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October 2007

October 19, 2007

You Look Like a Nice Fellow

You look like a nice fellow. Now believe me when I say I don’t go around calling fellows nice just on account of their looks. That’s not my style and I don’t do that. In my business, in the automobile business, you sometimes have to make snap judgments about people, and while I may not always be right, I would have to say my accuracy rating is pretty high. Pretty high, indeed. In fact, my manager Ted sometimes asks me my opinion of job applicants simply based on sight. Not a word passes between myself and the applicant. Merely a nod, a handshake, something nonverbal but tangible nonetheless. Something that tells me something about that fellow, and ninety nine times out of a hundred I’m correct. So I’m not going to stand here and tell you I’m infallible because believe me, there’s only person who ever walked this earth that was infallible and I ain’t Him. I got my problems like everybody else. My ex-wife will vouch for that.  But when I see a nice fellow such as yourself walk into the showroom I don’t hesitate to approach because I know as sure as I’m standing here with this cheetah on this chain that we are simpatico.

Are you going to be trading in today?

The question that people often ask when they first meet me is this – and believe me, I understand why they ask because if it were me standing in their shoes, I’d probably ask the same thing – why are you holding a cheetah?

Let me answer that question with a simple statement of fact. I am not holding this cheetah. I will grant you that it appears that I am holding a cheetah, but in point of fact I am not. The human body does not possess enough strength to hold a cheetah that does not want to be held. So while I am indeed parading around this showroom accompanied by a cheetah on a dog leash, I am in no way holding, possessing, controlling or doing anything at all to this cheetah that it does not want to be done. Put another way, the cheetah is holding me.

Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking to spend and we’ll go from there.

Now, why is the cheetah relevant? That would be my second question, and I can already see it forming on your lips so don’t bother asking. Like I said a moment ago, we are simpatico and so I anticipated the question before it even fully formed in your mind. Why is the cheetah relevant? Because this magnificent, one hundred and ten pound cat trusts me. Trust is either there or it’s not. This animal relies on its instincts for its very survival. If it didn’t trust me, there wouldn’t be a thing in the world I could do about it; if it didn’t trust me, I would be this cheetah’s dinner. So when I say to you that I am trustworthy, I am not asking you to take my word. I’m asking you to take the word of a cheetah. Granted the cheetah is incapable of human speech, but when I spoke to you a moment again about something nonverbal but tangible nonetheless you nodded your head, and so I think you understand me. But more importantly, I can tell that you understand the cheetah.

I’ve got a ’94 Honda Civic that I think is going to knock your socks off.

Before you ask, let me tell you something else about this cheetah. A lot of people walk in here and make an assumption about this cheetah. An assumption that I would like to dispel right here and now. This is not a tame cheetah. This is not one of those cheetahs bred in captivity for the amusement of the rich and powerful. This cheetah was born in the wild and came into my possession through a series of tragic events that involve the blood diamond trade and my role in saving the life of a young woman who was about to be sold into slavery for the sexual gratification of certain important members of that trade. The cheetah was my reward from a grateful village. How did I come to be in that particular part of the world at that particular time? I wish I could answer that question for you now. Unfortunately, I cannot. But I will say this – even though there are many nights when I still wake up screaming, every time I look at this cheetah, I know what I did was right. Even if some people had to die.

How do those bucket seats feel? Kind of grab you back there, don’t they?

After the service I drifted for a while, I’m not going to lie to you. Got married too young, drank a little too much, didn’t take care of my cheetah the way a man should. Well pretty soon, the wife got up and left. The bottle kind of left me, too, and if you’ve ever been a drinking man I think you know what I mean by that. The only one who stayed was this fellow right here. This big cat. Didn’t matter what time I rolled in or who I rolled in with, he didn’t give up on me, and that’s when I learned the meaning of the word trust. You see? I didn’t teach the cheetah trust – the cheetah taught me. And that’s how I knew when you walked into my showroom today that you could be trusted too. Because you look like a man who’s walked through a hurricane and lived to tell the tale. Just like me.

How’s your credit?

A lot of folks think that trust only goes one way in the pre-owned vehicle industry. Not so. Sure you have to trust me, but just as important – maybe more important – I have to trust you. I have to trust that you didn’t come in here to waste my time. I have to trust that when you tell me you can make the payments on this cherry Honda with the mag lights and the six CD changer that you can make the payments. Otherwise I’m the one left holding the bag, and I can’t feed a cheetah with an empty bag.

Shoot, I’m standing here running off at the mouth and all you want to do is drive off in that Honda. Forgive me. I’m passionate about what I do, and I think sometimes I go a little overboard. I’ve wasted enough of your time. Tell you what – I don’t even want to negotiate here. I trust you. But more importantly, the cheetah trusts you and that’s good enough for me. I’m not supposed to do this without putting up a big fight but I can see you’re too smart for that old trick, so I’m just going to go ahead and knock five hundred dollars off the price and hand you the keys to this car.  Now that five hundred bucks comes out of my commission, but I’ll tell you what – just talking to you about this stuff today has more than made up for whatever money it costs. Hell, I should be paying you. Just kidding.

Well, here’s your keys. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.

Jimmy, come take this cheetah. Thanks. Jimmy’s a good kid. We’ve also got a walrus back there that we save for Christmas season. Smells like shit, that walrus, but that big fucker really moves the SUVs, believe me.

This is what I look like when I'm working

A lot of times when I'm sitting at home, I wonder if I look cool. As it turns out, not so much. Notice in this photo I am unshaven and wearing headphones from 1976. And there are rainbows everywhere. That's because I have a special "rainbow room" in my house, which I installed at enormous cost. You would think that rainbows rooms would have come down in price over the years. Nothing could be further from the truth. If anything, they've only gotten more expensive since the international rainbow market exploded in the mid 80's. Plus, they cost a fortune to maintain. When I built this house, it really came down to a choice between an indoor sauna or a rainbow room. The sauna would have been awesome for swinger parties, but the rainbow room was necessary for work. So practicality won out over sexuality. Story of my life.

Photo_2

A Poem about Rain

It's raining where I live.
Big drops of water.
Splashing on the sidewalk, on the roadway,
On the baby froggies
Too froggy to be called tadpoles,
Too babyish to be called grown-up froggies.

It's raining where I live.
The titter-tat of gunfire
Spattering on the sidewalk, on the roadway,
On the baby froggies.
It isn't real gunfire, of course.
Only the sound of rain,
Which sounds like gunfire
Produced from a semi-automatic weapon
Whose firing mechanism has been
Illegaly altered by a guy I know in Maryland.

It's raining where I live.
The air smells of grassy things. And farts.
The farts are mine. They spread across
The sidewalk, the roadway, and
On the baby froggies.
Can froggies smell farts?

It's raining where I live.
The sidewalk bleeds water. The roadway scarred.
The baby froggies want only to
Croak their peeping croaks,
And make more baby froggies,
Which I will call tadpoles.
But they are froggies.
And froggies gross me out.
So I step on them, one by one,
Until they are froggies no more.

It's raining where I live.

It's raining where I live.

October 18, 2007

A Little Positive Press

If you'd like to read something nice about me, click here.

If you'd like to read something indifferent/bordering on hostile about me, click here.

October 17, 2007

Home Again

Finally got home around ten thirty last night. The flight from San Diego was fantastic. We flew JetBlue, which allowed me to catch up on Kathy Griffin's "My Life on the D List." I realize, watching her life, that if that's the D List, I must be somewhere around P or Q. I don't have assistants. I don't play big theaters. I don't regularly have cosmetic surgery. I'm flying coach on JetBlue and counting myself lucky. Not to mention that she gets to host the gay porn awards, whereas I simply have to watch it on TV like every other gay porn loving schmo.
Anyway, thanks to Kathy, the flight was uneventful and pleasant.

Imagine my surprise when I got home to discover all the locks had been changed, my wife and kids were gone, and the dog had no water. I thought, "Either this is a very good practical joke or my family has deserted me, and left no water for the dog." The first thing I did was pop a frozen pizza into the oven (JetBlue does not offer meals), and then tried to figure out what was what. Turns out it was just a practical joke. My wife and kids were at her lover's house, and when they got home I gave everybody big hugs, followed by spankings all around and lots of inappropriate cuddling and cooing. All in all, a great way to return home after a long trip on the road.

And the pizza was delicious.

October 16, 2007

San Diego Recap

Ah, San Diego, the city about which nobody has ever written a song. We didn't see much of San Diego, but what we saw we liked. Big warships out in the harbor, a couple of runaways, some hookers, and a storefront poker emporium that spread a very soft 5-10 NL game. Yes, San Diego, you treated us pretty good, and the server at your Denny's was gracious considering the hour.

How about the show, you ask? The show was good. We had a very friendly, supportive crowd over at the House of Blues, including one gentleman I will call "Cisco," who did not work at the House of Blues but acted as my personal security for the duration of the show. He actually took to the role with a little too much gusto, methought, although he was a philosophy major at Humboldt College. How dangerous could a stoner philosophy major be? When asked who his favorite philospher was, he cited Nietzsche. When asked why, he said because he was "funny." Funny is not the word that comes first to my mind when considering the philospher respoinsible for the philosophical underpinnings of the Nazi regime, but who am I judge another man's sense of humor?

Tomorrow we fly back to New York, a city about which many songs have been written. If you have to ask yourself why so many people have written songs about New York, but none have written any about San Diego, you probably have never been to either place.

October 15, 2007

Las Vegas

Somebody once sang a song entitled, "Leaving Las Vegas." How ironic, considering that is exactly what I am doing today. As I type I'm sitting at McCarran Aiport waiting to join the rest of my fellow passengers in "B" Group to board. I checked out some of the "A" Group and "C" Group, and all things being equal, I'm pretty psyched about my group. We may not have "A" Group's flash or "C" Group's swagger, but I think we've got a good, solid group and I'm looking forward to boarding with them.

Vegas, as always, was weird. Most of the audience didn't really know who we were, so I felt the need to temper my act a little bit. Conventioneers don't necessarily want to hear elephant rape jokes. Or maybe they do; I don't know. Did we play poker before the show? We did. Did we play poker after the show? We did. Did I stay up until five in the morning because I was playing poker? I'm going to leave to your imaginations.

Now we are off to San Diego for the final stop on the West Coast leg of our tour. And then tomorrow, thankfully, home.

October 14, 2007

Some Dude's Blog

This is from some guy's blog, but it was nice so I thought I would reprint:


Saturday, October 13, 2007

Natural, just like rape
I think if you were old enough in the mid 90's, you probably watched an amazing sketch comedy show called the State. The State has been one of my favorite shows over the years and have been into everything the cast has done since then (Stella, Reno 911, Wet Hot American Summer, etc etc). Tonight I got to see Michael Showalter (I'm Doug, and I'm outta hheeeeeerrrreee) and Michael Ian Black's stand up. This is the first time in a long time where I was literally dying laughing. There were so many times through out the night where I couldn't breath because I was laughing so hard. I had tears most of the night. Things like this don't happen often. So do yourself a favor and listen to MIB's new cd...download it RIGHT HERE!!!! and if you get the chance, do yourself a favor and go see them!

Elephant Rape

I've been working very hard on a bit about elephants raping rhinoceroses. Turns out it's hard to make rape funny. A lot of people think anything involving rape is inherently unfunny, and I suppose for the most part, that's probably true. But when you add elephants and rhinoceroses to the mix, isn't it even a little bit funny? I like to think so.

A lot of times people ask me if some things aren't funny. Yes. Drywall isn't funny. I spent months working on a very intricate drywall piece. No matter what I did, it just wasn't funny. Even with a Scottish accent. I finally came to the conclusion that it was the subject matter itself. Maybe somebody like Carlos Mencia could figure out a way to make drywall funny, but for me it's been a real struggle. So much so that I feel like I've hit a wall - a DRYWALL!!!

See? Not funny.

October 13, 2007

LA

Arrived in Los Angeles this morning after enduring a nightmarish trip from San Francisco. Literally, nightmarish. First of all, I was naked the whole time and everybody from my high school was there laughing at me. Then, a giant eagle snatched my penis and gobbled it down whole. More laughter from my high school friends. Then we stopped for gas. Some coffee, back on the road, an evil clown fucked my wife who appeared out of nowhere, and then we bedded down for the night at a Best Western.

This morning was a little better, although we did hit a huge traffic snarl on I-5. Big accident, some fatalities, and foam. I felt horrible for the loss of life, but I liked seeing all the foam. Got to Los Angeles in the early afternoon, hung out with the State, and now we're about to perform at the Ivar Theater in Hollywood.