I’ve got a number of unfinished projects on my desk right now. Screenplays, sitcom pilots, a novel, an erotic novella, a few doodles of me slaying an evil unicorn and then saving some lusty broad from a castle tower. And also, this: a rough outline of the first in a series of lectures, an ongoing symposium, if you will, to be delivered to the students of Harvard Law School, when I receive an honorary doctorate degree from that institution, 23 years from now, after accomplishing a to be determined feat.
My first action: in front of a packed classroom in Austin Hall, I will hold up the textbook, Everything You Need To Know About Law, and address the students. “Do you all see what I’m holding in my hand? This book? Take a look. Everything You Need To Know About Law. (I’ll slowly rotate so everyone gets an eyeful, then bring it down, flip through a few pages) A fella could learn a thing or two from this.” Then I throw it over my shoulder, out the window, and say “That’s everything you need to know about law.” Hold for applause. Only then do I realize that I forgot to open the window beforehand. Glass shatters everywhere. No big deal. I tell the most knock-kneed, pock-faced chowderhead to clean it up, and wink at the cute chick in the front row.
I’ll continue: “You probably all want to hear about how I was once like you, a young, eager law student who put his pants on one leg at a time. Eat this guys—I don’t give a wet slap about law, and I don’t put my pants on one leg at a time, never have. The first time I dressed myself I sat on my bed with my pants at my feet. I scrunched the bottom of the pants up to the top, held them in both hands, and slipped both legs through at the same time.”
After that, give them all some bogus writing assignment on why they want to be lawyers, then duck out and play hacky sack on the quad with some major femininas.
I think that Kmart commercial would have been a lot funnier if everyone, instead of saying they just shipped their pants, said they had just shit their pants. There’s nothing funny about pants being loaded into a truck and delivered somewhere. And if they used my suggestion, there could be some kind of tie-in campaign with cleaning supplies and laundry detergent.
—this happened one time in a restaurant:
servant: “would you like soup or salad with that?”
me: “a super salad, eh? yes, yes that sounds good. i’ll have that.”
servant: “well, which one?”
me: “there’s more than one super salad?!”
it was kind of like one of those ‘who’s on first’ things
—every time one of my friends starts dating a new person, my first question for that friend is always, “what, is she blind and deaf?”
—why does the orkin man wear a helmet? they’re bugs.
—that’s all i’ve got.
—no it isn’t. i have a coworker with the last name Jass (i really do). not once have I asked if he has a relative with the name hugh. am i losing my wit, or finally showing signs of maturity?
Like Paul Crik instructs, just say yes to the impulse.
Dear charitable donor:
Greetings and salutations, you altruistic bastard! Thank you for your recent philanthropic contribution of one toilet seat with human feces on it. Our organization is grateful. I love dung—we’d all become very sick if our bodies didn’t produce it. Having said that, it is with great regret that we decided to reject your attempted donation.
I know, I know. The toilet seat was in good condition. I’m the first person to admit that. No cracks, well oiled hinges. Can’t ask for much more than that. And remember, in the opening sentence of this letter, I professed my love of scat, so please don’t take this next part as offensive. I’m not the bad guy here.
Apparently, there are “health codes” here in Minnesota. I hadn’t heard of them until this, either. I mean, it’s your right as an American to get as much soft serve on your personal toilet seat as you want. I’ll defend to the death that freedom. Supposedly, and I’m just quoting my superiors here, we are allowed to accept toilet seats as charitable donations, those are fine and dandy, but any residual splatterings that accompany them are strictly verboten. It’s a bunch of bureaucratic brew-ha-ha, if you ask me. Bowel movements are a part of life, like breathing. Next thing you know, we won’t be able to accept anything that has been breathed on. Thank you, liberal America. Or is it the conservatives? Either way, they’re both screwing people like you and me—the real heroes, the “little guys”—over in one way or another.
Yes, we need your “gently used” items. The term is a bit misleading, I see that now. In this floundering economy, our charity needs anything we can get our hands on. So what if you walked into the bathroom and spray-farted before you were properly seated, then decided the toilet seat that took the shot was good enough for those less fortunate? In my jaded vision of a perfect world, that would be acceptable. But, like I said, it’s my boss, not me, that’s putting the kibosh on this. I would loved to have picked up that festering poo-poo-platter, I really would have, but I’ve got a job to worry about here. Otherwise I’ll be the one needing your discards!
It is our benevolence that propels us forward as a species. But alas, as we continue on, sanitation is becoming an ever-enveloping issue. It just is. I’m going to fight this, believe me. Until the higher-ups pull their heads out of each other’s (probably properly-wiped) butts, can I ask that you please humor them and clean any trace of solid waste off of anything that you plan on donating to charity?
The guy who picks up the stuff you donate to charity
“Matthew Arnold set up three criteria for criticism: 1. What is the writer trying to do? 2. How well does he succeed in doing it? (…) 3. Does the work exhibit “high seriousness”? That is, does it touch on basic issues of good and evil, life and death and the human condition.” —William S. Burroughs, from A Review of the Reviewers
Let’s have a look. Number One on the list—what were the minds behind The Graduate attempting to accomplish? I believe the main objective was to constantly play Simon and Garfunkel songs while Dustin Hoffman stares at stuff, and also provide a set-up for the church scene in Wayne’s World 2.
Number Two—did they succeed? Well, the whole movie centers around Dustin Hoffman, staring at various things while Simon and Garfunkel songs play. They succeeded in that goal. The Wayne’s World 2 church scene also makes a whole lot more sense to me now. Success there as well.
Number Three—did the work touch on good/evil, the human condition, etc.? Yes, opposing forces meet, mingle, and ultimately clash. The themes and symbolism present in Hoffman’s erotic hotel rendezvous’ with the older woman which then segue into a relationship with that woman’s daughter are relatable, and could even be said to be archetypes present in Jung’s collective unconscious. And, finally—being honored with a parody by Mike Myers is a hallmark of “high seriousness.”
Going by these criteria, the movie appears to be flawless. By my criteria, it appeared to suck.
The Gay Illuminati: “The Bigots Are Right. Homosexual Marriage Is A Multi-Faceted Conspiracy Designed To Decimate Modern Society.”
In a deathbed purging of highly confidential material, a former high-ranking member of the Gay Illuminati recently revealed that everything the bigots have been saying is true: the legalization of gay marriage has nothing to do with basic human equality, but rather is one of the first steps in a complex, intricately weaved conspiracy aimed at blasting out the footings of “traditional” Americana, with the end goal being nothing short of total homosexuality for everyone, everywhere.
The dying man asked only to be identified as Ray, a descendant of the gay brother of Adam Weishaupt, who founded the Bavarian Illuminati in 1776. The Illuminati, an organization that has been thought throughout its esoteric history to have been behind a number of influential revolutions and assassinations the world over, also has a gay side that is just as diabolical, Ray said.
“You don’t know how good it feels to be telling this story,” Ray began, “It’s like a huge man in assless chaps has been lifted off my shoulders.”
“We’ve always operated on the fringes of society, in the shadows, behind the curtain. But now, with gay marriage at the forefront of public policy, the secret has been ‘outed,’ so to speak.”
Short-sighted, intolerant rednecks everywhere expressed their relief that the plan was caught before it could be executed. “Let me just say this: I knew it,” said a man in a mesh trucker hat, as tobacco spit dripped off his chin and mixed with the mustard stain on his wife-beater. He also had a little bit of poop in his pants. “I ain’t know how, but I knew it.”
Ray expressed surprise at how the conspiracy was revealed. “It’s funny,” he said, “I never thought we’d be found out, but worst case scenario, if we were discovered, I figured it would have been someone more, I don’t know what word to use here, imaginative? Cultured?”
According to Ray, the plan has been slowly coming to a boil for some time, right under the public’s nose. “It starts with gay couples adopting kids, and turning those kids gay. Straight, married couples have never been known to produce gay children, and our new recruits have got to come from somewhere.”
Out of touch, still-wishin’-it-was-the-1950’s-curmudgeons from the inner city to the suburbs felt validated. “I knew there was no way that lesbian couple up the street had any business adopting a child. Now I can be 100% positive that they only got it so they could make it into a gay,” said one suburban mother, who has never gone out of her way to befriend or even interact with a social demographic other than her own.
Ray explained a theory on why the Gay Illuminati’s scheme was uncovered. “We got greedy. That’s all there is to it. Just like our counterparts in the (straight) Illuminati were able to put the Eye In The Triangle right there on the dollar bill, to let everyone know they were watching, our own symbolism ultimately exposed us. Those red and pink ‘Equality’ symbols everyone is putting on Facebook? Those are just two pills that turn people into homosexuals. I can’t believe how many people fell for that one.”
One man, described by his Neo-Nazi friends as “kind of a prick,” and who also would have opposed desegregation and women’s suffrage, had he been alive at the time, added this: “If I see one of them ‘Coexist’ or ‘Tolerance’ stickers on a car, or any sort of automotive decoration containing three or more colors of the rainbow, it’s my duty as a straight American to, at the very least, bust out a taillight, or let the air out of the tires. That oughta stop ’em from gettin’ to their secret meetings.”
Ray continued. “The ignorant masses were right all along. Gay marriage was only supposed to be the springboard. After that, we were going to push for animal/human marriages, which would lead right into inanimate object/human marriages, then animal/animal marriages, then object/object marriages, and, eventually, a bisexual camel would become president and usher in the complete and utter destruction of every institution that straight people have ever held dear. But some way, somehow, the completely clueless homophobes were able to foresee all that. Dammit.”
The ultimate question: who was the oblivious hate-filled ignoramus who blew the lid off of the plan? Ray reluctantly told the story: “Well, we were operating out of a small restaurant in Minneapolis. To make sure no one would ever wander in off the street, we named it ‘Iranian Hot Dog Buffet.’ And, what do you know, one night some illiterate white trash, alcoholic hooplehead came busting in, saw the diagrams we had drawn out, snapped a picture with his iPhone, and scampered off.”
“Once that photo leaked, the one man no one ever wants to meet, the Gay Illuminatus Primus, paid me a visit, and injected me with the poison that is now slowly killing me.”
After those words, Ray slipped into the death grips. He mustered a final statement:
“My one regret is that I will never witness the bisexual camel take control,” he wheezed. “That would’ve been cool.”