You're at a crowded house party. It smells like plastic cups and flat beer in the rug. A group of legs are at the booze counter cracking surprisingly subtle labia jokes. You're definitely going to want to join in and knock their socks off, remind them why they date ugly guys on occasion. If you're sober, it's going to be a train wreck. I'm sure you have wild peyote visions of strolling over to their camp like a care-free Don Johnson, looking to shoot the breeze and share some bubble-gum, but that balloon's going to pop as soon as you arrive. Instead of delighting them with a festive greeting or a cozy pinch on the bottom, odds are you're going to take a few cautious steps in their direction, hover about five feet from their hilarious fun station, then b-line it to the ginger ale counter. Before you know it, you've got shaky Parkinson's hands, and your plastic cup is filled all the way to the tippy-top with ginger ale.
Your choices have been rash and foolish thus far. You lost your courage, you needed to look busy, so you decided to lean against the refrigerator, alone. You cautiously nurse your topped-up cup of Schweppes like your grandfather. You might as well recline in the nearest lazyboy with a bowl of pepper mints on your lap, and doze off to the Jays game while a dribble of peepee slowly emerges through the crotch of your slacks.
Luckily, the hilarious babes are not familiar with your grandfather's late afternoon soda-drinking habits, so your hasty actions have only made you appear incredibly anxious to enjoy a tall glass of refreshing ginger ale.
After a few moments, you get overzealous, lean in, and say something unbearably jokey. For example, "I couldn't help but overhear you ladies discussing labias earlier, and I thought I'd let you know that I think vaginas are the most hilaaaaarious little creatures. Yes?" The silence strikes hard and fast, like a horny pedophilic lightning bolt. It has eyes, and it's hungry to rape all of your reputable qualities. The babes are looking at you with the squinty, confused eyes they usually reserve for tough spots in compound math equations. Quick man, recover. Remember funny? Be it, be the funny. Be it now. Fonzie's "Heeeeey," drops out of your mouth. More silence, more puzzled babe faces. It's all over, and you weren't able to spare yourself a shred of dignity, because your retreat to the cheese and cracker table included an uninspired Bill Cosby shuffle.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Friday, August 22, 2008
Chief Raisin
Cold water ran through his hair, and dropped to the tub floor. He looked down at his dink, "the chief raisin," he called it. Bite-size, tiny, wrinkled, yet proud; a chief raisin if there ever was one. Wouldn't look out of place wearing a tiny tuxedo, or riding shotgun in a convertible with a flashy pair of shades on. The chief raisin was his dinker, to hell with any damn whore that had a problem with it.
Creativity is a Gyp
Writing something you like is akin to peeling back the top of your skull and having a potion of well-bread, supple and hilarious thoughts dumped in. The conception of ideas has nothing to do with you. Thoughts spontaneously pop in to say hello, and the best you can do is entertain them, offer a few light alcoholic spirits, coddle gently, and hope these exotic visitors linger a few days so they can be shown off to the neighbours.
I'm pretty sure that a beardy fellow, with a belly full of laughs, a large staff filled with spells, and a thirst for spiced milk is behind all your great ideas. Periodically, he's gracious enough to grant you access to a few of these choice insights, all of which are culled from the rich breadth of his dusty library. These thoughts, which you translate to the page, are the result of a cool blue potion of tightly-bound wit, which he has dribbled softly through your brain cells during the moments you are looking the other way.
And still, the peculiar mixture of wild cloves and robust dick jokes that manifest themselves from within the potion, create a crass tone and abrasive flavour, novel sensations that perk your suspicion. Perhaps the fertile potion our dear wizard has been trickling down the cracks of your mind was conjured by Haxbury County's local apothecary after all, and not the ancient friend you once thought. Does it deflate you even further to suspect that the recipe to your most creative ideas is a product of outsourcing?
Recipe:
1 Andrew Dice Clay VHS cassette tape, (title not specified) preferably rewound.
3 Large cloves.
1 Bottle of Brio.
3 Teaspoons of blue food colouring.
1) Combine ingredients in pot, cauldron, etc.
2) Find a newborn baby.
3) Without detaching the tiny hands, scrunch the infant fingers into a paw and whisk the contents into a froth, do not heat the cauldron while whisking, the baby is still alive.
4) After whisking is complete, heat to a boil, let simmer, then refrigerate for 24 hours.
Note: The VHS tape will take nearly 18 years to whisk to a froth using a human hand scrunched into a paw, at which time the infant will have matured to the age by which it is legal to whisk the contents of a boiling pot with a hand fashioned into a paw, (assuming that consent is implied). Despite this being a fascinating note, the truth is, boiling the mixture after the whisking is complete adds just ten minutes of extra preparation time, which is relatively inconsequential considering 18 years have passed.
I'm pretty sure that a beardy fellow, with a belly full of laughs, a large staff filled with spells, and a thirst for spiced milk is behind all your great ideas. Periodically, he's gracious enough to grant you access to a few of these choice insights, all of which are culled from the rich breadth of his dusty library. These thoughts, which you translate to the page, are the result of a cool blue potion of tightly-bound wit, which he has dribbled softly through your brain cells during the moments you are looking the other way.
And still, the peculiar mixture of wild cloves and robust dick jokes that manifest themselves from within the potion, create a crass tone and abrasive flavour, novel sensations that perk your suspicion. Perhaps the fertile potion our dear wizard has been trickling down the cracks of your mind was conjured by Haxbury County's local apothecary after all, and not the ancient friend you once thought. Does it deflate you even further to suspect that the recipe to your most creative ideas is a product of outsourcing?
Recipe:
1 Andrew Dice Clay VHS cassette tape, (title not specified) preferably rewound.
3 Large cloves.
1 Bottle of Brio.
3 Teaspoons of blue food colouring.
1) Combine ingredients in pot, cauldron, etc.
2) Find a newborn baby.
3) Without detaching the tiny hands, scrunch the infant fingers into a paw and whisk the contents into a froth, do not heat the cauldron while whisking, the baby is still alive.
4) After whisking is complete, heat to a boil, let simmer, then refrigerate for 24 hours.
Note: The VHS tape will take nearly 18 years to whisk to a froth using a human hand scrunched into a paw, at which time the infant will have matured to the age by which it is legal to whisk the contents of a boiling pot with a hand fashioned into a paw, (assuming that consent is implied). Despite this being a fascinating note, the truth is, boiling the mixture after the whisking is complete adds just ten minutes of extra preparation time, which is relatively inconsequential considering 18 years have passed.
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