the background.
TALL GUY: Now that was some good booze. Now all I have to do is find my car and drive home.
He peers at nothing.
TALL GUY: Hey Mr. Pink Elephant, who are you looking at?
He takes a swing at thing air and ends up spinning around a couple of times. He falls down and scratches his head.
The Leader, now dressed as DRACULA, steps in STAGE LEFT.
"How Dry I Am" plays again.
LEADER (to audience, in bad Bela Lugosi accent): Ah, the children of the night, what beautiful music they make.
(to the Tall Guy)
Blah blah blah. I vant to suck your -
TALL GUY: Hey, I'm not that drunk!
LEADER: Blood. I was going to say blood.
TALL GUY: Who are you?
LEADER: I am Count Drinkula, and I suck the blood of alcoholics.
TALL GUY: It sounds like you have a drinking probelm.
LEADER: I don't have a drinking problem. I can drink okay.
TALL GUY: No, I mean it sounds like you're an alcoholic.
LEADER: But I only drink the blood of alcoholics.
TALL GUY: Hey, if you can be a second-hand smoker, why not a second-hand drinker?
LEADER: But what can I do?
TALL GUY: Well, you've accomplished the first step - admitting that you have a problem. How about an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting?
LEADER: Are there meetings for monsters like me?
TALL GUY: Please, there are no monsters n the world - except the Jews.
LEADER: Thanks. I think I will find an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.
BLACKOUT
Much muffled swearing and scraping of chairs.
Lights up on a circle of a half-dozen chairs. The Leader is standing CENTER STAGE
LEADER: Now, we're in the basement of a church.
Exeunt.
Enter the BLOND WOMAN, a FAT GUY WRAPPED IN TOILET PAPER, the BLACK GUY with bolts coming out of his neck, a RIDICULOUSLY GAY GUY in a wig, and a couple of other people.
BLOND: Well, I'd like to welcome you to this week's meeting. We have a guest - where is he?
She makes a big show of looking around, walks offstage and drags the Leader onstage.
BLOND WOMAN: Why don't we all introduce ourselves?
LEADER: My name is Count Drinkula, and I'm - an alcoholic.
ALL: Hi Count Drinkula.
The BLACK GUY stands.
BLACK GUY: Yo, what up. Me name am Crack-enstein. Me am addicted to crack - and bitches.
ALL: Hi, Crack-enstein.
Black Guy sits. The Fat Guy stands.
FAT GUY: I'm the Mumm-eats. I'm an overeater. I am wrapped in toilet paper because i'm a mummy - and I tend to be a blogger.
ALL: Hi, Mumm-eats.
He sits. The Gay Guy stands.
GAY GUY: I'm a Cher-wolf. Every full moon I turn into Cher.
(doing the worst Cher impression I've ever heard)
I've got you to walk with me, I've got you to talk with me. I've got you to hold my hand -
ALL make a big show of putting their hands over their ears.
BLOND WOMAN: Now that's monstrous!
LEADER: You know, I thought I was a horrible freak because I had a drinking problem. But that's normal.
BLOND WOMAN: Yes, over sixteen million Americans have a degree of a drinking problem.
LEADER: It turns out I'm only a horrible freak because I'm a vampire.
BLACK GUY: That am spirit!
He slaps the LEADER on the back, knocking him down.
LEADER: Thanks. And I have someone else to thank.
He stands up, puts his cape over his face, and runs off.
BLACK OUT
More scraping of chairs as te stage is reset.
LIGHTS UP
The Tall Guy is back, lying Stage Right. The Leader is center stage.
LEADER: Now we're back outside the bar.
He turns to the Tall Guy.
LEADER: I guess I owe you a debt of gratitude. You really saved my life. Or I guess, unlife. Is there any way I could repay you?
Tall Guy makes a big show of thinking, so does the Leader. At the same time, they both make a show of having "inspiration" strike. They raise their forefingers.
BLACK OUT
Scraping of chairs.
LIGHTS UP
All are sitting in the same positions.
The Leader is standing in the middle of the group.
LEADER:(to the audience) We're back in the church basement.
(to the group)
I have a newcomer -
He makes a big shwo of looking around, and runs offstage and drags the Tall Guy back onstage.
CRACK-ENSTEIN: What am that?
LEADER: That's a human. And an alcoholic.
BLOND WOMAN: Let's all introduce ourselves.
ATOM BOMB FALLS ON THE THEATER.
THE END
Thursday, July 17, 2003
MESSAGE FROM GEORGE TENET
"Ehh, maybe there were a couple of nukes."
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"Ehh, maybe there were a couple of nukes."
OTHER BUSH MISTAKES THAT TENET TOOK THE FALL FOR
* Told President the word was pronounced "nucular."
* Mixed up "i before e" rule.
* Got the order wrong - now knows it's pants after underwear.
* Babies do not, in fact, come from a stork.
* Prank-calling Al Jazeerra TV and shouting "Baba Booey motherfucker" over and over again not so funny in hindsight.
* 52 Card Pickup is not an actual card game, no matter how many times you're invited to play.
* Laura Bush not dumb enough to fall for dummy-stuffed-under-covers-to-make-it-look-like-you're-asleep routine.
* Can't invade a country "just because I feel like it."
* Apparently Colin Powell does not have the power to remove the President's nose.
* Dropping out and following Phish on tour is a terrible idea.
* Spanish Fly does not work.
* Americans do not have to clap their hands to demonstrate happiness.
* Rabbis and Amish farmers - not "practically the same thing."
* "Chicks dig it when you let them know how fine their ass is" - FALSE!
* President of the United States not required to declare Spring Break "officially party time."
* President of the united States not automatically lead singer of the band Presidents of the United States.
* Slavery tragic, not magic. Tragic, not magic. Tragic, not magic.
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* Told President the word was pronounced "nucular."
* Mixed up "i before e" rule.
* Got the order wrong - now knows it's pants after underwear.
* Babies do not, in fact, come from a stork.
* Prank-calling Al Jazeerra TV and shouting "Baba Booey motherfucker" over and over again not so funny in hindsight.
* 52 Card Pickup is not an actual card game, no matter how many times you're invited to play.
* Laura Bush not dumb enough to fall for dummy-stuffed-under-covers-to-make-it-look-like-you're-asleep routine.
* Can't invade a country "just because I feel like it."
* Apparently Colin Powell does not have the power to remove the President's nose.
* Dropping out and following Phish on tour is a terrible idea.
* Spanish Fly does not work.
* Americans do not have to clap their hands to demonstrate happiness.
* Rabbis and Amish farmers - not "practically the same thing."
* "Chicks dig it when you let them know how fine their ass is" - FALSE!
* President of the United States not required to declare Spring Break "officially party time."
* President of the united States not automatically lead singer of the band Presidents of the United States.
* Slavery tragic, not magic. Tragic, not magic. Tragic, not magic.
Wednesday, July 16, 2003
WHY I LOVE THE INTERNET
Because it lets me share gems like this, from the NY Daily News' recent interview with Peter Tork:
"The message of 'The Monkees' was that when authority goes off course, you have to rely on yourselves. We needed that message during Vietnam. We need it again today. You can argue about the Monkees' music, but that message was their enduring contribution."
READ THE FULL INTERVIEW HERE.
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Because it lets me share gems like this, from the NY Daily News' recent interview with Peter Tork:
"The message of 'The Monkees' was that when authority goes off course, you have to rely on yourselves. We needed that message during Vietnam. We need it again today. You can argue about the Monkees' music, but that message was their enduring contribution."
READ THE FULL INTERVIEW HERE.
ADVICE
ASK THE GUY WHO HANGS OUT BEHIND 7-11
"Ralph" has spent his days, evenings, and late nights carousing behind the 7-11 off of Route 9 since it was built. No one knows his real name or where he comes from. Questions were shouted at him, and his answers transcribed.
Q: My mother-in-law is coming to visit us. Every time she visits, she says it's only for three days, and ends up staying three weeks.
Not that we don't love the woman, but we do have our own lives to lead!
How can we tactfully tell this woman that if she says she's going to stay for three days, then she has to leave three days later?
- Perplexed in Poughkipsiee
A: Yo man, can you do me - fzzzz. listen. Women, right? You got to understand ha ha ha. I mean, look at me. Ain't no woman tell me what to do, no sir. FUCK YOU! I AM COMING OVER THERE TO KICK YOUR FUCKING ASSES YOU CRYBABY BITCHES. Damn right you better drive away stupid sumbitch kids. Man, someday I'm gon' surprise them. Boot in the ass - SURPRISE! I'm a army hero motherfuckers.
Q: Recently I purchased a car, and I distinctly remember the salesman promising me a power sun-roof. Well, you can imagine my surprise when, after having it for three days, I tried to open the power sun roof - and discovered ti was a manual! Now the salesman refuses to trade in for a better car because he says the contract I signed doesn't specify a power sun roof. What is my legal recourse?
- Sold a Lemon in San Diego
A: What the fuck? Damn I - (throat clearing noise, followed by "Ralph" falling asleep. After a moment, we shake him awake) - Huh? Who the fuck you? What the fuck you want? Advice? My advice is you get the fuck on out here. Buy me a beer. I don't give a fuck if you already bought me a beer, I want a beer. I'm a army hero, motherfuckers. I will kill you.
Q: Recently my dog, Snuffles, had puppies. We know that Snuffles was impreganted by the next-door neighbor's dog, Sir Wowsers. But our next door-neighbors claim that it must have been a neighborhood stray, as if Snuffles is some sort of slutty dog. Help us restore our doggy's reputation and make our neighbors take responsibility.
- Dog-Lover in Duluth
A: Damn bitch, what the fuck you saying? I ain't no daddy. I gots to piss like a motherfucking racehorse. Ahhhh, ohhhh shit yeah shit yeah. Shit shit shit. Damn, muth-fa pussy? What? AIn't you got no dick? Buy me a beer. I know a got a beer, I want another muthfuckin' beer. I HEARD THAT MOTHERFUCKERS! I WILL KILL YOU! I KNOW WHERE YOU BITCHES LIVE!
Q: I like a girl in my class. How do I tell her?
- Shy in Queens
A: Get the fuck on out my face with your fucking faggot-ass questions, faggot. I'm a army hero, I kill you. (falls asleep)
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ASK THE GUY WHO HANGS OUT BEHIND 7-11
"Ralph" has spent his days, evenings, and late nights carousing behind the 7-11 off of Route 9 since it was built. No one knows his real name or where he comes from. Questions were shouted at him, and his answers transcribed.
Q: My mother-in-law is coming to visit us. Every time she visits, she says it's only for three days, and ends up staying three weeks.
Not that we don't love the woman, but we do have our own lives to lead!
How can we tactfully tell this woman that if she says she's going to stay for three days, then she has to leave three days later?
- Perplexed in Poughkipsiee
A: Yo man, can you do me - fzzzz. listen. Women, right? You got to understand ha ha ha. I mean, look at me. Ain't no woman tell me what to do, no sir. FUCK YOU! I AM COMING OVER THERE TO KICK YOUR FUCKING ASSES YOU CRYBABY BITCHES. Damn right you better drive away stupid sumbitch kids. Man, someday I'm gon' surprise them. Boot in the ass - SURPRISE! I'm a army hero motherfuckers.
Q: Recently I purchased a car, and I distinctly remember the salesman promising me a power sun-roof. Well, you can imagine my surprise when, after having it for three days, I tried to open the power sun roof - and discovered ti was a manual! Now the salesman refuses to trade in for a better car because he says the contract I signed doesn't specify a power sun roof. What is my legal recourse?
- Sold a Lemon in San Diego
A: What the fuck? Damn I - (throat clearing noise, followed by "Ralph" falling asleep. After a moment, we shake him awake) - Huh? Who the fuck you? What the fuck you want? Advice? My advice is you get the fuck on out here. Buy me a beer. I don't give a fuck if you already bought me a beer, I want a beer. I'm a army hero, motherfuckers. I will kill you.
Q: Recently my dog, Snuffles, had puppies. We know that Snuffles was impreganted by the next-door neighbor's dog, Sir Wowsers. But our next door-neighbors claim that it must have been a neighborhood stray, as if Snuffles is some sort of slutty dog. Help us restore our doggy's reputation and make our neighbors take responsibility.
- Dog-Lover in Duluth
A: Damn bitch, what the fuck you saying? I ain't no daddy. I gots to piss like a motherfucking racehorse. Ahhhh, ohhhh shit yeah shit yeah. Shit shit shit. Damn, muth-fa pussy? What? AIn't you got no dick? Buy me a beer. I know a got a beer, I want another muthfuckin' beer. I HEARD THAT MOTHERFUCKERS! I WILL KILL YOU! I KNOW WHERE YOU BITCHES LIVE!
Q: I like a girl in my class. How do I tell her?
- Shy in Queens
A: Get the fuck on out my face with your fucking faggot-ass questions, faggot. I'm a army hero, I kill you. (falls asleep)
Tuesday, July 15, 2003
JEST THE FACTS
I have an article in this month's Jest magazine.
It's accompanied by a kick-ass illustration by Solomon Fagan.
Check it out.
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I have an article in this month's Jest magazine.
It's accompanied by a kick-ass illustration by Solomon Fagan.
Check it out.
I - Pilgrimage
That's where they all end up you know,
the dreamers and the drifters
and the penny-ante grifters,
Vegas:
city of sun-baked sin
ghosts glossed over with Disney frosting
and a yellow smiley-face veneer
He rode in his drop-top El Dorado
Cigarette ash floating back into the air
Lighter glow reflecting in his thirty dollar Ray Bans
Like twin suns baking the Nevada sands
Beating his hand to a Bon Jovi song
On the only good radio station for miles around
Wondering how he became that classic rock dinosaur
Singing along to the South Jersey sound.
She was riding shotgun shooting her mouth off
Between healthy portions of nail and gloss
And the wind steamed her seat shaking her ass.
There's a shining city, a diamond zirconium
Set in the rusty gold-tinted brass
Of the Nevada desert sands,
A jewel made of glass
That refracts and reflects like the devil's prism-cut claw,
Emerging from his flame-baked, sand-crusted,
Velvet 'till it cuts your face
So sharp and so quick you only feel the bleeding
On your way home
Paw.
Like a diamond-set fang in a used-car dealer's
Polyester-and-pleather smile,
Purring an ermine "Welcom home!"
The dark priest who absolves himself as he
Cuts your throat reluctantly.
They hit the Strip, of course,
Talking nostalgically of Frankie and Dino
Of mobsters and whores,
Of Diamond Jim Kelly - wish you were here -
And they look at the spandex-stretched tourists
With their children in undertow,
And they can't help but sneer
As they bask in the second-hand glow
Of neon-baked memories.
And now they've set the stage,
She in her alcoholic, irony-grey gauze,
Peering through eyes of veiny red,
Ballerina tip-toeing to a tune just inside her ear
Around his pornographic temper
That stumbles through pot smoke likea
Minotaur through a maze
Until it finds the golden grail of rage -
Five purple fingers against the pale of her arms
Five bruises blossom -
Linked to her childhood through two
Gold leaf foil-flavored brass rings.
II - Worship at the Mecca Room
A lost little boy peers from within bleary brown eyes
Taking in the stemware clink
And Virginia soil stink of the Texans and their
Dropout mistresses with the bleached sprayed-high-stiff hair.
Clinging to the mic
As he launches into his world-weary and wise
Retired drama queen routine, and wonders
If anyone anywhere within forty miles
Cares anymore anyway.
Selling his songs like an indicted preacher
Still tries to sell afterlife insurance,
Songs that once pulsed to the beat of his soul
And made women slow-dance
Their fingers through his hair
In their cream-colored silk fantasies.
And his hollow eyes peer through the nicotine curtains
And yellow-gelled columns of smoke
Spying the irony-eyed couple at table twenty-nine
Smirking as he spoke.
She in her frosted hair and sneering gloss.
Behind her battleship-blue steel marble eyes,
Behind her pale white makeup and space-black bangs
Behind the sarcastic smirk set in ivory fangs,
Swoons a little girl seduced.
What can the eyeless black Ray Bans do
But laugh as she sets off for
A green room autograph.
And he holds her hand like a delicate toy,
The porcelain cool he can never enjoy
And he takes her
He takes her future
(From what horrible fate she doesn't even know
Finding no illumination in the afterglow)
He takes her hand -
From smile to hand to pelvis, she doesn't care to remember
That her laugh shimmered like a mirage in the desert
Forever far off, taunting with possibilities.
And the metal-bite-cool of the motel air conditioning
From the dust and the smoke and the lights
And the feel of freedom as it blows through her hair.
Trailing the ashes from the fire
Of the woman she once was.
|
That's where they all end up you know,
the dreamers and the drifters
and the penny-ante grifters,
Vegas:
city of sun-baked sin
ghosts glossed over with Disney frosting
and a yellow smiley-face veneer
He rode in his drop-top El Dorado
Cigarette ash floating back into the air
Lighter glow reflecting in his thirty dollar Ray Bans
Like twin suns baking the Nevada sands
Beating his hand to a Bon Jovi song
On the only good radio station for miles around
Wondering how he became that classic rock dinosaur
Singing along to the South Jersey sound.
She was riding shotgun shooting her mouth off
Between healthy portions of nail and gloss
And the wind steamed her seat shaking her ass.
There's a shining city, a diamond zirconium
Set in the rusty gold-tinted brass
Of the Nevada desert sands,
A jewel made of glass
That refracts and reflects like the devil's prism-cut claw,
Emerging from his flame-baked, sand-crusted,
Velvet 'till it cuts your face
So sharp and so quick you only feel the bleeding
On your way home
Paw.
Like a diamond-set fang in a used-car dealer's
Polyester-and-pleather smile,
Purring an ermine "Welcom home!"
The dark priest who absolves himself as he
Cuts your throat reluctantly.
They hit the Strip, of course,
Talking nostalgically of Frankie and Dino
Of mobsters and whores,
Of Diamond Jim Kelly - wish you were here -
And they look at the spandex-stretched tourists
With their children in undertow,
And they can't help but sneer
As they bask in the second-hand glow
Of neon-baked memories.
And now they've set the stage,
She in her alcoholic, irony-grey gauze,
Peering through eyes of veiny red,
Ballerina tip-toeing to a tune just inside her ear
Around his pornographic temper
That stumbles through pot smoke likea
Minotaur through a maze
Until it finds the golden grail of rage -
Five purple fingers against the pale of her arms
Five bruises blossom -
Linked to her childhood through two
Gold leaf foil-flavored brass rings.
II - Worship at the Mecca Room
A lost little boy peers from within bleary brown eyes
Taking in the stemware clink
And Virginia soil stink of the Texans and their
Dropout mistresses with the bleached sprayed-high-stiff hair.
Clinging to the mic
As he launches into his world-weary and wise
Retired drama queen routine, and wonders
If anyone anywhere within forty miles
Cares anymore anyway.
Selling his songs like an indicted preacher
Still tries to sell afterlife insurance,
Songs that once pulsed to the beat of his soul
And made women slow-dance
Their fingers through his hair
In their cream-colored silk fantasies.
And his hollow eyes peer through the nicotine curtains
And yellow-gelled columns of smoke
Spying the irony-eyed couple at table twenty-nine
Smirking as he spoke.
She in her frosted hair and sneering gloss.
Behind her battleship-blue steel marble eyes,
Behind her pale white makeup and space-black bangs
Behind the sarcastic smirk set in ivory fangs,
Swoons a little girl seduced.
What can the eyeless black Ray Bans do
But laugh as she sets off for
A green room autograph.
And he holds her hand like a delicate toy,
The porcelain cool he can never enjoy
And he takes her
He takes her future
(From what horrible fate she doesn't even know
Finding no illumination in the afterglow)
He takes her hand -
From smile to hand to pelvis, she doesn't care to remember
That her laugh shimmered like a mirage in the desert
Forever far off, taunting with possibilities.
And the metal-bite-cool of the motel air conditioning
From the dust and the smoke and the lights
And the feel of freedom as it blows through her hair.
Trailing the ashes from the fire
Of the woman she once was.
Monday, July 14, 2003
I DIDN'T MEAN TO MAKE YOU CRY, BUT TONIGHT I'M CLEANIN' OUT MY CLOSET
Today I'm gonna air some stuff that's been mouldering in various notebooks:
RANDOM QUOTES
"Success is the ability to tolerate repeated failure."
- Sarah Fisch
"You're a bullshit artist, and you think I'm your next canvas."
- Liam McEneaney
"I said it was a buoy, you fat fag."
"You said it was a lighthouse."
"You're still fat."
- Two guys in a store
RANDOM OBSERVATION
The more someone looks like a fish, the more likely they are to be wearing a ponytail.
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Today I'm gonna air some stuff that's been mouldering in various notebooks:
RANDOM QUOTES
"Success is the ability to tolerate repeated failure."
- Sarah Fisch
"You're a bullshit artist, and you think I'm your next canvas."
- Liam McEneaney
"I said it was a buoy, you fat fag."
"You said it was a lighthouse."
"You're still fat."
- Two guys in a store
RANDOM OBSERVATION
The more someone looks like a fish, the more likely they are to be wearing a ponytail.
NOTES TOWARDS AN OLD-FASHIONED COMEDY SONG
A young magician of twenty-five,
Took himself a bride.
But she wasn't his, the young man frizz,
When her husband he did hear.
Twas then the magician rose,
Collected all his clothes.
He gave a bow, and said, "And now,
For my next trick, I'll disappear."
I knew an English fella,
Lived the life of Cinderella,
When times were lean, never got mean,
And never turned tail or yella.
He said, "Life's a dirty joke,
They play upon a bloke.
When you're rich, you're a son of a bitch,
And a filthy bum when broke."
I knew a member of the other sex,
Who called herself "Timex,"
When she took a lickin', she kept a' tickin',
And never did she fail.
The moral you will find,
Is always to be kind.
It's a fable, if you're able,
To find morals in her tail.
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A young magician of twenty-five,
Took himself a bride.
But she wasn't his, the young man frizz,
When her husband he did hear.
Twas then the magician rose,
Collected all his clothes.
He gave a bow, and said, "And now,
For my next trick, I'll disappear."
I knew an English fella,
Lived the life of Cinderella,
When times were lean, never got mean,
And never turned tail or yella.
He said, "Life's a dirty joke,
They play upon a bloke.
When you're rich, you're a son of a bitch,
And a filthy bum when broke."
I knew a member of the other sex,
Who called herself "Timex,"
When she took a lickin', she kept a' tickin',
And never did she fail.
The moral you will find,
Is always to be kind.
It's a fable, if you're able,
To find morals in her tail.
FROM THE VAULT
Here's a half-written sketch idea from a year and a half ago:
From "Weird Al" Jazeera TV:
We see Osama Bin Laden holding a microphone in front of a cave.
OSAMA: - and we shall destroy the infidels. Now here is a message for America:
("Beat It" starts playing.)
OSAMA: You better run, you better do what you can,
I'm going to destroy the Great Satan.
I'm drinkin' Mountain Dew,
And hatin' on the Jews,
Etc.
TITLE: THE "WEIRD AL" QAEDA SHOW
David Lee Roth - "Just A Gigolo"
becomes "Just Jihad, Allah."
And a parody of "California Girls" with women in burquas.
Stayin' Alive becomes Flayin' Alive
Parody of Dylan - "Rainy Day Women"
They'll stone you if your wife shows some leg,
They'll stone you if you try to drink a keg,
They'll stone you when you're drivin' in a car,
They'll stone you if you're an adulter-ar,
In Hell I won't feel so all alone,
Ev'rybody must get stoned."
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Here's a half-written sketch idea from a year and a half ago:
From "Weird Al" Jazeera TV:
We see Osama Bin Laden holding a microphone in front of a cave.
OSAMA: - and we shall destroy the infidels. Now here is a message for America:
("Beat It" starts playing.)
OSAMA: You better run, you better do what you can,
I'm going to destroy the Great Satan.
I'm drinkin' Mountain Dew,
And hatin' on the Jews,
Etc.
TITLE: THE "WEIRD AL" QAEDA SHOW
David Lee Roth - "Just A Gigolo"
becomes "Just Jihad, Allah."
And a parody of "California Girls" with women in burquas.
Stayin' Alive becomes Flayin' Alive
Parody of Dylan - "Rainy Day Women"
They'll stone you if your wife shows some leg,
They'll stone you if you try to drink a keg,
They'll stone you when you're drivin' in a car,
They'll stone you if you're an adulter-ar,
In Hell I won't feel so all alone,
Ev'rybody must get stoned."
Friday, July 11, 2003
NEW HEAD OF THE CIA SWORN IN THIS WEEK
New CIA Chief, B. Spy, 42, promises
to not repeat mistakes of predecessor, W. Spy.
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New CIA Chief, B. Spy, 42, promises
to not repeat mistakes of predecessor, W. Spy.
UH OH
The disk on which I kept today's blog entry is apparently corrupt - LIKE AMERICA! It may take a while to post the entry, like tomorrow or something.
Meanwhile, enjoy this reprint from a year ago:
I WILL PAY YOU $5000 A WEEK TO WORK AT HOME
That's right, $5,000 a week. Sound to good to be true?
And all you have to do is clip personal ads out of the newspaper, put them in envelopes, and burn them in a metal garbage can. And you, too, can earn $5,000 a week.
How can I afford to pay anyone $5,000 a week? Simple! Using a new metastatized technique called "lying." Simply put, this "lying" allows me to get you to work, and alows you to believe that very soon, you will receive FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS A WEEK for doing practically nothing!
Here's some testimonials:
"Before, I was unemployed and broke. Thanks to Liam McEneaney's fantastic 'lying' technique, I am sporadically employed and worth hundreds of thousands of dollars on paper. Thanks Liam!"
- Sheila R., Janesville, Wisconsin.
Sheila did it, and she's a morbidly obese housewife with a third-grade education. That's right, she can't read or write! You should find out where she lives and throw rocks at her house while taunting her!
Also, if you want to make TEN GRAND IN JUST ONE NIGHT you can kill my wife. She's, um, very sick anyway, so it's not like she's going to live much longer. It's one of those diseases where you seem very healthy and normal until you drop dead one day, you know? But seriously, I've met this woman in the secretarial pool, and um, that's not improtant. I'll be out of the house this Saturday "taking my kids to the movies," so if it'll be easy; she'll probably be at home on the couch, eating Haagen Dazs out of the container and masturbating to a Brad Pitt movie. Maybe she'll be on the phone with that hellion mother-in-law of mine, dissecting my flaws. Whatever, anyway, make TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS A WEEK. And if my friend Jerry was serious, you can have the opportunity to make FIFTEEN, MAYBE TWENTY GRAND MORE!
Look, forget that bullshit about the burning personal ads thing, okay? I just wanted to get a gauge on what kind of man you were, how desperate you were for work. I got a gun, no one can trace it, serial numbers filed off, see? I'll have a rock-solid alibi, you're from the next township over so's no one will suspect you. Just do my wife, please. I'll take care of you buddy. Seriously.
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The disk on which I kept today's blog entry is apparently corrupt - LIKE AMERICA! It may take a while to post the entry, like tomorrow or something.
Meanwhile, enjoy this reprint from a year ago:
I WILL PAY YOU $5000 A WEEK TO WORK AT HOME
That's right, $5,000 a week. Sound to good to be true?
And all you have to do is clip personal ads out of the newspaper, put them in envelopes, and burn them in a metal garbage can. And you, too, can earn $5,000 a week.
How can I afford to pay anyone $5,000 a week? Simple! Using a new metastatized technique called "lying." Simply put, this "lying" allows me to get you to work, and alows you to believe that very soon, you will receive FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS A WEEK for doing practically nothing!
Here's some testimonials:
"Before, I was unemployed and broke. Thanks to Liam McEneaney's fantastic 'lying' technique, I am sporadically employed and worth hundreds of thousands of dollars on paper. Thanks Liam!"
- Sheila R., Janesville, Wisconsin.
Sheila did it, and she's a morbidly obese housewife with a third-grade education. That's right, she can't read or write! You should find out where she lives and throw rocks at her house while taunting her!
Also, if you want to make TEN GRAND IN JUST ONE NIGHT you can kill my wife. She's, um, very sick anyway, so it's not like she's going to live much longer. It's one of those diseases where you seem very healthy and normal until you drop dead one day, you know? But seriously, I've met this woman in the secretarial pool, and um, that's not improtant. I'll be out of the house this Saturday "taking my kids to the movies," so if it'll be easy; she'll probably be at home on the couch, eating Haagen Dazs out of the container and masturbating to a Brad Pitt movie. Maybe she'll be on the phone with that hellion mother-in-law of mine, dissecting my flaws. Whatever, anyway, make TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS A WEEK. And if my friend Jerry was serious, you can have the opportunity to make FIFTEEN, MAYBE TWENTY GRAND MORE!
Look, forget that bullshit about the burning personal ads thing, okay? I just wanted to get a gauge on what kind of man you were, how desperate you were for work. I got a gun, no one can trace it, serial numbers filed off, see? I'll have a rock-solid alibi, you're from the next township over so's no one will suspect you. Just do my wife, please. I'll take care of you buddy. Seriously.
Here's some delicious comedy shows I'm doing this weekend:
FRIDAY JULY 11th
PORTABLE COMEDY
The Gershwin Hotel
7 E. 27th Street
(between 5th and Madison)
10:00pm = $7.00
HOST: Liam McEneaney
WITH:
* BOB POWERS (www.girlsarepretty.com)
* JESSE JOYCE (touring comedian)
* MOODY McCARTHY (CBS' Star Search, The CBS Morning Show)
* RACHEL FEINSTEIN (professional comedian)
* SUSAN PREKEL (Montreal Comedy Festival)
* CHRISTIAN FINNEGAN (Montreal Comedy Festival)
* AND POSSIBLY MORE
SATURDAY, JULY 12 -- 9:30 P.M.
THE BROOKLYN BREW-HA-HA
The Boudoir Bar @ East End Ensemble - 273 Smith
Street, between Sackett and Degraw, in Carroll
Gardens, Brooklyn. Subway – F/G to Carroll Street -
walk 3 blocks up Smith Street (with traffic)
718-624-8878
$5 admission. Two-drink minimum (beer, wine, and soda
available)
MC: Liam McEneaney
and featuring:
* Erin Foley (Premium Blend, Almost Famous)
* Bryan Olsen (Toyota Comedy Festival)
* Susan Prekel (Montreal Comedy Festival)
* Larry Getlen ("Tough Crowd with Colin Quinn")
* Shelagh Ratner (performing at the Central Park Summerstage next week)
* Allison Castillo (Aspen Comedy Festival)
* Karen Sneider (Anime)
AND MORE
|
FRIDAY JULY 11th
PORTABLE COMEDY
The Gershwin Hotel
7 E. 27th Street
(between 5th and Madison)
10:00pm = $7.00
HOST: Liam McEneaney
WITH:
* BOB POWERS (www.girlsarepretty.com)
* JESSE JOYCE (touring comedian)
* MOODY McCARTHY (CBS' Star Search, The CBS Morning Show)
* RACHEL FEINSTEIN (professional comedian)
* SUSAN PREKEL (Montreal Comedy Festival)
* CHRISTIAN FINNEGAN (Montreal Comedy Festival)
* AND POSSIBLY MORE
SATURDAY, JULY 12 -- 9:30 P.M.
THE BROOKLYN BREW-HA-HA
The Boudoir Bar @ East End Ensemble - 273 Smith
Street, between Sackett and Degraw, in Carroll
Gardens, Brooklyn. Subway – F/G to Carroll Street -
walk 3 blocks up Smith Street (with traffic)
718-624-8878
$5 admission. Two-drink minimum (beer, wine, and soda
available)
MC: Liam McEneaney
and featuring:
* Erin Foley (Premium Blend, Almost Famous)
* Bryan Olsen (Toyota Comedy Festival)
* Susan Prekel (Montreal Comedy Festival)
* Larry Getlen ("Tough Crowd with Colin Quinn")
* Shelagh Ratner (performing at the Central Park Summerstage next week)
* Allison Castillo (Aspen Comedy Festival)
* Karen Sneider (Anime)
AND MORE
Thursday, July 10, 2003
CURIOUS GEORGE VISITS WEST POINT
"It's great to be here with all these Good Humor Men.
Der - what do you mean, 'cadets'?"
|
"It's great to be here with all these Good Humor Men.
Der - what do you mean, 'cadets'?"
50 CENTURION
So there's a rap song out right now that's like, "C'mon Shorty, it's your birthday, we gonna party like it's your birthday."
Yeah, that's awesome. Let's look at this for a second. What would it be like if we actually partied like it's my birthday?
4:30am - Woken up by a phone calle from Mom, telling me the story about how she was labor 27 hours on the hottest day in history. Curse myself for - yet again - forgetting to unplug the phone.
5:00am - Unable to get back to sleep, Wake up for the first of what I know will be many cups of coffee today.
7:40 - On my way to work, I get an egg sandwich at the deli. Feel stupid as I can not stop myself from mentioning that it's my birthday, to the counter guy's complete and utter lack of interest.
7:42 - On my way down the subway steps, I will feel incredible embarassment as realize that I the couinter guy probably thought I was trying to get my breakfast for free. And that I probably secretly was.
9:03 - As I walk in, I pass the receptionist. Let's call her "Cathy," mainly due to the extensive collection of Cathy comic strips on her wall, elbow-to-elbow with her Dilbert strips. As I walk past her, I hope against hope that this year she hasn't remembered my birthday. THe chirpy "Good morning, birthday boy!" tells me she hasn't. I make a mental note that next year I must burn her calendar.
10:17 - Get a call from my nearly-alcholic friend Terry. He wants me to know that we're getting together at a bar for my birthday after work. Feelings of camraderie are tempered by the knowledge that if it were not my birthday, he would have another pretext for going to a bar.
11:48 - Reminisce about my childhood, when having a birthday was smething to get genuinely excited about. Know that iw probably would be impossible to get my friends to visit a roller-skating rink, but consider buying a Hungry Hungry Hippos game to try to get my friends to play afterwards. Then consider the incredible ball-busting I would probably get.
1:00pm - Led by Cathy into the company's conference room. What could it possibly be? Considering the sussuration of conversation I can hear - the sound of an entire company's worth of employees not trying terribly hard to keep their voices down - I fear the worst.
1:01 - The sound of a roomful of adults trying not to be heard singing "Happy Birthday" engulfs me. I blow out the cake - the only reason anyone really showed up.
3:31 - I realize that this will be yet another birthday single.
3:42 - My ex-girlfriend Jen is doign really well. If she wasn't so busy, she'd love to come out to celebrate.
4:25 - Ditto with Randi, a woman who'd posted an ad on Craig's List.
6:27 - At the bar. Already on my second beer of the night, which Terry bought for me. I wonder if it will be another fifteen minutes before I have to start buying drinks for Terry.
6:42 - Bingo.
11:23 - After blacking out for the third time and asking my firends, "What was I saying?" I get poured into a cab and sent home.
12:03am - Jen seems a lot less happy to hear form me. I tell her that we're partying like it's my birthday. She responds with dial tone.
6:30am - Wake up on the living room couch in my clothes from the night before.
|
So there's a rap song out right now that's like, "C'mon Shorty, it's your birthday, we gonna party like it's your birthday."
Yeah, that's awesome. Let's look at this for a second. What would it be like if we actually partied like it's my birthday?
4:30am - Woken up by a phone calle from Mom, telling me the story about how she was labor 27 hours on the hottest day in history. Curse myself for - yet again - forgetting to unplug the phone.
5:00am - Unable to get back to sleep, Wake up for the first of what I know will be many cups of coffee today.
7:40 - On my way to work, I get an egg sandwich at the deli. Feel stupid as I can not stop myself from mentioning that it's my birthday, to the counter guy's complete and utter lack of interest.
7:42 - On my way down the subway steps, I will feel incredible embarassment as realize that I the couinter guy probably thought I was trying to get my breakfast for free. And that I probably secretly was.
9:03 - As I walk in, I pass the receptionist. Let's call her "Cathy," mainly due to the extensive collection of Cathy comic strips on her wall, elbow-to-elbow with her Dilbert strips. As I walk past her, I hope against hope that this year she hasn't remembered my birthday. THe chirpy "Good morning, birthday boy!" tells me she hasn't. I make a mental note that next year I must burn her calendar.
10:17 - Get a call from my nearly-alcholic friend Terry. He wants me to know that we're getting together at a bar for my birthday after work. Feelings of camraderie are tempered by the knowledge that if it were not my birthday, he would have another pretext for going to a bar.
11:48 - Reminisce about my childhood, when having a birthday was smething to get genuinely excited about. Know that iw probably would be impossible to get my friends to visit a roller-skating rink, but consider buying a Hungry Hungry Hippos game to try to get my friends to play afterwards. Then consider the incredible ball-busting I would probably get.
1:00pm - Led by Cathy into the company's conference room. What could it possibly be? Considering the sussuration of conversation I can hear - the sound of an entire company's worth of employees not trying terribly hard to keep their voices down - I fear the worst.
1:01 - The sound of a roomful of adults trying not to be heard singing "Happy Birthday" engulfs me. I blow out the cake - the only reason anyone really showed up.
3:31 - I realize that this will be yet another birthday single.
3:42 - My ex-girlfriend Jen is doign really well. If she wasn't so busy, she'd love to come out to celebrate.
4:25 - Ditto with Randi, a woman who'd posted an ad on Craig's List.
6:27 - At the bar. Already on my second beer of the night, which Terry bought for me. I wonder if it will be another fifteen minutes before I have to start buying drinks for Terry.
6:42 - Bingo.
11:23 - After blacking out for the third time and asking my firends, "What was I saying?" I get poured into a cab and sent home.
12:03am - Jen seems a lot less happy to hear form me. I tell her that we're partying like it's my birthday. She responds with dial tone.
6:30am - Wake up on the living room couch in my clothes from the night before.
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
BRIEF LINES
Your face freckled with dew
Sun-blushed in the dawn
Fire fingers streak the sky
As the moon drifts down
Beyond the horizon
And catches in my throat.
|
Your face freckled with dew
Sun-blushed in the dawn
Fire fingers streak the sky
As the moon drifts down
Beyond the horizon
And catches in my throat.
I WROTE THIS JOKE
Don't be jealous.
What do you get when you cross a dog and a gorilla?
One ruff! customer.
CHICK MAGNETO
One thing I've noticed is that it's always my friends who never get laid who are full of advice about women:
"Women are like cars - "
Only in that neither of them will ever talk to you.
"No way, I'm trying to tell you how to pick up chicks."
Look, you wouldn't know how to pick up a woman if she came with handles.
And these guys always have some bizarre scheme to get women to talk to them - I kid you not:
"You go into a bar with a parrot on your shoulder and when a chick asks you what you're doing with it, you say, 'I'm teaching it to say your name.'"
First of all - parrots are expensive and hard to take care of. You are going through a lot of trouble to not get laid.
It would be easier just to take a magic marker and write the word "DORK" on your forehead.
Then when women ask you about it at the bar, you say, "I'm trying to learn how to write your name."
|
Don't be jealous.
What do you get when you cross a dog and a gorilla?
One ruff! customer.
CHICK MAGNETO
One thing I've noticed is that it's always my friends who never get laid who are full of advice about women:
"Women are like cars - "
Only in that neither of them will ever talk to you.
"No way, I'm trying to tell you how to pick up chicks."
Look, you wouldn't know how to pick up a woman if she came with handles.
And these guys always have some bizarre scheme to get women to talk to them - I kid you not:
"You go into a bar with a parrot on your shoulder and when a chick asks you what you're doing with it, you say, 'I'm teaching it to say your name.'"
First of all - parrots are expensive and hard to take care of. You are going through a lot of trouble to not get laid.
It would be easier just to take a magic marker and write the word "DORK" on your forehead.
Then when women ask you about it at the bar, you say, "I'm trying to learn how to write your name."
Tuesday, July 08, 2003
HOW I GOT TO HANG OUT WITH A PORN STAR
There used to be a comedy show at a midtown dive bar called Ye Olde Tripple Inn. ye Olde Tripple Inn is on West 54th Street, around the corner from the David Letterman Theatre. It also used to be down the street from a sleazy strrip club called Legs Diamond's.
Legs Diamond was an old Chicago gangster who presumabbbly loved skinny women with breast implants, fake breasts planted under the skin of their chests.
And this comedy show happened every Saturday night. One of these nights, a comedy friend of mine named Dave walked in with a couple of friends in tow. It was Dave's birthday, and he had been drinking at a lot of bars. The place he had been drinking most recently was Legs Diamond's, where he had seen a stripper porn star named Houston perform.
As it was explained to me, Houston had earned her star status by breaking a record for the most consecutive sex partners in one continuous sex act. As she was to describe it to me later, she laid there and had a long line, hundreds and hundreds, of men penetrate her with their penises for about ten seconds at a time. She had her privates iced down about once an hour so that she wouldn't burn her vagina.
She did it to enter the record books and cement her star status. Lord only knows why the men did it. Probably not so that they could have a story to tell their grandkids.
And Dave told me that he had heard her on the Howard Stern show that morning, promoting her New York City appearance. And he had gotten a mutual friend of theirs who worked at "Sweeeet Ass" magazine to issue him a press pass, so that he could see Houston for free and meet her there.
And then Dave told me something that I found preposterously unbelievable. Dave told me that Houston was between shows, and that as soon as she got changed she was going to come to this bar down the street and hang out with Dave. "She's going to fuck everyone in the bar!" Dave exulted. "She's going to blow everyone!"
And sure enough, Houston arrived.
I believe that the face is the roadmap to the soul, that you can see the paths that people trod in their lives by looking at their eyes, their mouths, the wrinkles that develop naturally.
Houston's face was a map through No Man's Land, that wound through mountains and valleys and every step she had taken was etched into her face. She looked as hard as the life she had clearly led.
But what a body!
She held court at the bar, with random men coming up to talk to her for the hell of talking to a porn star. They were like courtiers come to pay tribute to a goddess-queen. She was Aphrodite.
Dave had brought a couple along, and Houston spent some time hitting on the woman, shamelessly, in full view of her boyfriend. She saidm "You look like my girlfriend." She said, "We met at a calendar shoot." She showed no interest in the boyfriend whatsoever.
Her advances were rebuffed, and she didn't seem to care too much. It was all a fairy tale for her, she was the girl who could magically command sex without emotional investment, who could use that to fill her purse without using many more skills than are issued to every single human beign upon birth.
She commanded me to kiss her at one point. This was a t a time when I was convinced that I was so ugly that no woman would ever seriously want any kind of physical or sexual contact with me whatsoever. I feared that she wanted me to kiss her so that she could make fun of me. I demurred. Not to mention the fact that if conventional women frightened me with their power to reject and humiliate, then this woman positively petrified me with terror.
So she commanded me to kiss the angel tattoo on the back of her neck, which I did happily. It was something I could tell my grandkids.
At one point I was in the Mean's room with Dave. Dave was not on cocaine. I know this because if he was then he would have been snorting it in the Men's room at that momment.
But you would think he was snorting cocaine the way he was flying, screaming at the ceiling in delight:
"I love New York, I love my life, I love porn, I love the world, I love houston. I'm going to fuck her you know."
I believed him. After all, he'd been right about her showing up, hadn't he?
And then it was time for Houston to do her next show. And we trooped up to Legs Diamond's - Dave, his little party, and myself who knows a once-in-a-lifetime experience when he's presented with one.
We took an elevator up four stories. The elevator was small and dark and crmaped. It had the desperate sweat of decades of Legs Diamond's customers caked into the walls. It opened ontoa dark corridor, which led to an open door behind which was alrge dark room pulsing with loud hair metal and colored lights strobing through cigarette smoke.
We found a seat. We did not tip the strippers making their way around the stage. We were sitting at a table away from the stage so we didn't have to. A couple of strippers made gestures for us to come closer to the stage so that we could tip them. We laguhed at them, and they made faces.
Soon it was Houston. And I must say, she certainly knows how to put on a show.
One audience participation bit she did involved getting random audience volunteers to come onstage. She would make fun of them and strip off their clothes. She would then cover them with shaving cream and dry hump them. One of the volunteers, certainly the most eager, was a lonely red-haired young man. He was wearing incredibly thick glasses. He was sitting alone, up in front of the stage.
As soon as Houston took the stage, he removed his glasses and hid them in his jacket. I had the feeling that his fantasy was that Houston would see him sitting up front, so handsome without his glasses on, and be siezed with a man-lust she had never felt before. She would want to have sex with him right after the show.
ANother bit she did was to take out several rolled-up posters that she had autographed. She would then penetrate herself with the posters in a parody of the act that men and women engage in to create babies. She would then toss these posters at her fans.
She gave of herself for over half-an-hour, never slowing down, always teasing her audience, always promising that she would want to have sex with everyone in the room if she was only given a fair chance. It was my favorite part, extended to a respectable length.
After the show, we hung out outside the door to the club. Dave was the last to arrive; he had gone to talk to Houston while she showered. We ended up talking to Houston's boyfriend. He was a recent high school graduate. She had gotten into the papers for going to the prom with him.
When Dave emerged with Houston, he recognized the boyfriend and acted like a startstruck teen meeting a rock star. He kept saying, "I know who you are! You were on Stern! You took Houston to the prom!"
And as he later learned from their mutual friend, Houston had thought Dave was cute, but then assumed that he was gay because he would not stop talking to the boyfriend. Thus, Dave lost his chance to sleep with a porn superstar. Instead, we split up on Broadway as everyone went their seperate ways to go home.
And I must say, that when I look back on this experience, my experience watching a porn star flirting with her audience, that it may have been the only time I genuinely enjoyed a porn experience.
|
There used to be a comedy show at a midtown dive bar called Ye Olde Tripple Inn. ye Olde Tripple Inn is on West 54th Street, around the corner from the David Letterman Theatre. It also used to be down the street from a sleazy strrip club called Legs Diamond's.
Legs Diamond was an old Chicago gangster who presumabbbly loved skinny women with breast implants, fake breasts planted under the skin of their chests.
And this comedy show happened every Saturday night. One of these nights, a comedy friend of mine named Dave walked in with a couple of friends in tow. It was Dave's birthday, and he had been drinking at a lot of bars. The place he had been drinking most recently was Legs Diamond's, where he had seen a stripper porn star named Houston perform.
As it was explained to me, Houston had earned her star status by breaking a record for the most consecutive sex partners in one continuous sex act. As she was to describe it to me later, she laid there and had a long line, hundreds and hundreds, of men penetrate her with their penises for about ten seconds at a time. She had her privates iced down about once an hour so that she wouldn't burn her vagina.
She did it to enter the record books and cement her star status. Lord only knows why the men did it. Probably not so that they could have a story to tell their grandkids.
And Dave told me that he had heard her on the Howard Stern show that morning, promoting her New York City appearance. And he had gotten a mutual friend of theirs who worked at "Sweeeet Ass" magazine to issue him a press pass, so that he could see Houston for free and meet her there.
And then Dave told me something that I found preposterously unbelievable. Dave told me that Houston was between shows, and that as soon as she got changed she was going to come to this bar down the street and hang out with Dave. "She's going to fuck everyone in the bar!" Dave exulted. "She's going to blow everyone!"
And sure enough, Houston arrived.
I believe that the face is the roadmap to the soul, that you can see the paths that people trod in their lives by looking at their eyes, their mouths, the wrinkles that develop naturally.
Houston's face was a map through No Man's Land, that wound through mountains and valleys and every step she had taken was etched into her face. She looked as hard as the life she had clearly led.
But what a body!
She held court at the bar, with random men coming up to talk to her for the hell of talking to a porn star. They were like courtiers come to pay tribute to a goddess-queen. She was Aphrodite.
Dave had brought a couple along, and Houston spent some time hitting on the woman, shamelessly, in full view of her boyfriend. She saidm "You look like my girlfriend." She said, "We met at a calendar shoot." She showed no interest in the boyfriend whatsoever.
Her advances were rebuffed, and she didn't seem to care too much. It was all a fairy tale for her, she was the girl who could magically command sex without emotional investment, who could use that to fill her purse without using many more skills than are issued to every single human beign upon birth.
She commanded me to kiss her at one point. This was a t a time when I was convinced that I was so ugly that no woman would ever seriously want any kind of physical or sexual contact with me whatsoever. I feared that she wanted me to kiss her so that she could make fun of me. I demurred. Not to mention the fact that if conventional women frightened me with their power to reject and humiliate, then this woman positively petrified me with terror.
So she commanded me to kiss the angel tattoo on the back of her neck, which I did happily. It was something I could tell my grandkids.
At one point I was in the Mean's room with Dave. Dave was not on cocaine. I know this because if he was then he would have been snorting it in the Men's room at that momment.
But you would think he was snorting cocaine the way he was flying, screaming at the ceiling in delight:
"I love New York, I love my life, I love porn, I love the world, I love houston. I'm going to fuck her you know."
I believed him. After all, he'd been right about her showing up, hadn't he?
And then it was time for Houston to do her next show. And we trooped up to Legs Diamond's - Dave, his little party, and myself who knows a once-in-a-lifetime experience when he's presented with one.
We took an elevator up four stories. The elevator was small and dark and crmaped. It had the desperate sweat of decades of Legs Diamond's customers caked into the walls. It opened ontoa dark corridor, which led to an open door behind which was alrge dark room pulsing with loud hair metal and colored lights strobing through cigarette smoke.
We found a seat. We did not tip the strippers making their way around the stage. We were sitting at a table away from the stage so we didn't have to. A couple of strippers made gestures for us to come closer to the stage so that we could tip them. We laguhed at them, and they made faces.
Soon it was Houston. And I must say, she certainly knows how to put on a show.
One audience participation bit she did involved getting random audience volunteers to come onstage. She would make fun of them and strip off their clothes. She would then cover them with shaving cream and dry hump them. One of the volunteers, certainly the most eager, was a lonely red-haired young man. He was wearing incredibly thick glasses. He was sitting alone, up in front of the stage.
As soon as Houston took the stage, he removed his glasses and hid them in his jacket. I had the feeling that his fantasy was that Houston would see him sitting up front, so handsome without his glasses on, and be siezed with a man-lust she had never felt before. She would want to have sex with him right after the show.
ANother bit she did was to take out several rolled-up posters that she had autographed. She would then penetrate herself with the posters in a parody of the act that men and women engage in to create babies. She would then toss these posters at her fans.
She gave of herself for over half-an-hour, never slowing down, always teasing her audience, always promising that she would want to have sex with everyone in the room if she was only given a fair chance. It was my favorite part, extended to a respectable length.
After the show, we hung out outside the door to the club. Dave was the last to arrive; he had gone to talk to Houston while she showered. We ended up talking to Houston's boyfriend. He was a recent high school graduate. She had gotten into the papers for going to the prom with him.
When Dave emerged with Houston, he recognized the boyfriend and acted like a startstruck teen meeting a rock star. He kept saying, "I know who you are! You were on Stern! You took Houston to the prom!"
And as he later learned from their mutual friend, Houston had thought Dave was cute, but then assumed that he was gay because he would not stop talking to the boyfriend. Thus, Dave lost his chance to sleep with a porn superstar. Instead, we split up on Broadway as everyone went their seperate ways to go home.
And I must say, that when I look back on this experience, my experience watching a porn star flirting with her audience, that it may have been the only time I genuinely enjoyed a porn experience.
Monday, July 07, 2003
I DON'T ENJOY PORN
People always assume that I'm lying when I tell them this. But it's true! And it's ironic, considering that I once hung out with a very famous porn star.
Pornography is children's literature; written by adults for children, or adults with an emotional level that was stunted around childhood. Pornography is the mechanics of love without the responsibility or emotional attachment. Like the mythically never-empty purse - the legendary enchanted purse that would always be full of money no matter how much was taken out - pornographic movies and stories allow their participants to withdraw all they need from each other physically without ever making an emotional investment.
Of course, the difference between the old folk tales about the magical purse and the new folk tales about the magical people who never need love is that the old stories always made a point about its heroes deserving the treasure they've gained. They usually have to go through pages and pages of trial and travail; fighting dragons and ogres and cyclops', and their reward is marriage to a princess and a magical item; armour or wishes or a magically refilling purse.
Whereas all the characters in a porn film have to do to earn sex is show up. To announce that they would like some sex now, please.
And some people might be offended that I say that pornography is children's literature, that it is ntohng but a fairy tale for little children and imbeciles. But if I had to explain the story of any porno film, I would say:
Once upon a time there was a beautiful woman who lived in a mansion in Southern California. Her greatest wish in life was to make babies. She was very sad because, although she had a nice house and a pool and a pretty body, she hadn't been able to meet anyone who had been able to give her babies.
She knew how people made babies. She went through the baby-making process several times a day with as many people as she could find.
She was so desperate that she asked the pool cleaner to give her babies. And although he tried for over twenty minutes, although he had given himself to her so enthusiastically that he left baby batter on her face and in her hair, he could not help her make a baby.
So then she asked the man who had just delivered her pizza to give her a baby. And he, too, put his all into it. She got so desperate that she asked a female friend of hers to help, but none of them could make babies, although they all committed the baby-making act together for hours and hours.
And since none of these people were able to help her make a baby, none of them got to marry her, none of them got to live with her in her mansion, and none of them got a magic purse.
What a nice world that pornography depicts: that this planet is full of people who, no matter their social class, no matter how smart or dumb they are, no matter what job they be doing at the moment, they will drop everything and help a woman in need make babies. What could that be but a fairy tale?
My favorite part of any porn film is always the foreplay, believe it or not. Not the pre-penetration oral sex. My favorite part is that moment before the sex act, when the characters are talking and touching, and about to kiss. If someone made a two hour tape of pre-sexual flirting, I would watch it.
That's right, I enjoy watching people flirt more than I enjoy watching people fuck. This probably makes me a pervert.
I have a theory about why I love the seduction part of pornography the most. My parents found hunting animals for sport morally reprehensible. After all, we can get all the meat we need from a supermarket, what's the point in making some random deer's life miserable and short? None. But Man is by his nature a hunting animal.
I never went hunting. The flirting ritual is my sport.
When I'm in a bar, or at a party, or on a date, and I'm in that grey zonewhere i've been talking to a woman, and we're sitting close, and perhaps our hands have been touching each others' - tapping, rubbing, holding, and we're clearly about to kiss. It's such an adreline-filled, danger-filled moment: Have I read the signs correctly? Will I be rejected? Will we end up sleeping with each other? Who will win?
This is always my favorite moment; pregnant with possibility and tension and magic.
But there's hardly any time spent in porn films on these pre-sexual rituals; "The Plot," as it's disdainfully referred to in the industry. Porno films are always about getting directly to the action. Its main customer base isn't interested in how the characters got to know each other, or what makes them desire to sleep with each other, to attempt to make babies with each other. Their main customer base wants to jerk off while they get to watch attractive people fuck each other.
I read a lot of porn when I was in my teens. Looking back on it, I realize that I was more intoxicated by the fact that, even though I was legally defined as a minor, that I could step into almost any store in the city, provided that sold dirty magazines and videos, and buy as many as I could afford. I was intrigued by the fact that I could possess something that I was not supposed to own. SAomething that I was forbidden by law to own.
What power I wielded! What power is bestowed on any young man who is willing to spend the money in his pocket!
If they made high school students read porn in English class, most of the companies in the business of creating and distributing it would go out of business.
And I can relate a story that is proof that I was definitely getting my kicks from the adventure of buying pornography than actually reading it. I remember this vividly:
I was sixteen and had to go to the doctor's office. My doctor was in Forest Hills, Queens, a fifteen minute walk from where I lived then. Where I live still. I had agreed to meet my father at the doctor's office, and he would give me a ride home.
On my walk up to the doctor's office, I had the urge to buy some pornography. I stopped into a random storefront bodega and purchased a shrink-wrapped package of 3 hard-core sex magazines for $9.99. Unlike mainstream porn, like Playboy or Maxim, these were magazines that made no pretensions about their literary quality, about their interest in promoting a hip lifestyle that young men should want to emulate. These were magazines concerned with the business end of the baby-making industry.
And as I walked up the drive of the house off of which my doctor kept her office, it occurred to me that I would have to hide my purchase of these magazines. I had no bookbag to stuff them into. Throwing them away was out of the question; this was a ten dollar investment.
Oh, the little tricks our subconscious mind plays on us - the mischievous little elves that hide behind our waking thought and give us those puzzling orders that we follow without even thinking. Why would anyone want to buy pornography right before a doctor's appoinyment? Where he would not only have to spend time with a woman who undoubtedly be offended if she were suddenly confronted with their presence in her office, but also meet his father, who would undoubtedly be ashamed at his son's complete inappropiateness, with an object he is not legally allowed to own, with an object of such awful filth and prurience.
Oh, the little jokes we play on ourselves!
I solved the problem in a completely haphazard and dangerous way: I cleverly hid the magazines under my jacket. Of course, I had to take off my jacket, if not because the office was warm, then to disrobe so I could get a full physical.
But I removed my jacket in such a way as to cleverly wrap it around the magazines and hide their existance from my doctor. And when the visit was over, and it was time to put my jacket back on, my father was in the office; it was a delicate balancing act, a clever magician's illusion I committed, waiting until they were in conversation before slipping the jacket back on with porn magazine hidden under it.
I didn't get caught. I won that game.
I definitely spent hundreds of dollars on pornography in my teens. I wouldn't be surprised if that number was over a thousand dollars. And of all the movies I saw, and of all the magazines I read, I only ever really enjoyed one story.
It was hidden in the middle of some lousy hard-core publication that probably made ten thousand times whatever they paid the people who participated in it. It was story of a young man who has just graduated high school, who finds his English teacher alone on at a beach resort. Her husband is coming in a couple of days, but right now she has her bungalow all to herself. She invites her former student to spend some time with alone with her at her bungalow.
And she seduces him. There is some conversation, and some drinking of beer, and much bodily contact. She invites him to dress and undress her. And it isn't until after much aniticipation that they have sex. The actual sex act doesn't receive much description. What can you tell a porn consumer that he hasn't already read or seen a thousand other places? Nothing.
Am I a monk? No. I enjoy a beautiful woman as much as the next man. I enjoy two beautiful women just as much. And yes, I will occasionally watch porn because it provides a fun, mindless, purely sexual release.
But I won't enjoy it.
TOMORROW:
HOW I GOT TO HANG OUT WITH A PORN STAR
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People always assume that I'm lying when I tell them this. But it's true! And it's ironic, considering that I once hung out with a very famous porn star.
Pornography is children's literature; written by adults for children, or adults with an emotional level that was stunted around childhood. Pornography is the mechanics of love without the responsibility or emotional attachment. Like the mythically never-empty purse - the legendary enchanted purse that would always be full of money no matter how much was taken out - pornographic movies and stories allow their participants to withdraw all they need from each other physically without ever making an emotional investment.
Of course, the difference between the old folk tales about the magical purse and the new folk tales about the magical people who never need love is that the old stories always made a point about its heroes deserving the treasure they've gained. They usually have to go through pages and pages of trial and travail; fighting dragons and ogres and cyclops', and their reward is marriage to a princess and a magical item; armour or wishes or a magically refilling purse.
Whereas all the characters in a porn film have to do to earn sex is show up. To announce that they would like some sex now, please.
And some people might be offended that I say that pornography is children's literature, that it is ntohng but a fairy tale for little children and imbeciles. But if I had to explain the story of any porno film, I would say:
Once upon a time there was a beautiful woman who lived in a mansion in Southern California. Her greatest wish in life was to make babies. She was very sad because, although she had a nice house and a pool and a pretty body, she hadn't been able to meet anyone who had been able to give her babies.
She knew how people made babies. She went through the baby-making process several times a day with as many people as she could find.
She was so desperate that she asked the pool cleaner to give her babies. And although he tried for over twenty minutes, although he had given himself to her so enthusiastically that he left baby batter on her face and in her hair, he could not help her make a baby.
So then she asked the man who had just delivered her pizza to give her a baby. And he, too, put his all into it. She got so desperate that she asked a female friend of hers to help, but none of them could make babies, although they all committed the baby-making act together for hours and hours.
And since none of these people were able to help her make a baby, none of them got to marry her, none of them got to live with her in her mansion, and none of them got a magic purse.
What a nice world that pornography depicts: that this planet is full of people who, no matter their social class, no matter how smart or dumb they are, no matter what job they be doing at the moment, they will drop everything and help a woman in need make babies. What could that be but a fairy tale?
My favorite part of any porn film is always the foreplay, believe it or not. Not the pre-penetration oral sex. My favorite part is that moment before the sex act, when the characters are talking and touching, and about to kiss. If someone made a two hour tape of pre-sexual flirting, I would watch it.
That's right, I enjoy watching people flirt more than I enjoy watching people fuck. This probably makes me a pervert.
I have a theory about why I love the seduction part of pornography the most. My parents found hunting animals for sport morally reprehensible. After all, we can get all the meat we need from a supermarket, what's the point in making some random deer's life miserable and short? None. But Man is by his nature a hunting animal.
I never went hunting. The flirting ritual is my sport.
When I'm in a bar, or at a party, or on a date, and I'm in that grey zonewhere i've been talking to a woman, and we're sitting close, and perhaps our hands have been touching each others' - tapping, rubbing, holding, and we're clearly about to kiss. It's such an adreline-filled, danger-filled moment: Have I read the signs correctly? Will I be rejected? Will we end up sleeping with each other? Who will win?
This is always my favorite moment; pregnant with possibility and tension and magic.
But there's hardly any time spent in porn films on these pre-sexual rituals; "The Plot," as it's disdainfully referred to in the industry. Porno films are always about getting directly to the action. Its main customer base isn't interested in how the characters got to know each other, or what makes them desire to sleep with each other, to attempt to make babies with each other. Their main customer base wants to jerk off while they get to watch attractive people fuck each other.
I read a lot of porn when I was in my teens. Looking back on it, I realize that I was more intoxicated by the fact that, even though I was legally defined as a minor, that I could step into almost any store in the city, provided that sold dirty magazines and videos, and buy as many as I could afford. I was intrigued by the fact that I could possess something that I was not supposed to own. SAomething that I was forbidden by law to own.
What power I wielded! What power is bestowed on any young man who is willing to spend the money in his pocket!
If they made high school students read porn in English class, most of the companies in the business of creating and distributing it would go out of business.
And I can relate a story that is proof that I was definitely getting my kicks from the adventure of buying pornography than actually reading it. I remember this vividly:
I was sixteen and had to go to the doctor's office. My doctor was in Forest Hills, Queens, a fifteen minute walk from where I lived then. Where I live still. I had agreed to meet my father at the doctor's office, and he would give me a ride home.
On my walk up to the doctor's office, I had the urge to buy some pornography. I stopped into a random storefront bodega and purchased a shrink-wrapped package of 3 hard-core sex magazines for $9.99. Unlike mainstream porn, like Playboy or Maxim, these were magazines that made no pretensions about their literary quality, about their interest in promoting a hip lifestyle that young men should want to emulate. These were magazines concerned with the business end of the baby-making industry.
And as I walked up the drive of the house off of which my doctor kept her office, it occurred to me that I would have to hide my purchase of these magazines. I had no bookbag to stuff them into. Throwing them away was out of the question; this was a ten dollar investment.
Oh, the little tricks our subconscious mind plays on us - the mischievous little elves that hide behind our waking thought and give us those puzzling orders that we follow without even thinking. Why would anyone want to buy pornography right before a doctor's appoinyment? Where he would not only have to spend time with a woman who undoubtedly be offended if she were suddenly confronted with their presence in her office, but also meet his father, who would undoubtedly be ashamed at his son's complete inappropiateness, with an object he is not legally allowed to own, with an object of such awful filth and prurience.
Oh, the little jokes we play on ourselves!
I solved the problem in a completely haphazard and dangerous way: I cleverly hid the magazines under my jacket. Of course, I had to take off my jacket, if not because the office was warm, then to disrobe so I could get a full physical.
But I removed my jacket in such a way as to cleverly wrap it around the magazines and hide their existance from my doctor. And when the visit was over, and it was time to put my jacket back on, my father was in the office; it was a delicate balancing act, a clever magician's illusion I committed, waiting until they were in conversation before slipping the jacket back on with porn magazine hidden under it.
I didn't get caught. I won that game.
I definitely spent hundreds of dollars on pornography in my teens. I wouldn't be surprised if that number was over a thousand dollars. And of all the movies I saw, and of all the magazines I read, I only ever really enjoyed one story.
It was hidden in the middle of some lousy hard-core publication that probably made ten thousand times whatever they paid the people who participated in it. It was story of a young man who has just graduated high school, who finds his English teacher alone on at a beach resort. Her husband is coming in a couple of days, but right now she has her bungalow all to herself. She invites her former student to spend some time with alone with her at her bungalow.
And she seduces him. There is some conversation, and some drinking of beer, and much bodily contact. She invites him to dress and undress her. And it isn't until after much aniticipation that they have sex. The actual sex act doesn't receive much description. What can you tell a porn consumer that he hasn't already read or seen a thousand other places? Nothing.
Am I a monk? No. I enjoy a beautiful woman as much as the next man. I enjoy two beautiful women just as much. And yes, I will occasionally watch porn because it provides a fun, mindless, purely sexual release.
But I won't enjoy it.
TOMORROW:
HOW I GOT TO HANG OUT WITH A PORN STAR
Thursday, July 03, 2003
WHAT A PERFECT GIFT FOR THE CLASSY LADY IN YOUR LIFE
The back reads: "EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH".
And of course, there's a lot more at the first official Liam McEneaney Superstore.
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The back reads: "EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH".
And of course, there's a lot more at the first official Liam McEneaney Superstore.
HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY
I myself will be taking a long weeknd from blogging. So this it until Monday.
Enjoy.
What are you going to give the country for her birthday?
WORDS
"'At least we still have freedom of speech,' I said.
"And she said, 'That isn't something someone else gives you. That's something you have to give yourself.'"
- Kurt Vonnegut. Hocus Pocus
PUTTING ON AIRS
A lot of people play air guitar.
I prefer to play air zither.
I don't know what a zither looks like or how it's played.
But I do know that neither does anyone else.
So I can get all crazy physical distorted.
MINING DISASTERS
Bad for miners, but great for folksingers.
THEY SAY THAT SO LONG AS YOU HAVE FRIENDS, YOU'LL NEVER BE POOR
And yet I've never had a store willing take my friends in lieu of money.
The closest I came was when one guy was willing to give me change.
In exchange for my best friend, he gave me two acquaintances, ten nod-to-say-hellos, twenty coworkers, and fifty drunks waiting for me to buy the next round.
Man, that is so wordy, it will be awesome to try on stage.
What if your friends are all poor and assholes, though?
The saying should be changed to, "So long as you have hostages, you'll never be poor."
WOMEN, HUH?
Some guys are fussy when it comes to women.
I only ask for one thing in a woman:
Lots and lots of alcohol.
After that, relationships are pretty easy.
YOU KNOW WHAT PRESSURE IS?
Being the second guy in a suicide pact.
Because I have second thoughts after I've ordered lunch at a diner.
There's got to be that moment where you're holding the gun, looking at your dead best friend, and saying, "You know, maybe shooting myself in the back of my dad's garage isn't the best way to serve Satan."
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!
|
I myself will be taking a long weeknd from blogging. So this it until Monday.
Enjoy.
What are you going to give the country for her birthday?
WORDS
"'At least we still have freedom of speech,' I said.
"And she said, 'That isn't something someone else gives you. That's something you have to give yourself.'"
- Kurt Vonnegut. Hocus Pocus
PUTTING ON AIRS
A lot of people play air guitar.
I prefer to play air zither.
I don't know what a zither looks like or how it's played.
But I do know that neither does anyone else.
So I can get all crazy physical distorted.
MINING DISASTERS
Bad for miners, but great for folksingers.
THEY SAY THAT SO LONG AS YOU HAVE FRIENDS, YOU'LL NEVER BE POOR
And yet I've never had a store willing take my friends in lieu of money.
The closest I came was when one guy was willing to give me change.
In exchange for my best friend, he gave me two acquaintances, ten nod-to-say-hellos, twenty coworkers, and fifty drunks waiting for me to buy the next round.
Man, that is so wordy, it will be awesome to try on stage.
What if your friends are all poor and assholes, though?
The saying should be changed to, "So long as you have hostages, you'll never be poor."
WOMEN, HUH?
Some guys are fussy when it comes to women.
I only ask for one thing in a woman:
Lots and lots of alcohol.
After that, relationships are pretty easy.
YOU KNOW WHAT PRESSURE IS?
Being the second guy in a suicide pact.
Because I have second thoughts after I've ordered lunch at a diner.
There's got to be that moment where you're holding the gun, looking at your dead best friend, and saying, "You know, maybe shooting myself in the back of my dad's garage isn't the best way to serve Satan."
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
SPECIAL MESSAGE FROM THE PRESIDENT
"Hail Satan!"
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"Hail Satan!"
SIDEKIX
I've decided that what I really need for my act is a sidekick; an Ed McMahon or a Hank Kingsley.
But my sidekick is going to need a good catchphrase, like "Yes!" or "You are correct sir!"
So here are some things my sidekick can say:
* "Ouch!"
* "Don't touch me there."
* "If you say so."
* "What a homo!"
* Long awkward silience followed by quiet sobbing.
* "Dear Lord."
* "It's so big."
* "Dude, I think that weed was dusted."
* "There are ugs crawling uder my skin."
* "Are we done yet?"
* "Hmm. I don't get it, but I'm sure that's funny."
* "I wish I was dead."
* "Help me. He's got my grandmother hostage."
* "What the fuck is your problem?"
* "This is terrible."
* "I just came in my panties."
* "Uh-oh, I smell trouble!"
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I've decided that what I really need for my act is a sidekick; an Ed McMahon or a Hank Kingsley.
But my sidekick is going to need a good catchphrase, like "Yes!" or "You are correct sir!"
So here are some things my sidekick can say:
* "Ouch!"
* "Don't touch me there."
* "If you say so."
* "What a homo!"
* Long awkward silience followed by quiet sobbing.
* "Dear Lord."
* "It's so big."
* "Dude, I think that weed was dusted."
* "There are ugs crawling uder my skin."
* "Are we done yet?"
* "Hmm. I don't get it, but I'm sure that's funny."
* "I wish I was dead."
* "Help me. He's got my grandmother hostage."
* "What the fuck is your problem?"
* "This is terrible."
* "I just came in my panties."
* "Uh-oh, I smell trouble!"
