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August 2007

August 24, 2007

Give a Little, Get a Little

Sometimes you have to give a little to get a little. A couple weeks ago, I was standing in the roadway median with an empty Burger King cup, asking motorists stopped at the traffic light if they could "spare a little change." For the most part they just pretended they didn't see me, which I found hard to believe considering I was wearing a full Batman costume (rental). One fellow remarked that he found it hard to believe that a fellow who could afford to rent such a professional looking Batman costume would need any "spare change," to which I responded, "Hey Buddy, if you had any idea what this costume cost to rent, you would understand EXACTLY why I need the extra cash!"

(By the way, the costume cost two hundred and fifty dollars for the day, but I wasn't about to tell HIM that.)

A few people laughed at me, which I expected, and one elderly woman asked if I could help her out of a jam. I'm paraphrasing here, of course. Old women don't say "jam," unless they are talking about jelly. For some reason, they never say "jelly," and just to clarify, she didn't ask me to "help her out of a jelly," which wouldn't make any sense, although if she had asked me to "help her out of SOME jelly," that would make sense, although I can no more imagine why anybody would be stuck in jelly in a roadway median than they could probably imagine why a wealthy and well-known comedian would be begging for spare change while wearing a very professional looking Batman costume.

Anyway, as I said, this lady was in some trouble. It seems her no good son was freeloading at her home, not paying rent, not helping buy groceries, not doing much of anything except sitting on his fat ass in front of the TV, and mooching off his mama. She asked if I would help with the situation. Traffic had kind of slowed down at that point, so I agreed. I got into her Corolla and we drove back to her house, which was a cute little Dutch Colonial on the end of a cul-de-sac in some town that seemed a little on the Jewy side to me.

When we got there, she led the way into the house screaming, "Arnold, Batman's here to kick your ass!" At this point, I started to get nervous because the truth is, I wasn't really planning on kicking anybody's ass, not even the ass of a free loader. There were two reasons for this. The first was that I have limited (non-existent) combat skills. The second was that I was afraid of losing my deposit on the costume if it ripped or got stained (another two hundred and fifty dollars). In my head, I was thinking more along the lines of giving Arnold a stern talking to in my best Batman voice. In fact, I had been practicing on the car ride over: "Arnold, you need to get a job. So sayeth Batman." I know that Batman never says "sayeth," but I always figured if you're "The Dark Knight," you should occasionally say things like "sayeth." That's what I was planning on doing, anyway.

Like all battle plans, however, this one was immediately discarded upon confronting the enemy. First of all, I felt like the old lady had misled me somewhat about Arnold. Yes, it was obvious that Arnold wasn't contributing to the household in any way. He was morbidly obese and dressed in soiled clothes that looked as though they hadn't been changed in weeks or maybe even months. He was about forty or forty five years old, unshaven, and plopped directly in front of the television, just as she described. What she had neglected to mention was that Arnold was obviously severely retarded. And it wasn't just his helmet that gave his condition away. It was the drool and the fact that when I entered the living room he looked at me and starting yelling "BA-MA! BA-MA!," which I was told was the way Arnold said "Batman."

(To be honest I kind of figured that out on my own, but I thought there was a long shot possibility that he was yelling "Badminton! Badminton!" which would have been very strange considering the circumstances, but honestly, what do you expect from a retard?)

The old woman started yelling at Arnold, telling him Batman was there to straighten him out and that I was going to kick his ass and that if he thought he could get away with "this," he had another think coming. Well, I just kind of stood there, completely unsure what to do. On one hand, I was beginning to feel sort of foolish about the whole situation. I mean, here I was, in this strange woman's living room in my Batman costume when I could be out there in the roadway median asking strangers for change. On the other hand, I did agree to help her out of a jam (paraphrasing), although it was becoming less and less clear to me exactly what the jam was, and what she expected me to do about it.

Grudgingly, and more as an attempt to extricate myself from this incredibly awkward situation than anything else, I went over to Arnold and said, "Arnold, get your act together. So sayeth Batman." Then I kicked him in the stomach.

It wasn't a very hard kick, just enough to startle him, but it pleased the old woman enormously. She started clapping her hands and saying, "See? See that?" After a few tears, Arnold turned his attention back to the television ("Days of Our Lives,"). She seemed satisfied with my performance. Then she opened her purse and handed me a five dollar bill. I briefly considered turning down the money on the assumption that Batman would have turned it down, but then I reflected on the fact that Batman didn't have to rent his own costume. So I took the money and put it in my Burger King cup, which at this point was crumpled up in my jeans pocket (underneath the costume.) Then she gave me some lemonade and drove me back to the median, where I didn't make another dime.

The next day I returned the costume and on my way out, the guy asked if I would be renting it again the following week, as I had indicated I might. I told him I would not.

August 13, 2007

What a Birthday!

What a birthday! What a BIRTHDAY! Thank you all for you nice messages and sexual innuendos. They were just the icing on the cake of a PERFECT BIRTHDAY!

How did I spend my special day? Fulfillling a lifelong wish of mine, my wife (reluctantly) rented a silverback gorilla for the day. For those of you who don't know, a silverback gorilla is the most majestic of all the great apes. The guys dropped the gorilla off at the house at around eight in the morning. Was I surprised? To say the least!!!

First of all, Jimmy (the gorilla) was much larger in person than I would have expected. He stood about six feet tall on his legs and weighed somewhere around five hundred pounds. Touchingly, he was also very shy. At first he wouldn't do much of anything except stand in the living room and look around, but after the kids came down, he started to get very agitated and pretty soon was doing normal gorilla stuff: panting, hooting, and breaking everything.

Needless to say, the kids were terrified, but I tried to explain to them that Jimmy was a lot more scared of us than they were of him. As it turns out, that may not have been true, because the kids were really, really terrified: screaming and crying and trying to escape the house, whereas Jimmy very quickly established dominance and pretty much kept the rest of the family from moving at all by swiping at us with his mighty paws if we so much as raised our heads off the floor. It was exhilirating and awe-inspiring all at the same time.

At one point, Jimmy killed the dog.

Around lunch time, my wife gave Jimmy a big bowl of fruit and termites, which he quickly devoured. Re-energrized, he then wanted to "wrestle." In my readings, I'd learned about gorilla play activities, and so I engaged Jimmy in a little "combat." Of course, an adult male mountain gorilla is considerably stronger than a middle-aged human comedian, and so I proved to be no match for him, but we had fun. Did he break my arm? He did. Did he puncture my lung? He did. Do I have still have a spleen? The doctors will let me know soon.

Also, he fucked my wife.

Before we knew it, the day was over. The guys came back, shot Jimmy in the neck with a tranquilizer dart, and hauled him back to wherever they keep him. I was left with my aforementioned injuries, two traumatized kids, and one wife who is unsure (in a legal sense) if she is was raped or not. But more than that, more than the house which will almost certainly not be covered by homeowners insurance due to the fact that we invited a wild gorilla into it, something that insurers generally frown upon when reviewing claims. Ditto: medical. More than all of that, we are left with incredible memories of spending a day with one of God's most fascinating and inscrutable creations.

Would I change anything about my birthday present? No I wouldn't. It was a perfect birthday!

(Incidentally, the kids didn't get me anything.)

August 05, 2007

Thoughts from a Chicken Contemplating Suicide

What's the point? I mean, what's the point of anything? We're put on this earth, peck a little dirt, lay a few eggs, and then we die. Once in a while maybe there's a little corn, maybe some bread. But mostly it's just sitting here listening to those gossipy bitches around me and wondering what I've done with my life.


I had dreams. When I was a little girl, I tried to teach myself tic-tac-toe. Thought maybe that could be my ticket out of here. Didn't get very far with it. Didn't have the skills.

And I wrote a little poetry. Just some stupid love poems, which I never showed to anybody. What was the point? Besides, there's only so many words that rhyme with "rooster:" Booster. Toaster (kind of). After that, I was kind of at a loss.

There goes Reggie. Look at him, shaking that stupid wattle of his like he's God's gift to chickens. And all those pathetic girls fluttering their wings. "Hi, Reggie!" "Over here, Reggie!" "Look at me, Reggie!" Makes me sick. I don't think he even knows my name.


There he goes. Asshole. I don't care. I mean, what if, by some chance, Reggie were to come up to me (as if) and offer to fertilize my eggs? Do I really want to bring chicks into this world? Not a chance.

Oh God, I gotta lay one.

I should just kill myself. That would show Reggie and those bitchy girls and everybody. I should just walk right out of this coop, over the fence, and wait for that fox. They probably wouldn't even notice. Maybe after a few days, somebody would go, "Where's Leslie?" Maybe they'd be sad for a couple days, but probably not. At least not on the outside.

Unspoken chicken rule: never let 'em see you cry.

Garbage Day

What do you mean you didn't take out the trash? Friday is garbage day - that's why we call it GARBAGE DAY! You really are a fucking idiot. I mean, I know a lot of idiots: my boss, the guy at the car wash who doesn't know how to give correct change, those stupid kids who bag the groceries at the store, my sister and her idiot kids, the dentist who told me I needed a crown when I clearly DIDN'T need a crown - all of them are idiots in their own special ways. You, however, you transcend mere idiocy because even idiots - even every day, run of the mill idiots, no matter how severe their stupidity, no matter how brain dead, even THEY know that Friday is garbage day.

You have ten fingers right? And there are only seven days in the week, right? So even an idiot could count every single day on his fingers if he had to. But you can't even do that. Which is why I have a devised a special category for you. That of the fucking idiot. And that's what you are. A FUCKING IDIOT!

Maybe you think I'm being redundant. Maybe you think, "Alright Dad, I get the point." And if you were a normal human being, I would agree. If you were even a sub-normal human being, I would probably agree. If you were merely a highly functioning retard, I would almost certainly agree that I am, in fact, beating the proverbial dead horse here. But I want to make sure you understand the point I am making, and to do that, I have to be absolutely certain that you comprehend the fact that you are a FUCKING IDIOT.

You see what I'm doing here? I'm drawing a picture on the wall. I know I'm not a great artist, but bear with me. Here is a circle for the head, two eyes which are crossed, a wavy line for a mouth, and two buck teeth. Now I am drawing an arrow and next to the arrow I am writing the word, "You." I'm reading it out loud because I don't trust that you are capable of reading. And underneath the picture where a cartoonist might draw his caption, I am writing two words. Those two words I will read to you out loud, because, again, I'm not convinced somebody such as yourself has the ability to actually piece together the letters of our alphabet in order to form words. The words, in this case, are "FUCKING IDIOT." You'll notice that I capitalized the words for emphasis.

I'd like you to sit on the stool there and contemplate this drawing for the next two hours. And when you are done with that, I would like you to do your best to replicate that drawing on a sheet of paper and pencil which I am providing. The only thing I would like you to change is to replace the word "you" with the word "me." Then I would like you to take that drawing and affix it to your shirt with this piece of tape I am also providing. Then we are going to the mall where your friends hang out and we are going to go window shopping for several hours.

After we get home, I'm going to take a shit and you are going to scoop that shit out of the toilet and put it in a little baggie, and put that baggie in your room until next Friday, otherwise known as GARBAGE DAY! On that day, you will remove that baggie from your room, place it in the garbage can, and take it out, just like I asked you to do this morning.

Unfortunately, though, you forgot. Because you are a FUCKING IDIOT! Alright, enough. I think I made my point.

I love you.

August 03, 2007

Some Advice for People Experiencing Anxiety Related to Global Warming

We see the headlines screaming at us every day: The planet is warming up! Icebergs are melting! Sea levels are rising! Pretty scary stuff, huh? With a global disaster seemingly looming around the corner, it's probably all you can do to keep from having your own major "melt down." Well, if you're experiencing anxiety related to global warming, I've got some advice for you: don't worry about it!

You heard me right, friend. Stop worrying about global warming because worrying never fixed anything. Worrying about the darkness didn't invent the light bulb, and worrying about our rapidly depleting ozone layer isn't going to fix that, either.
Whenever I start to feel blue about the fate of the earth, I simply take a page from a book I sometimes read (Don't worry - the page is printed on 'recycled paper!' LOL!). The author of this particular book was a fellow named Jesus Christ. Maybe some of you have heard of him. Anyway, this is what he said:

'Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; and yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.'

In other words, if flowers aren't freaking out about global warming, why should you?

Now maybe you're thinking, "I'm pretty sure Jesus wasn't talking about global warming when he said that."

Well I say to you, friend, I'm pretty sure he WAS.

Jesus knew that just as the flowers don't spin, neither should you. What does it mean to "spin?" It means to turn things over and over in your mind like damp clothes in a dryer. Spinning them around doesn't get them any drier, just as endless worrying won't make our problems disappear.

(Technically I know that, in fact, spinning DOES cause clothes to dry, but I'd like you to disregard that in favor of the larger metaphorical point I am trying to make.)

In the end, Al Gore isn't going to "save the earth." After all, he couldn't even save his marriage! (I know, technically, Al Gore is still married, but again, I'm trying to make a point.) The only politician who is going to save our planet is the one who makes the ultimate law: do I mean God?

I do.

Because whenever God is ready, he's going to point His awesome Godlike finger at our earth and make it whole. He can do shit like that. And that's why I don't "recycle" or "save gas," or "eat less veal." Because why should I bother doing so little when God can do so much?

So I say to you, friend, stop worrying! Everything's going to be okay. And if by some chance, God doesn't point his awesome Godlike finger at our planet and "we all die," then I will be the first person to stand up and say, "You know what, guys? I was wrong."

But I really don't think I am.