WAITERS WHO SAY "GUESS YOU DIDN'T LIKE IT, HUH?" AFTER YOU'VE OBVIOUSLY CLEANED THE PLATE

Listen, just because you see me at this Olive Garden every Monday, Wednesday and Friday nights doesn’t mean we’re buddies, Rick. I appreciate your little witticisms about as much as I appreciate you not remembering to refill my coke every six minutes like I requested. Yeah, you got me, I practically licked the plate because I get a little insane when it comes to pasta in cream sauce, what of it? At least me and my skeletons bust out of the closet doing the Macarena. What are you hiding, Ricky? I don’t need you prancing over here like some Prancy McPrancerson with your little flair and your little judgments and your little jokes while I’ve got a raging case of the carb sweats. Yeah, I am crying if you really must know. But make no mistake, those aren’t tears of laughter from your clever little wisecracks, those are shame tears from eating my ever-increasing weight in bread sticks. Goddamnit those things are good, of course I’ll take another round. When are you guys getting a soft-serve machine?

DUDE ON DUDE LOL ACTION

DUDE1: Hey dude, what’s up?

DUDE2: Just chillin’ LOL

DUDE1: Why are you LOL’ing?

DUDE2: Ha, what’s good with you?

DUDE1: You know, this and that.

DUDE2: LOL

DUDE1: That wasn’t really a joke. Just kind of a throwaway statement.

DUDE2: LMAO

DUDE1: Like, you don’t have any more ass left?

DUDE2: LMFAO!!!

DUDE1: So, do you have that $20 you owe me?

DUDE2: No. Hey, I gotta go.

DUDE1: I need that money.

DUDE2: TTYL

SAYING "NICE COSTUME" TO SOMEBODY WHO ISN'T WEARING A COSTUME

I’ve done it, you’ve done it, we’ve all done it. Let’s end this vicious cycle and be better than the “nice costume” gag. Lawrence Eugene Walker was the first man to tell this joke in 1976 at his accounting firm in Omaha, Nebraska. We now refer to this as the joke’s golden age. That first year was duck soup for Lawrence. He delighted coworkers with his first attempt: “Nice costume. Jim Rockford?” Then he took things up a notch with the risky, but hilarious: "Love the getup, Alice. You look more like Dolly Parton than Dolly Parton!”

He quickly gained a reputation as a first-class yuckster around the office. Then the divorces came.

By 1980, he was all “Nice costume. What are you supposed to be, a goblin?” His joke took on a more sinister edge. The well was tainted by bitter tears, but that didn’t stop him from going back again and again. “Ah, you scared me, Gene. You should be an makeup artist in Hollywood!"

Sadly, his love for "grabbing a few beers" turned into full-flown alcoholism. And it affected his comedy. So he turned to cocaine. As a shadow of his former jovial self, the last straw burst into flames. “Nice costume, Terry. What are you a soul-sucking corporate shitbag with a pathetic excuse for a hairpiece?”

You see, Terry was his boss. Lawrence packed up his things, drove home, sat down on his couch and, well, the rest of the story is too ghastly even for today.

GOTH CHICKS WHO SAY LIKE A LOT

I dunno, just like, society sucks, you know what I mean? I can’t wait for the dark lord master of all things evil to like just take me away from all this boring suburban bullshit. Why am I even talking to you right now? You’re so totally clueless and bourgeois it makes me want to gag in my cauldron. Me and my friends will like rain down hellfire on your corporate ass or whatever. God I hate my parents. They’re so like ordinary, do you know what I mean? Like, they don’t even have any passion in life. Oh. My. Godfire. How boring can two people be? I’m so hella over them. They won’t even let me go see Avenged Sevenfold. Whatever, like I’d even want to get dropped off in our stupid minivan death trap. Yeah right. I’d die. Like, seriously, I’d die in that shitbox. LOL. I can’t even deal. Where are my cloves right now? 

SELFIE STICKS

You know what you can do with your selfie stick? You can shove it in recycling, that’s what.

EBOLA FEAR BACKLASH

People are catching all sorts of shit for being freaked out by Ebola, but that stuff ain’t no joke, folks. You should be freaked out. Things can spiral out of control faster than Rob Ford in New Jack City. Before you know it, you could be holed up in some farm doing everything you can to keep your family safe even though the owner and his hot daughter don’t want you there. Good thing she has yellow fever and your buddy is Asian or you’d be back wandering that lonely highway that looks like a Walmart parking lot on Black Friday. Then you find out a big group of infected people are in the barn. Great, now you gotta deal with that. Just when you think things couldn’t get any worse, you find out your best homeboy has slept with your wife. So he has to die. And it’s all affecting your son who won’t take off this stupid civil war hat he found who-knows-where. And you’re concerned because he’s turning into a real psycho, but you can’t delve into that issue because your wife is pissed because you’re pissed about her sleeping with your BFF. Seems pretty unfair, but that’s just the way things are in an apocalypse. Shit just has a way of getting real. But at least your hair looks super-cool when it’s all sweaty and greasy, because who has time to shampoo, much less condition? Regardless, that won’t put food on the table. And just when you think things are back on track after you kill your best friend – who was super annoying anyway – the infected people break out of the barn and start attacking. Naturally, you have to bone out which sucks because you were growing some tomatoes and you’d love to see how they turn out, but you always knew in the back of your head that this was no time for agriculture. So, you wander through the woods. We’re wandering, we’re wandering, we’re wandering until, awesome, you get separated from your buddies, including the hillbilly with a heart of gold and his dope-ass crossbow. The infected could be anywhere and that dude watched your ass even though you chained his brother to a rooftop forcing him to cut his own hand off just to get free, so you’re mad paranoid and your son is still wearing that stupid hat. Finally, by the grace of god, you find a prison that seems like a relatively good idea. You and the mrs finally get back to good and recapture the love, but boom, she dies giving birth and that’s a real bummer until you meet a rad hot black lady with a samurai sword and there seems to be a little spark there but who has time for love to blossom when you could have your face eaten off at any moment. Seriously, it could happen. So, stop being a jerk about my Ebola fear. Just stop.

TAKING THE SAME PICTURE 50 TIMES IN FRONT OF ME AT A SHOW

Listen, bro. I didn’t pay 7 bucks in ticket fees so I could see my favorite band through the screen of your dumb smartphone. Just get it as high as you can, tap to focus, fire away, bring it into instagram, select Amaro, add the hashtag, choose a location, upload, then head to the bar for a PBR tallboy to celebrate your victory. It’s not that tough. The shot is not going to get any better the harder you try. Photos don’t care which song it is. In fact, let’s all just use this shot and be done with it.

TOM SHANE

Every time I hear Tom Shane’s voice on the radio I have Vietnam flashbacks, and I wasn’t even in Vietnam. I’d rather hear #24 being called at the DMV when I’m holding #346. I’d rather hear Edward Scissorhands and Freddy Krueger play Hangman on a chalkboard. I’d rather hear my parents making love. I’d rather hear Drew Barrymore talk about politics. I’d rather hear my Aunt Gertie talk about getting Shingles. I’d rather hear a fracker tell me why Obama sucks. I’d rather hear Russell Crowe sing. I’d rather hear someone in flip-flops step on a rusty nail. I’d rather hear Tyler Perry pitch me ideas for a Mcdonald’s commercial. I’d rather hear Rosanne Barr sing the national anthem. I’d rather hear Gilbert Godfrey read Mountain, Get Out of My Way by Montel Williams. I’d rather hear Train cover Nickleback songs.

SEGWAY TOURS

I actually can’t figure out why this bugs me so much. People seem like they’re having a great time checking out the city, broadening their horizons and utilizing a kick-ass technology in the process. What’s wrong with that? Why do I want to throw a stick in their wheel of happiness? Why do I hope one of them gets clotheslined then poop-bombed by a seagull? What does that say about me? Am I an animal? Am I a Killjoy Jenkins who can’t stand to see people having righteous goodtimes? Or am I disappointed about what the segway has become? We thought it was going to change the world, but it just turned out to change the world for meter maids and goofball tourists. I think it’s how they look at me as they go whizzing by. They know how annoying they are. You can tell by the gleeful shame written all over their faces. Or maybe they just look stupid in those helmets. Yeah, it’s the helmets. Nah, they’re legally obligated to wear those. No sense suffering massive head trauma just to avoid annoying me. Maybe I’m just mad about how expensive it is. God I want to go on a segway tour so bad.

 

EVERY WIFE ON EVERY SHOW ON HGTV

I took a crack at what the casting specs must look like for ladies on shows like House Hunters:

Female, any race, ages 23-45. Looking for perpetually displeased women who feel like getting a 4 bedroom 2.5 bath is a god-given right. Must be really into laminate wood flooring, but only if it’s dark, because light wood is “so 90’s.” Must be between a 6 and 8 because we wouldn’t want to upstage the hosts, now would we? Bonus points for those willing to “do some of the work yourself” even though all you’ll do is move a small plank from the kitchen to the back yard. Pear bottoms are preferred. Applicant’s default facial expression must look like you’ve just smelled a compost bin in Mississippi in August. Your chances increase exponentially if you appear to be constantly on the verge of burning this whole motherfucker down. An underlying tension between you and your spouse is ideal. We want your overall aura to oscillate between a smoldering disappointment about having settled and genuine excitement about starting your first home with your young family. Must be able to speak freely about how hard it is to raise a kid and how you’re on the fence about having a second. Must also be comfortable with unleashing poison-tipped comments about how your significant other just has to have that man-cave for watching action flicks and football even though everybody knows it’ll just turn into a masturbatorium with wall-to-wall carpets.

And for the men:

Male, any race, ages 23-75. Just looking for some pushovers who look super-uncomfortable on camera. 

REALIZING YOU WEREN'T PAYING ATTENTION WHILE READING

Unless you’re immersed in the groundbreaking comedy that is this blog, reading can be a stone-cold drag. Just saying, the mind tends to drift when you’re forcing down something like The Corrections by that Snooze King Jonathan Franzen. It’s just droning on and on about some white dude in NYC who’s bored and has a shitty family. Everybody has a shitty family, man. Go hit some balls at Chelsea Piers then catch The Book of Mormon for chrissake. You’re in Manhattan. If you’re bored there, you suck. At least go chase down a good drunk over at McSorley’s. But it keeps droning on and on so you start thinking about awesome stuff, like finally getting bowling lessons or how fucked up zoos are. In fact, you’re probably thinking about something else right now while you’re reading this. I get it. No offense taken. I could say anything and it wouldn’t matter. You smell like my Uncle Pete’s gym socks. See, you have no clue how I just burned you two ways to Sunday. Nope, you’re too busy thinking about how cool it would be to have an invisibility cloak backstage at a strip club. In fact, I’m not even paying attention and I’m writing this shit. What was I talking about? Oh right, how boring reading is. So, you’re forcing The Corrections down like cold broccoli because you want your friends to think you’re smart and you start wondering if cavemen ever laughed at each other’s farts. I feel like it was such a common occurrence that it never fazed them. Plus, I bet dinosaur meat toots are so putrid they’re not even funny. Still, it’s great to think about them sitting around a cave chuckling over a few air biscuits. And then your realize you have no clue what that last six pages were about, so you have to pick right back up where the guy is complaining about not being able to write that novel that everyone’s going to forget. Goodness gracious, just walk out your door and get a sandwich in Soho or something. That area is sweet.

FOOD ADJECTIVES THAT DESCRIBE NON-FOOD ITEMS

Isn’t he yummy?

It’s a really juicy novel.
That skirt is spicy.
Check out those tasty waves.
Those breasts are extremely well-seasoned.

Okay, maybe not that last one.

CALLING THEM "ATM MACHINES"

The "M" stands for "Machine." Not a huge deal, but let's keep that in mind when asking people where the AT Machine is.

SINGER-SONGWRITER BANTER

(Tuning guitar) Thank you, thanks a lot. It’s great to be back at Jimmy’s. (Strumming) Ya know, we all go through times in life when, well, things seem to be changing, all around us (more strumming). A while ago I was experiencing a particularly tough series of transitions and this one sorta just, I dunno, it poured right out of me. It’s called “Sycamore Tree” (strumming harder). (Pause in strumming) It’s funny, isn’t it? The crazy‐go‐round we call love. (To the sound guy) I’m gettin’ a little too much in the...can you? Thanks. Anyway, what was I sayin’? Oh yeah, love, it can really put your head and heart in the spin cycle (strumming). The twists and turns, peaks and valleys. Like a, like a tornado ripping through a laundromat...in Peru. Metaphysically speaking of course (pensive chuckle). But maybe that’s just the crazy ravings of a madman (intense strumming). Or maybe the crazy ones are the only sane ones after all (mild strumming). When I was a kid, my pop would take me for long drives. Often down one of those two‐lane highways in West Texas. You know what I’m talking about (wink, knowing chuckle). One day always stood out to me. Not a cloud in the sky, radio turned up, Seger I think it was (wink). We had this green ’93 Buick Lesabre, with these really round wheels and a bumper and headlights on the front. And I’ll never forget, we drove past this old oak tree...(Intense strumming). Sometimes I think love is like that old tree. Thanks a bunch guys. That’s my time!

SHIRTS THAT TELL ME THERE IS NO OFF-SEASON

There is in fact an off-season, in every sport. In Major League Baseball, it goes from November to February depending on how far you go in the playoffs. In football, it starts right after Labor Day and ends sometime in December or January. Basketball and hockey – May through September. It’s a time to stop cheating on your wives and spend a couple hours a day watching your maids play with your kids. A time to catch up on your reading of comic books and positive articles about yourself. It’s your chance to get talked into purchasing the car dealership that will eventually bankrupt you. It’s months and months of nonstop pinball next to that stripper pole you had installed in your house. It’s heading down to the Keys with your teammates for some deep sea fishing by day and wife cheating by night. So, when you see someone with a “There is No Off-season” shirt, remind them to kick back and take it easy. You can't crush it 24/7/365. Then ask them why they tore the sleeves off. Those were probably perfectly good sleeves.

BAD HEROIN

There is nothing worse than a bad bag of Big H. I’ve seen it a thousand times. There you are on your futon on a Friday night getting amped for that sweet sweet China white. You’ve wolfed down a cold cut footie knowing that the black pearl will be the only thing on the menu for the next four to seven days. You can almost taste that Mexican mud coursing through your veins as you line up your water jugs so the skunk doesn’t dry you out like Tucson in August. You lick your lips with the excitement of a million sunsets, overjoyed to be hopping on that train for one more trip to Chivatown. But it’s not quite time to dive into the junk drawer because you still have to lay out 20 of your most reliable battery-powered votives to set the perfect mood for dancing with the dragon. Of course, you don’t want actual candles out because you have no clue how hard that gypsy horse is going to buck. Once the brown sugar makes it’s way into the cake, you don’t want flame anywhere around. I mean, why call the fire department when the white nurse is already on call? Then the moment of truth arrives. You’re ready to smack your friend in the face with a monster snowball. So you fire up the shit, take a puff and let out a disappointed cough. “Man, this stuff tastes like farts!” you yell angrily at your ferret as the scag pipe goes flying across the room. 

THE NEW YORKER CAPTION CONTEST

Over the past few years, I have submitted no fewer than fifty captions guaranteed to make even the coldest stone cry tears of thought-provoking laughter.

And what have I gotten in return? Crickets. Meadows and meadows of spiteful crickets.

I don’t know where they’re getting these so-called judges, but I can venture one guess: Moron School.

I’d be at my wit’s end if it weren’t boundless. But let’s let the evidence speak for itself, shall we?

My first submission was for a picture of a lawn mower with a pelican on it.

My caption: Perfect for cutting the grass and the cheese.

Solid gold, right? Because lawnmowers wouldn’t actually...Wait, I don’t need to explain it to you. You plus me equals same page. Unlike those New Yorker nincompoops, you understand that the pelican is a poor man’s flamingo and therefore irrelevant to the comedy at hand. You get me. I just wish those hifalutin hackjobs over at The New Yorker did.

My next submission was for an illustration of a dead guy lying inside a glass atrium. My caption: Welcome to the bonerdome.

Sorry you just spit coffee all over your mactop. How could that possibly not win? Dead guys are stiffs, stiffs are boners, atriums are domes. Perhaps it was a bit too layered for the Buffoon Brigade. It’s called nuance guys. Maybe you should go to the detective store and get a clue. See? I can’t turn this off.

The next one was a picture of a doctor looking at a patient with a knife sticking out of his back. My award-winning submission that was never to be: Let me guess, marital flatulation?

I even kept it cerebral by using the grad-school word for fart. Someone call the cops, because I just got tazed!

Finally, the coup de foie gras. The cartoon was a picture of two cowboys out on the range hugging as a cactus looked on. Warning, what you’re about to read may bust your gut:

Just a couple of completely heterosexual guys engaged in a bro-hug. This ain’t San Francisco.

Topical? Check. Edgy? Check. Hilarious? Checkmate.

The winner of that submission was some blueblood bastard named Preston from Cambridge, Massachusetts. You know who else is from Cambridge? Probably every judge on The New Yorker panel. Wreaks of blatant familial nepotism.

I can just picture them sitting in their Manhattan office, surrounded by rich mahogany as they play backgammon and pass the Grey Poupon to each other. That’s the room where groundbreaking comedy goes to die. I feel like Lenny Bruce and Gallagher and Joan Rivers all wrapped into one. Misunderstood and muzzled. But my motivation will not be mollified!

So, go on you big city snoots. Keep reading your Fox and Hound magazines and sipping your fancy Chardonnays. Keep burying your heads in the sands of mediocrity.

Because I won't change for you. But, eventually, you will change for me.

PREGNANT MANNEQUINS

Even if the boobs are awesome.

 

THE BACK CORNER BUS SEAT

I would venture to guess that the chasm between what I imagine goes on back there and what actually takes place is a small one indeed. Here's a list of what I’m pretty sure happens in this seat:

Gang related activity

Hobo Masturbation

Excrement handling and/or flinging

Teenage HJ’s

Criminal activity resulting in blood

Farting

Something involving menstruation

Satanic and/or religious graffiti

Reading of The Wall Street Journal

Heroin injection

Booger picking, rolling and flicking

Booger picking and smearing

The whispering of sexual advances and/or death threats.

Peeing

Something having to do with HIV

The lingering odor of death

CHURCH BONERS

Church isn't for camping, so when I pitch a tent I feel real bad. It's for serious reflection, soulful awakenings and wrapping yourself in the lord’s golden light. Not for acting like a pimply-faced middle school kid. It is simply unacceptable behavior for a highly respected member of the community like me. Not to mention, it lands you in one hell of a pickle. If you don’t stand at certain points it’s disrespectful to the baby Jesus. Then again, if you do stand and someone sees you partying at 3 o’clock, it’s almost worse. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place. In my defense, some women’s idea of what constitutes their “Sunday best” has gotten pretty darn risqué. I know, I know, no excuse. But you wouldn’t see that kind of skankery in a singles bar 20 years ago much less god’s house. Plus, if you go as many times as I have you pretty much have the thing memorized. The mind begins to wander. It’s just really really embarrassing. For everybody. Especially when I’m giving my sermon.