Archive | February, 2012

A Very Ironic Thanksgiving

27 Feb

(A family is gathered in their dining room for Thanksgiving. The table is covered with an embroidered tablecloth and loaded with china bowls of food. A kind-looking mother and father are sitting there, along with their heavily-tattooed and pierced son.)

MOM: Josh, it’s so nice that you got here from Portland for Thanksgiving. That storm could’ve really messed up your travel plans.

JOSH: Please, Mom, call me Lotus.

MOM: Lotus?

LOTUS: Yes, Lotus. My yogi gave it to me. He says I am radiant like a lotus blossom.

DAD: That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, Josh. Are you still playing guitar?

LOTUS: The guitar? I sold it. As of now, I’m playing lead in an all-accordion post-glam pre-thrash speed folk band. We’ve got a cool 26 plays on MySpace since March. We’re working on this new three track EP that will sell in almost 7 stores across Oregon. It’s gonna be sick!

DAD: You know what, Josh-


DAD: Fine, Lotus. But when are you gonna get a job? Or go back to school? You had a full ride to Berkeley.

(Lotus’s disgusted cringe makes the dragon tattooed on his neck dance. His mom starts to tear.)

LOTUS: I told you, Berkeley was inhibiting my creativity. Besides, I have a job: I’m an Occupy manager for my block.

DAD: Sure, you make two bucks a week sleeping in your own feces with other weirdos. That’s exactly what a National Merit Scholar should be doing with his life.

MOM: Harold, stop it! Don’t ruin another Thanksgiving!

LOTUS: Yeah, cool it Dad. I’ve been sending resumes around as well. And I’m going back to school.

DAD: Oh. Then I’m sorry. So what’s this you’re doing?

LOTUS: I’m going to the Portland School of Glass-blowing, and you don’t need to pay a thing. I’m becoming a barrista.

DAD: Fine, I don’t give a rat’s ass. Do whatever you want to do, but I’m not paying for it anymore.

(Lotus  slams his chair against the table and walks into the kitchen. His mom follows him.)

MOM: Honey, don’t worry. You can stay here whenever you need to.

LOTUS: (tearfully): Really? Thanks, Mom.

MOM: Of course, sweetie. Just take those tunnel plugs out of your ears, please. You look like the plumbing department of a hardware store.

A Sweet Tooth for Danger

25 Feb

Basking in the midday Chicago sun through the window, I heard the knock on the door. Fingering my revolver, I called them in. In walked a Lyle Pipwell, an elderly tub of blubber whose gray mustache shone with perspiration.

“Ted Hewitt, P.I.?” he called.

“Names are like bathrobes. Don’t wear them out.”

“I need your help Mr. Hewitt,” he quivered. “A man my age has certain needs, you see, and my wife Maureen refuses to let me satisfy them.”

Simultaneously intrigued and repulsed, I kept listening.

“I’ve got a little bit of a sweet tooth, Mr. Hewitt, and Maureen won’t let me indulge in anything. I’ve tried bringing candies into the house and she always just steals them from me. Nowadays, I’m forced to get my fix on the street. I went to the place all my friends from golf go.”

I’m a pretty tough guy to surprise, but this news caught me off guard. I’ve met plenty of drug dealers, murderers, rapists, massage therapists, dog breeders, and the likes in my day as a private investigator, and this was the first I’d heard of any new chocolate ring.

“And that’s not the half of it. The boss, a secretive guy, nobody’s ever seen him, some low life name Mr. W. I got a letter yesterday saying if he didn’t get my money in a week, he’d tell Maureen. God, Mr. Hewitt, I love Maureen. I need your help.”

As much as Lyle’s blabbing disgusted me, I knew I had to crack down on this candy ring. Lyle told me about his personal liaison, a gangly, adolescent who reeked of rotten eggs, a boy by the name of Kenny A. When we met on the corner of Eighth Street, his brown overcoat was blurred by the city smog. I walked up behind him, and whispered to his back, “Lyle sent me.”

“Oh yeah?” he crooned in his vagabond drawl. “What can I getya?”

He covertly peeled open the left side of his coat, revealing a venerable cornucopia of chocolate sweets. Eyeing the candy Mecca, I noticed Easter bunnies and Santas, chocolate shofars and a crisp stack of chocolate-coated egg matzoh.

“Gimme two of them shofars,” I said. As he motioned for the goods, I introduced his left ribs to the butt end of my revolver.

“Woah, man! Cool it! I’m jus’ a middleman,” he gasped.

“Take me to Mr. W.”

“The Tubman coffee shop. It’s a front.” The fear in his uneducated voice was obvious.

The Tubman coffee shop is a quaint little café, one that is unassuming to the casual passerby. I walked in on a rainy Saturday morning.

“Hello sir, what would you like?” called the cashier, wearing a green apron. His eyes were dazed and his hair greasy: tell-tale signs of a recent chocolate binge.

“Take me to Mr. W.,” I asked. The attendant gestured toward an employees only stairwell. I eagerly walked down through the mildew-infested corridor. What I beheld at the landing is one of the most heinous sights I’ve ever seen in my six weeks as a private investigator.

Walls lined with Guylian shells. Cardboard boxes overflowing with Lindt truffles were stacked in the corners. In the center of the room was a red velvet throne with brass rivets and mahogany arms. On it sat Mr. W.

Wearing a plastic crown and a lap full of green army men, sat a boy of no more than eight. Despite his age, he managed to suck all of the cheerful air out of the room. The mere thought of making eye contact gave me the willies, but I spoke up.

“Excuse Mr. W., do you happen to know of a lovely woman named Maureen Pipwell?” I called. He did not even look up from his toys.

“Get him out of here! This guy’s trouble,” he squealed, his childish innocence fading before my eyes. In that time I’d pressed the police alert button in my pocket, and I could already hear the sirens. I smirked and said, “Do you have a spelling test soon? Because I bet you’ll have to know the words extortion, bribery, and drug dealing!”

Later that day, Lyle and Maureen met in my office. They hugged tearfully, as I waited for them to thank me. They finally let each other go and turned toward me.

Maureen started, “Thank you for saving our marriage Inspector Hewitt.”

Lyle chimed in, “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

Swelling with pride, I replied, “It was my pleasure. You can wire the money to my Bank of Chicago account.”

I watched the happy couple leave my office, and flopped down in my black leather chair.  I grabbed a cigar from the drawer and lit it up. That’s when the next client walked in.

Vote for Me! Or Else…

20 Feb

Dear Sir or Madame,

My name is Lenny Marinolo, and I am running for Cosa Nostra lieutenant in your district! For the past three decades, I have served as the the Mortadella King of Staten Island, and any mortadella moving in and out of the tri-state area had to go through me. I have been involved in such important hits as the Great Sinker of ’75, the Trifecta of ’89, and the Rosanelli-Adolfo project of the late ’90s.

I implore you to consider me as your choice for your next district lieutenant. I am the only candidate with such an extensive and illustrious career in organized crime. In fact, The New York Times just endorsed me for the position. I was a 2006 Mafioso Lifestyle “Gangster to Watch”, and was a nominee for “Best Lock-picking” at the 2010 Mobby awards show.

As you can see, Lenny Marinolo is the only choice for lieutenant in your district. In fact, I literally am the only candidate after the tragic accidental death of Big Joey Lotelli last week. So next Wednesday, March 10, head down to Neighborhood Choice Laundromat, and circle “Lenny Marinolo” on your ballot.


Lenny Marinolo
Mortadella King
Staten Island, NY

P.S. That last sentence wasn’t a suggestion.

Newt Gingrich’s Epic Blunder

18 Feb


JACKSON (Lighter Side of the Moon) –

While campaigning in Jackson, Mississippi this week, Newt Gingrich angered many black supporters after calling on them to “cast their three-fifths of a vote” for him.

This comment has been a major blow to the Gingrich campaign, and his popularity in polls has waned severely among many key demographics. Many Mississippi voters say this gaffe will cost Gingrich their vote.

Caroline Jones, 34, was in attendance at the rally. “I already knew Newt was an extreme racist, I mean, how can you not, but this really just put it front and center.”

A Gingrich spokesperson said at a press conference that Newt was unaware of his mistake while onstage, but after his speech quickly realized his error.

“He didn’t really know what the Thirteenth Amendment was, but after his staff explained it, Newt felt incredibly apologetic,” added the spokesperson.

Gingrich has not made an official announcement since the speech, but he is rumored to be choosing a woman of color as his next mistress, to prove he is accepting of all people. The Gingrich campaign would not answer calls to confirm this.

Today’s Random Thought

15 Feb

While Canada is an important producer of maple, petroleum, and funny accents, their chief export is obviously temptation.

This is legal in 40 states:


This is illegal in 50:


A Sixth Grade Girl’s First Month on Facebook

14 Feb

Day 1: Sabrina Johnston joins Facebook.
Tanya Goldfarb OMGGGGGGGGG!!!!! Sabrinies finalyyyyyyy got on Faceboooooooook!!!!!!!! Heart u gurrrrrrrrrrl!!!

Day 4: First photo album, entitled “Mittens”. 162 pictures of her cat, Mittens.
Jenna Lubavitz LMAO!!!1!! Your cat is totes adorbs bedorbs! Love ya sabrina!

Day 7: New profile picture.
Rebecca Christianson Slovensky OMFFFG! This prof pic is gorg! Youre stunning! Work it babe!!!!
Sabrina Johnston Delete this ahora!! I look gross. FML, im so disgusting!!

Day 11: Starts using “Friendly Questions”. Sends approximately 12 notifications daily to friends.

Day 21: Makes fake profile for substitute teacher “Mildred MacCunnen”. First status from fake profile reads, “hi, im mildred and I def pick my nose and sleep during period 2 pre-algebra!”
Jenna Lubavitz hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhhhhahaaa 😀 can’t believe u made this! youre so frickin hilarius sabrinie!! 😉

Day 30: Facebook account deleted due to failing grades in 3 classes. Teachers suspect FarmVille.

Closed Captioning for this Blog Provided By…

13 Feb

Settling down with a delicious Pepsi cola, I began to reflect on marketing in the modern day. Nowadays, popular companies such as Pepsi routinely pay TV shows, movies and writers to market their products with subtlety in their work. You can’t do anything it seems without seeing that distinctive blue can full of creamy, smooth soda stuck right in your face. Does it not seem wrong that your favorite celebrities are drinking that wonderfully cold Pepsi cola as a means of advertising? We need to know whether the people we look up to are actually drinking that wonderful Pepsi on their own accord, or being paid to do so! This constant product placement will soon blur the line between art and economics, and that fabulously refreshing Pepsi cola will be caught right in the middle of it! Darn, I need another Pepsi to cool off.

You Say Apathy Like it’s a Bad Thing

9 Feb

Sadly, Nickelodeon is reporting big losses this quarter. They have attributed this to a lack of fresh new TV show ideas being made available and it’s true: most of them stink. But luckily, I have an idea to save the industry.

Every single Disney or Nick show has the exact same main character: A perky, likable girl and her close-knit friends who often stand up for each other, who do something together while battling bullies and other teenager things. (Alcohol and teen pregnancies are usually two subjects avoided in this market.)

Clearly, that model isn’t working. That’s why my new character is the least interesting person in the world. A teenage boy, Chuck, with oppressive acne goes to school and hangs out with his teenage friends Paxton, Angus, and Leroy who frequently ridicule each other. He usually goes home afterwards and plays video games, all while maintaining an acerbic relationship with his parents. Here’s a sneak preview.

(Chuck is sitting at home playing video games. The doorbell rings and he goes to get it, only after hearing it play six times. He walks downstairs, delicately fingering a yellow zit on his jaw. He opens the door to find a mailman struggling beneath a large package. Please, keep your mind out of the gutter.)

MAILMAN: One package for Chuck Thrushberry.

CHUCK: Harumph.

(Bending over to pick up the box, Chuck accidentally lifts the mailman. After noticing that the object he has picked up is not cardboard, he sets the postal worker down roughly.)

MAILMAN: Have a nice day!

CHUCK: Don’t tell me what to do.

(After closing the door, Chuck meanders back into the kitchen, where he opens his box. After searching for a box cutter but coming up fruitless, he pulls out a dirty spoon instead. The box is quickly covered in soggy cereal and hours-old milk, but has opened. Chuck reaches in to pull out a large bag of cupcake mix. Though he may come off simple, Chuck does have a secret affinity for the culinary arts. Conveniently, almost as if it were scripted, Mrs. Thrushberry appears, still unaware of her son’s talents with a cake mold.)

MRS. THRUSHBERRY: Aren’t you a little old to be making cupcakes, Chuck?

CHUCK: Aren’t you a little old to be in a onesie?

(Having only seen her face, the audience now learns Mrs. Thrushberry is in fact wearing a onesie, and she quickly leaves the room with no explanation. Turning away, Chuck’s fingers once again return to the yellow zit. Chuck pulls away quickly, remembering that if he coddles his zits, they may never be able to live on their own, and once again hikes upstairs for more video games.)

Riding the School Bus … to Depression

3 Feb

Recent statistics have shown that kindergarten at Trinity School in Manhattan is more exclusive than Harvard. The question on everyone’s mind is this: How does a school screen kids in pull-up-pants for intelligence? Here’s the admissions process at my ideal kindergarten.

1. Start with a snack. Offer carrots and cookies. Weed out all those who debate their decision. The world leaders of tomorrow need to be decisive.

2. Bathroom break. Everyone that quietly uses the restroom without mention of their genitalia should be instantly removed. We don’t need any stiffs making this kindergarten stodgy.

3. Examine work from pre-k. Does macaroni art show creativity and care? Can they successfully operate a glue stick? Did students actively respond to literature and make connections? (Ex: Harold has a crayon and so do I. I love reading.)

4. Finish off with a game. Can students independently navigate Candyland, or do they need constant assistance? Does the student understand the subtle differences between “duck”, “duck”, and “goose”? Can the student build a block tower up to waist height without kicking it accidentally?

For some, this game was a land of difficulty and confusion.

Apparently these kindergarteners had to take several standardized tests to have their application considered. The fact that they could even sit at a desk for more than six minutes is frightening, and I am forced to wonder if these are actual five-year-olds. The Dominican Republic baseball team has done well by overshooting the age limit by several years, and the possibility that this occurs in kindergarten application pools is not wholly ridiculous. We’ll just need to cut the habit when they start shaving.

Today’s Random Thought

1 Feb

Boca Raton and Botox share only four letters, but 10,000 foreheads.

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