Saturday, December 25, 2010

Signing The Five-Tomato Treaty Before Sunrise

I don't know about you (ed. note: I do but am lying) but I'm detecting a pattern (ed. note: I don't but am lying). I wake up liberally concussed on the red line. I'm greeted at the NoHo station by the Andorran Secretary of Defense ("Lau Lau" to his black ops pals [statement retracted]) and his crew of mustachioed pit bosses. I'm cursorily frisked and curiously grilled (over a cherry wood fire with hints of mace and allspice) about the sole season of Blansky's Beauties (will the Happy Days spin-off machine ever end?!... What's that now? Oh. *sniff*). I'm revolved about seventeen times (this detail variation tells me I'm not suffering Chronic Repetitive Aberrant Precognitive Somnambulance [copyright 2010, Rubber Bomb UnLtd]). Delivered to Downtown Gino's Pizza and Pasta and Shooting Range mutefolded (my constant whistling puts them off) and am ordered a slice of pep and a Coke for two bucks. Not a bad deal, until I'm clobbered on the head.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

David Niven In 30 Minutes Or Less

Regarding your letter of the 3rd, 4th, 8th and 14th:

The Pincushion twins are investing heavily in the publicly held Greasy Little People, Inc. As your financial advisor, I think I should inform you that I don't give a diddly about stocks and stuff, and I'm not really up to snuff on, like, money and what to do with it. For example, I've received from you, bi-weekly, little slips of paper that have digits and writing and your name on it and my name on it (on a line entitled "Pay To the Order Of")... and I've just been keeping them in a paper sack. I'm not real comfortable with numbers and the like.    Also, I haven't been paid in 3 years. So I am putting you on notice. Oh, and you've been getting these letter-thingies from the bank. And the SBA. And the government. I haven't opened them, but the letters keep getting redder and redder. And they keep calling. So I disconnected your phone. And mine. Pretty good, huh? So... what's up? How's tricks? Oh, the men in the suits have come back so let me say "ta-ta" before they slap on those cuffs. I sent you a basket of fruit. Goodbye.

Look over there!
Wendell Calligraphy Toasteroven, GED

Monday, May 17, 2010

Ink, Toner AND Paper

The Rubber Bomb OTB and Gardens is a place of beauty, time, and desparate trifectas—features which make it stand out from other gardeny type places in the area. (Plus, we're now peacock poop free!) Our grounds feature an iconic doublewide mansion, filled with countless bottle caps & matchbook covers, and most famously—sixty sloping feet of lavish gardens that will envelop you with their beauty (NOTE: Not a guarantee or a warranty). Built in 1911, and then again in 1927, 1944 and 1967, the RubberBomb manor was one of the first homes to use coffee grounds for decoration. Known for hosting the areas most legendary parties—it was not uncommon to catch Topo Gigio trying to bum smokes off of Ed Sullivan's bookie. Today, the RubberBomb OTB and Gardens is recognized as being not only a historical eyesore, but also a possible site for a future dogtrack or NFL team. We invite you to make a reservation (fax only, please) while the gettin' is good.

Friday, May 07, 2010

Ewes Smoked Our Mores

Gewdolyn's eyes darted around the room quickly.  Was she followed in here as well?  The fog machine was full blast.  The strobe lights and swirling disco ball didn't help either.  She figured that if her pursuer had eluded her in this haze of flashing color and noise, she could, in turn, elude him.  She shed her lime green slicker and dashed into the undulating frenzy.  The sweat of three hundred bodies hung damply in the electric air overhead. She attempted to cabbage patch to the far side of the floor in an attempt to blend in.  Her slender, bare mid-drift attracted the gaze of hungry shoe-shufflers whose bodies wiggled like hot fusilli in pesto.  She spun and shuffled from one partner to the next, breaking away to hustle alone at half court.  For a moment she felt normal again.  Was that a smile, or a sublimated nervous tick?  Was that a good beat that she could dance to, or the improbable pattern of hoof to hardwood?  Was that a kooky keyboard chord or the shrill bleat of h-- (so as to imply that she gasped without saying as much... damn.) her shadow?  She spun around to spy her mangy-haired haunt absently chewing on her coat in all its goatness.  He'd found her.  My god, he'd found her. She charged toward the door and darted out across the soggy infield toward the bungalows.  She would never be free.

Oh, and then a massive meteor slammed into Earth smashing it into dust.

Thar End

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Control Top Party Hats

We now return you to "The Nation's Most Non-Mundane-est Monitored AND Recorded Customer Service Phone Calls" already in progress. When you hear the chain-smoking elf wheeze, turn the page and wash your hands, young lady.

No. Listen, I ordered the mighty gazelle.
Yes, I'm sure.
I'm telling you, this is an ibex and it's stinking up my office.
Yeah, I'll hold.
Well, no, no I've GOT an ibex.
The problem? The problem is I didn't order an ibex! Nor a gnu, antelope or wily mountain billy goat (out of my price range).
So... ASK your supervisor, just get it out of here.
I don't care that it's named Hershel, I don't want it!
Fine, I don't want "Hershel!"
No, that doesn't make me rethink it.
Look, fax me a llama and we'll call it even.

Join us next week when the National Delicious Griddled Treat Machines Corp. telexes a quesadilla maker to a woman who mistakenly received an anchovy press!

Friday, April 23, 2010

Repo ATVs & Electric Scooters

As the cellist's (2nd chair) fist crescendoed against my chin, I had a freeze frame rough cut flashback to my last real fight. It had been 15 years since my sophomore year(s) of college, when some clarinetist (1st chair) (!) insulted my then girlfriend with a snide comment about intransitive verbs. I was drunk at the time -- 6 beers and a pint of varnish -- but I was a Medievel Latin major and honor (4th chair) had to be defended. We both deposited some blood on that dancefloor (or rather, blood was allowed to become deposited), and ultimately the brawl was judged a draw, though I received high marks for the initial tackle (sans ropes and pulleys for a change -- huzzah!). But that was college stuff(s). Tonight was the culmination of a very simple question posed a few weeks before: “Are we here to play poker, or create an instituiton that is insubstantial, shaky, and in constant danger of collapse?"

Monday, April 19, 2010

You Take the One Wearing Blinkers, I'll Take the One on Lasix

For those of you keeping score at home, that's
Donna Karan 1, A dozen rabid bats 4;
Jim Crow Law 3, Jim Croce 2;
Ladies Home Journal 1, Louis Pasteur 1;
Oragami swans 5, 'Cutthroat Island' marketing campaign 2;
Avalanche of glue 4, Jim Croce 1;
Motor Voter Bill 6, Salma Hayek couldn't find her blouse 7;
Chili Colorado 3, Jim Croce couldn't find Salma Hayek's blouse 5;
Can of paint 2, Slightly larger can of paint 2 [RAIN DELAY];
Heavenly flan 1, Quality drapes at affordable prices 3;

For up to the minute European Football scores, stick your head in the toilet and whistle.