49 Wrinkles

    I’d imagine that, to my ex-girlfriend's friends and well-wishers, the tale I’m about to tell is a popular one, a piece of indisputable evidence that I am, was, and always will be a low-down nogoodnik, capable of both acts of woeful recklessness and unconscionable cruelty.
    Well to them, except for my ex’s friend Sophie, who I still think I have a shot at boning (fingers crossed!), I say suck on this! (I'm pointing to my groin.)
    The issue stems from my habit of unwittingly running over my ex’s cats with my car, which I seemed to do two or three times a week for the entirety of our ill-fated relationship.
    My ex would always feign surprise whenever I had run over one of the Wrinkles--all of her cats were named Wrinkles, Wrinkles 1, Wrinkles 2, Wrinkles 42, and so on--but really, I couldn’t help but think she was faking it a little bit. After all, It was nothing new after even our first week together. Picking her up for our first date, for example, I was pulling up to the curb and I heard a loud thud underneath my car. What was that thud?
    That’s right, a sleeping homeless man.
    But pulling away from her apartment, I heard another, more feline thud--one gets used to the thuds different animals make. Sure enough, I had killed Wrinkles the First before I ever even got to make a clumsy attempt at her bra strap.
    The second time it happened was later that week, when, despite my having killed her cat before the appetizers arrived on our first date, we went on our second date. This time, I was dropping her off. “Sorry about that. Lucky the little guy has nine lives, right?!” I said after the overrunning, elbowing her in the shoulder, bucking her up. “Wanna have some sex?”
    But she said no, and just stared at her cat with tears in her eyes, and I guessed my “nine lives” joke wasn’t quite as funny as I thought it was.
   
    All told, I ran over 49 Wrinkles in the time that my ex and I were together. I bear responsibility for all of them, and can tell you with some din of redemption in my voice that I only intentionally ran over one of these--it was Wrinkles 26, who made a habit of being cross and looking down his nose at me. (Who’s looking down at who now, Wrinkles 26?!)

    So what do I expect to come from this apology for running over cats, and in a few cases, kittens?
    Money? The Guinness World Record for running over a significant other’s pets? A harem comprised of the girls from The Secret Life of the American Teenager?

    All of these would be nice. But I guess most of all, I just want to clear my name, to let my ex-girlfriend know that I’ve changed, matured, and apologize for all of her cats that I’ve run over since our breakup (7). That, I guess, and the money thing.

The Brothers Scumbag

    In our fair hamlet of Scumbag, Texas, the story of our city’s founders, the Scumbag brothers, is as well known as the area code (555), or the shape of Elena Thompson’s nipples (starfish). Strolling down the city square, one can see tourists taking in the story of our town’s founding with wonder, as if to say, “Who is this person?” and “Why is he shouting about scumbags?” and, other than the time Mike Thompson beat up one of our citizens (me) for talking about his sister’s starfish-shaped nipples, it’s about the only interesting story we have. And here it is:
     There were three Scumbags in the bunch. The oldest was Jedediah, a crusty man, both in texture and temperament. Next was Jonah, who wasn’t as crusty as his brother. More dusty. It was well known in those days that if you slapped Jonah on the back, a great cloud of dust would explode in the air, then inexplicably settle back on his shoulders. “Why are you doing this to me?” he would plead, as the townspeople gathered to slap his back. The youngest was named Bartholomew, who was always wet and sticky for some reason. Bartholomew could be seen, in those days, walking through the streets with lint and spare change sticking to his person. Whenever someone would see him, they’d point and yell, and everyone would stop hitting Jonah on the back and start throwing coins and rocks at Bartholomew, seeing if they’d stick.
    The Scumbags had been known in the Civil War for their utter lack of mercy, the brutal way they went about their duty, their penchant for inflicting pain. Some have since called them the worst medics of the Civil War. The Scumbags themselves were actually told this by a great many of their patients, but they’d just say, “meh,” and dismiss the notion with a wave of the blood-soaked hatchet, and go on hack-hack-hacking away.
    There’s no evidence to suggest that the Scumbags intended to be particularly cruel, but rather, their ineptitude stemmed from the fact that they weren’t actually doctors, but lied so they didn’t have to do any fighting.
    After the war, the Scumbag brothers returned to their hometown of Rake, Georgia to find that all their favorite brothels had been sacked in the conflict, as well as all of their preferred houses, of grog, burlesque and ill-repute--all of them torn asunder. Dismayed, the Scumbag brothers left Rake for good and headed southwest, to Texas. The Scumbags didn’t so much settle on the plot of land that now bears their name, but rather, decided to stop traveling when Bartholomew got stuck to a mesquite tree.
    Some have compared this scene to the Aztecs’ vision of the eagle clinching a serpent in its talons, atop a prickly pear cactus. Others say that the Scumbags were just lazy, but hey, I don’t see them discovering any towns.
    The Scumbags’ dream was to found, not so much a city, but the seedy underbelly of a city. The only problem, of course, was that there were no hookers, a prerequisite of any underbelly, let alone a seedy one. Not the most ambitious trio of Scumbags ever, the brothers just kind of hung out for a couple years, sticking to things, gathering dust and wishing they had some booze and hookers. “Ugh,” Jedediah once wrote in his diary. “I want some hookers! Now!”
    It was in May of 1870 that the brothers shanghaied a wagon train hauling 500 head of prostitutes from Santa Fe to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. The founders put the hookers to work immediately, taxing them as the proprietors of the city. Several of the men in the wagon train remained, as they got stuck to Bartholomew, and the town that would become known as Scumbag was born.
    The brothers served as the town’s proprietors, as well as the town’s only doctors. However, all the money the brothers made from taxes and operating unnecessarily on the townspeople went back into the brothels, so the town remained stagnant, yielding only a few bastard children and several cases of syphilis (which were treated, poorly, sometimes fatally, by the Scumbag brothers).
    The town may never have survived, had Andrew Carnegie not come to what is now Scumbag in 1879. Officially, Carnegie is said to have remarked on the natural beauty of the area, and the clean, disease-free hookers it offered, and immediately signed a check, so as the area might flourish. However, it’s well known that Carnegie actually just got stuck on Bartholomew, and was pick-pocketed by the other Scumbags before he could pry himself loose. “You dastards,” the townspeople heard Carnegie growl, as he used a broomstick to pry himself from the youngest Scumbag’s preternatural stickiness. “Dastards!”
    “We’re not dastards,” Jedediah said, crustily. “We’re Scumbags.”

What My Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech Might Sound Like

    Friends, physics nerds, medicine geeks, chemistry dorks and hangers on, I’d like to begin by saying (sarcastically) “Thanks a lot.” (make jacking-off motion with hand.)
    I make my money by telling stories, stories of ducks, and deli aisles, and guys with funny names like Dick Harden. (Pause for long applause.) Today, I’ll tell a different story, a story about a young man who was regularly referred to  by his college advisor as “a stupid dumbass”; a man whose middle school girlfriend left him for Ron Pilson; a man who spent eight months of his adult life trying to dig to China before city workers came and told me to stop, but not after I broke through every one of their precious pipelines and cable wires.
    Well, I’d just like to say to all of you, to my college advisor, to Ron Pilson, to Julie, my middle school girlfriend and you city workers: suck it. (Raise arms in triumph. Wait for applause to subside.) I always knew that I was better than all of you--and actually, I routinely told you that I was better than you--but today, I have a trophy to prove it. (Hold up trophy. Flex muscles.)
    “Oh,” they said, “You could never win a prize with a book about a girl named Julie and a guy named Ron Pilson being pelted by rocks for 400 pages.” “You can’t win a prize with a book titled, ‘Love In the Time of Rock Peltings,’ with the subtitle of, ‘Suck It Ron and Julie,’ but alas, here I am today, triumphant, pleasant-smelling and smarter than the dickens. (Flex. Grab crotch defiantly.)
    I’d like to say that the other nominees were just as deserving of this prize, but I can’t. Because I haven’t read any of their work and probably never will. I much prefer television and low-rent pornography. Anyway, I guess if they were just as deserving they’d be standing up here. Ha! (Pause for applause, laughter.)
    A lot of you may be wondering what’s next for this old genius. Well, I can tell you right now that it’s not writing another book. That was hard. No, I’ll probably use Mr. Nobel’s money to purchase a fleet of jet skis, a house boat and enough Old Crow to get an army of bull moose schnockered.
    I’ll finish by saying thank you, and you’re welcome, and if any pretty Swedish women want a mustache ride from a brilliant genius, I’m in room 318.
    Laters nerds.
    Crisp out.
    (Throw microphone on ground, walk off with arms raised in triumph.)

Making My Case For People's "Sexiest Man Alive"

Dear People Magazine,

Last week, when Ryan Reynolds was named “Sexiest Man Alive” by your publication, I nodded at the selection and grunted approval. “Gruh,” I said. “Mm.” But in my post-announcement sleuthing, as I moved my eyes across the pack of super-hunky also-rans on my screen, I found a curious omission from the conversation: me. “Am I not as sexy,” I asked my co-workers at the paper burning plant, “As, if not Ryan Reynolds, George Clooney, or Brad Pitt.” Did former winner Mel Gibson’s anti-semitic, and misogynistic rants not open up a space for yours truly?”
    Oh well.
    That night, I found sleep hard to come by. What is sexy?
    Chiseled good looks? A good sense of humor? A big honkin’ wing wang?
    No, my looks aren’t as chiseled as Van Wilder. But many women find me to be sexy all the same... Somewhere between my matted hair and the rogue way I sprinkle idle conversation with curse words, girls find an undeniable charm...a sexiness, perhaps? I was once told I have the beard of a young Stonewall Jackson. The girl snickered then, and I tried my best to gnarl my lip like Mick Jagger, because women find Mick Jagger sexy, or at least did, until he started to resemble an arthritic crypt keeper. Then tobacco juice rolled down my chin.
    Oh well.
    As for a good sense of humor, well, allow me to offer this:
   

    There was a young girl from Devizes

Who had tits of different sizes

One was small

Almost nothing at all

And the other was big, and won prizes.

As well as:

There once was a man from Nantucket

Whose dick was so big he could suck it

He said with a grin

As he wiped off his chin

If my ear was a pussy I’d fuck it

    It seems to me, your gaffe is becoming ever clearer. But to really drive the point home, consider this little ditty about an Indian man and his testicles:

There once was a man from Madras

Whose balls were made of fine brass

In stormy weather, his balls clanged together

And lightning shot out of his ass.

    Haha!
    So if a sense of humor truly is sexy, well... It’s obvious I’ve got that in spades. Speaking of which, I just thought of another funny joke. I won’t tell it here, so as to avoid what my friend Terrell calls a “down-home ass whoopin’” but maybe another time.
    Do I really belong among the hunkiest of the hunky?
    Well, I don’t know about that. Determining levels of sexiness is your business, not mine. All I do know, I guess, is that I have the looks of a young Stonewall Jackson, the sense of humor (and manner of speaking) of Andrew Dice Clay, and what’s been described as an “okay-sized” honkin’ wing wang.
    It’s your move, People Magazine.
    I leave you with this:

There was a young gigolo named Bruno

Who said, "Screwing's one thing I do know.”

While women are fine,

And sheep are divine,

Llamas are numero uno!"

    Llamas! Haha!


Sexily,

Scott

Today's Episode of Maury Povich: The Short Story

    The two women could have been sisters. Corpulent, swaggering women with black wavy hair, each with the gait of a pack animal. All that set them apart, really, was their dress--Latika wore a parachute of a blouse which might have been taken from the hide of a turquoise leopard, if such a beast existed, and a pair of glasses. Catrice wore a subtle sweater of navy blue and a trying pair of bluejeans.
    Maury welcomed them with hugs. He pointed out that, normally, when two women have babies by the same man (allegedly, at this point), they don’t get along all that well. Now, clearing up that word--allegedly. That was the order of the day. As to Maury’s question, the women demurred.
    “It’s not about him, it’s about the kids,” Catrice allowed. Latika agreed. Somewhere a crowd cheered at the goodness of that statement. 
    It was upon the introduction of the “alleged” father Brandon and his girlfriend Pasha, whose name was inexplicably, to this writer, pronounced “Porsche,” that things began to get heated. Brandon walked out, bellowing indecipherable curses at no one in particular, Pasha following close behind, gesturing wildly, like an epileptic flamingo. Somewhere, a crowd booed them wildly.
    The happy, allegedly childless couple sat down--Pasha in the front row of the crowd, Brandon onstage, but not before moving his chair a few feet from its original place, so as to make clear that he wanted no part of the turquoise leopard, or her subtle sidekick. 
    Brandon was a shabby looking guy, his corn rows bursting at points, allowing little geysers of wisps here and there, and a fledgling mustache that stretched the length of his upper lip.
    Maury asked a predictable question. The onslaught began.
    “I’m a million percent positive!” Catrice said improbably. Somewhere, a crowd cheered. Brandon shook his head.
    “These girls are liars,” Brandon said. “I know Catrice was pregnant before I met her. She used to come over to my house and eat up all my food like she was eating for two people. After this test proves that I’m not the father, you need to stop harassing me!”
    There was some yelling. There was a lot of yelling. Somewhere, a crowd bristled and laughed and bristled again.
    “He told me he quit his job so he didn’t have to pay child support,” said the turquoise leopard. Somewhere, a crowd bristled and happily booed the villain. Brandon called Catrice, the one who ate up all his food, a bitch.
    “You left a bitch for a ho,” Catrice said, gesturing toward Pasha, and again for effect, “You left a bitch for a ho!”
    For some reason, the accusation prompted Pasha, pronounced Porsche, remember, to stand up and turn around, show her backside to her verbal accuser. “I’m all woman,” she said, popping her hips from side to side, like a recently struck sway bag. There was some more yelling. The turquoise leopard said she had slept with Brandon in August. That was after he had begun his relationship with Pasha, whose name was pronounced like a German car. Pasha went silent. Somewhere, a crowd oohed and ahhed and cheered happily.
    Finally, Maury said that it was time. A faceless someone handed him an envelope, from which he pulled out a sheet of paper.
    “When it comes to two-year-old Brylen,” Maury said, “you are the father!” And then: “When it comes to two-month-old Braylon--you are the father!”
   
    Brandon crouched with Brylen and Braylon, kissed one of them on the cheek. Convincingly, I guess, because Maury said, “See that? I know you’re going to be a good father.” Hm.
    Somewhere a crowd cooed and cheered with delight at the goodness.

Getting Booed Off-Stage At The Apollo, Revisited

There is a rolling energy that starts in the back, and wells up through the increasingly boisterous crowd. I look to my side, where the other performers are standing the wings shaking their heads and yelling for me to just stop it. The clown is there now with his broom and you’re being swept offstage--literally. You’ve been booed off the stage at the Apollo. Your one-man show, “Scott on Scott: A Night of Comedy, Song and Pizazz,” a labor of love, written over a two-year span--your magnum opus, you’d thought--will be labeled a monumental failure.
    You go home. You look at yourself in the mirror. You drink some. Back to the mirror. Crying. Drinking. Self-abuse, or masturbation. Crying. Sleep.
    Then you wake up the next morning and ask yourself, “Where did it all go wrong?”
    In my case, I’ve narrowed the list to eight possible explanations for my being booed off the stage at the Apollo:

1.) Too much glitter. This one is self-explanatory, but it’s worth noting that even I, in my more anxious moments leading up to the show, thought to myself, “This is a fucking lot of glitter.” Anyway, I opted to go heavy on the glitter--glitter on my face, glitter on my bare inner thighs, a cannon full of glitter that was, itself, covered in glitter and so forth.

2.) The 15 minute long interpretive dance. The dance was based on Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice, only with a lot of pantomimed sex acts and no English people.

3.) The “Feats of Strength” portion of my show, in which I did a disappointing seven push-ups before collapsing to the ground, where I remained panting for around ten minutes. As I told to anyone who would listen that night, the only reason I didn’t do more was because I did a lot the day before, and I assure you that had I been rested, that number would have grown to 11 or 12.

4.) Not enough glitter.

5.) My unicycle act. I should’ve realized that including it was a mistake, as I can’t ride the unicycle. I just kind of assumed I could, and unfortunately, I was wrong.

6.) The saw-the-lady-in-half trick. I’ve seen this trick performed a million times, just the way I did it, only without all the screaming and blood. The only logical conclusion, albeit a dismaying one for me, is that I don’t possess magic powers. I now know that, and though I can’t un-saw Ms. Campbell’s torso, I wish her a speedy recovery.

7.) My burlesque-style strip show to the tune of “The Andy Griffith Show.”

8.) The duet with Michael Richards.

In Defense Of Punching A Twelve-Year-Old In The Face

    There isn’t really any way to sugar coat what I’m about to say, so I won’t bother trying: I punched a twelve-year-old in the face. Now before you go calling me a “Bully,” and a “terrible person” and a “criminal,” like the child’s parents, let me try to explain how I, a fully grown 24-year-old man might punch with a closed fist the face of a child only approaching the precipice of puberty.
    It all started when I was down at the Hidey Hole, a pornography theater and well-known house of ill repute. A man bumped into me at the popcorn and lotion stand, and like I do sometimes, I said, “Watch it, bozo.” The man then responded “I know you are but what am I?” and I thought, “I’ll show him,” and punched his smug, youthful face.
    When the torso of the man flew off from his legs, I thought that I had punched him in half. I was worried, and a little impressed with myself. I thought of my high school teachers, how they told me I’d never accomplish anything. “Shows what you know,” I thought. “I just punched a guy in half!” Then I saw the little fat kid underneath, and I knew I had made a mistake. But I argue that my mistake is an understandable one.
    You see, I am not what the state would define as a smart man, or even a competent man. In my life, I have eaten no less than six pieces of wax fruit. I invested my life savings in a telegraph company--and that was in 2008. I once called 911 because my belt loop got caught on a wayward nail in my house. I spent two weeks in community college, at the behest of a particularly spiteful professor, wearing a shirt that read, in bold letters, “RETARD.”
    So when I see a six-foot-tall man in a trench coat--which, as you probably know is a fairly common sight at a smut-house--I’ll assume that, if he runs afoul of me, I’m allowed to punch him in the face. Because he is a man--and is punching a guy in the face such a crime? Should I make sure, before punching someone, that they aren’t actually two children, one atop the others’ shoulders? Should I just stop punching people in the face?
    I guess my point is this: Aaaaah! Confusing!
    Now you understand how one may be led to punch a twelve-year-old in the face, and though what happened at the smut-house last October was regrettable--as were the four times I’ve punched adolescent children since then--I hope that in time, we can all just laugh about this like I do sometimes.

Why Gisele Bundchen Should Leave Tom Brady For Me

Ms. Bundchen,

Let me just start that I am a big fan of your work. Most days, in between shifts at the rock smashing plant, I spend my time looking through photos of you on the Internet and thinking about how much happier you’d be with me, than your current husband Tom Brady.
    Let me explain.
    It’s true that Tom is at the top of his field, but, I can say with confidence that I am too. Spending all day smashing bigger rocks into smaller rocks, and then those smaller rocks into even smaller rocks and so forth isn’t as glamorous as playing quarterback in the NFL--even if you are, as I am, the best damn rock smasher in Bucktooth County--but it’s given me a grounded personality that I think you would find kind of cute. Plus, as they say in Beirut, “You haven’t made love until you’ve made love to a rock smasher!”
    Also, I don’t mean to get ahead of myself, but I think Mr. I Have Three Super Bowl rings is cheating on you. Now he never responded to those letters I sent him, in which I posed as a 15-year-old girl, but just because he’s not a statutory rapist doesn’t mean he’s being faithful. Plus, he just looks like he’s cheating, you know?
    I would be short-sighted in not addressing the disparity in looks between your current husband and (fingers crossed!) your future husband. So yes, he may be a little better looking than me. He may not have to wear an eyepatch (rock smashing mishap), or have a tattoo on his left pectoral that says “Juicy,” but many women find in me a certain charm. The charm of a pirate maybe--and what’s sexier than sailing the high seas of love with your very own rock-smashing pirate?
    I also know that Tom Brady has a lot more money than I do. He can afford the finer things in life, like deodorant and... pomegranates. But you’re probably pretty rich too, from the modeling. So we’d have that money, plus whatever you could wrangle from Mr. Good Looking Football Star in the divorce--boom! I quit the rock-smashing plant, fulfill my lifelong dream of owning a store that sells hats with quirky, snide remarks on them (one idea: Hey, those are my figs!) and bone Gisele Bundchen--you.
    This is going well already, don’t you think?
    I feel like we’ve known each other forever.
    If I said you had a beautiful body would you let me feel you up? (Haha!)
    But before abandoning your family for a life with me in my apartment, I have a few questions to ask of you:

--Don’t you think Con Air is, like, the best movie ever?
--My apartment is pretty cramped already, so would you mind leaving your son with Tom?
--I can’t really afford a ring, so can we just use the one that Tom gave you?
--Can you bring a model friend for my friend Gary to have?

Thank you in advance, and I know we’ll have years of happiness together.

Love,

“Rock Smashin’” Eddie McRoyal

PS. Tell Mr. Dickface Three-Time Super Bowl Champ that the tuck rule is horse shit. Love and kisses!
 

The Detectives

(SCENE: Three detectives walk into the basement, where the girl is laying dead in the oversized bear trap. She's fat, but wearing one of those shirts designed so you look like you have a hot body. Semen (Light mayonnaise) is everywhere--on the cupboard, the bear trap, and even in the big pot of chili (big pot of imitation chili)--Gross!)

Detective one: The bear trap killer.

Detective two: That’s the third one this month.

Detective three (beating his chest in incredulity): When will people learn that if there’s a dollar in an oversized bear trap, they can’t just go all willy-nilly and pick it up?! (Sighing) The toughest part of a job--(pauses, looks thoughtfully at the bear trap)--is detecting things.

Detective two (Rubbing detective three’s back sensuously): I hear you buddy. The detecting. And the semen.

Detective one: Do you think if we just quit, anyone would notice?



(SCENE: The detectives are now sitting around a table at a diner, silently eating sandwiches. This goes on for several minutes.)

Detective two: Good sandwich.

Detective three: Yep.

Detective one: Mine has pesto!

Detective three: Eating sandwiches is much more fun than being a detective.

Detective two: You can say that again.

Detective three: Eating sandwiches is much more fun than being a detective.

(The detectives erupt in laughter. Milk shoots out of detective two’s nose, causing more laughter.)

Detective two: I say we quit the detecting racket forever--just eat sandwiches all day, every day, right here at this table. The Sandwich Club!

Detective one: Yeah, fuck detecting. Fuck it in the ear.

Detective three (beating his chest in excitement): Sandwiches!

(Outside the diner, a patron notices a dollar in an oversized bear trap. When he bends down to pick it up, it snaps shut, killing him. The detectives don’t seem to notice. Pan to guy in bear trap, bleeding to death.)

Shorty

    I saw shorty from a distance, I in the VIP section of the club, popping bottles with the clique, she moving sinuously on the dance floor. The movement of her body struck me not as that of a human being, but of some unwieldy force of nature--of a cyclone, perhaps.
    Oh, and her booty. Her booty in them jeans, it jiggled temptingly, in a way that, years later, I would liken to jelly. She was no ordinary chickenhead, this one--no, she got it from her Momma, endowed with ample laffy taffy--which, in those days, was what we called the parts that kept jiggling once she, herself, had stopped moving. “Shake that laffy taffy,” we’d cry, in those golden years just after the war. “Shake that laffy taffy.”
    I approached her, and assured her that I was enormously wealthy, pulling a wad of hundred dollar bills--what we called a knot, or a bankroll, in those years--out of my pocket and, in a show of detachment and apathy, threw it in the air.
    “I know you paid,” she whispered.
    “What you wanna do?” I asked.
    Only an hour later, we were back at the crib--what we would call a house, or dwelling then--engaged in a game of erotic truth or dare. Though I could see in her eyes, and the detached way she fellated me, that this was not love, I didn’t mind--because, as I well knew before taking her home in my Benz, even before seeing her gelatinous posterior moving this way and that, contained only by those Apple Bottom jeans, in the club-- that she, shorty, curvaceous and good-smelling as she was, was nothing more than a bitch. It ain’t tricking if you got it, and it ain’t misogyny if it’s popular enough.
    When she finished, I gave her a few hundred for a shopping trip, turned over and fell asleep.
    I often wonder about shorty, now. How did she get home that night? What was her name?

The Gunfighter

    The gunfighter strode into the street, an ominous hush settling over the gathering townspeople in the square, a quadrangle closed off to the prairie by brothels, cathouses, saloons, and of course, the chapel.
    “Townspeople,” the gunfighter exclaimed, “You have gathered here to watch either me, or that guy over there get shot to death in order to resolve a dispute. But I’m afraid that will not be happening today as planned. You see, I just came from Dr. Radner’s, and he diagnosed me with a terrible fever.”
    “No I didn’t,” a voice rose over the bristling crowd. It was Dr. Radner. “No, I have never seen you before in my life.”
    “Well, you see my appearance has been altered a good deal since I saw you. Remember, the guy with the mustache. The big, bushy mustache.”
    “So you shaved your mustache before coming to the gunfight.”
    “Yes.”
    “All the same, I haven’t diagnosed a fever today.”
    The gunfighter scratched his head.
    “Six patients, six cases of syphilis,” Dr. Radner said.
    “Oh yes!” the gunfighter exclaimed. “Syphilis, it was syphilis.”
    The doctor shrugged and took his place back in the crowd, which was bristling more intensely now for fear that there may not be any bloodshed. “Hey,” another voice yelled, “That’s no excuse! Ringo’s got syphilis too!”
    “It’s true,” the other guy said, scratching at his crotch.
    “Yes, but, uh, I have this disorder, too.”
    “What kind of disorder?!” demanded the gunfight fan.
    “Well, you see, my trigger finger sometimes falls off.”
    The townspeople were confused.
    The gunfighter stood forward and bent his index finger back. He then bent the thumb of his left hand at the knuckle, placed it where the rest of his right index finger might be, and glided it back and forth, drawing gasps from the crowd. “So you see, I can’t be expected to fight here today, or anytime. Ever.”
    The crowd booed, and demanded that the fight go on anyway.
    “Look over there!” the brave gunfighter yelled, and ran away to safety.
    But the luck of a gunfighter never remains for long, and the next week, when he died of some combination of syphilis and being shot 14 times, we all wondered, “How does someone’s finger just come off like that?”

What's Important To Me

 I think it’s important to be honest with people. That’s why, when Carol served me that gross chicken salad sandwich last week, I told her that her cooking makes me want to puke, and suggested that her chicken salad tasted like “mayonnaise-covered dog turds.”
    I think it’s important to communicate with your partner, and that is why I said all that stuff through a megaphone.
    I think children are our future, but we shouldn’t tell them that, because then they’ll get all cocky.
    Speaking of children, I think they’re already a bit self-satisfied, and I think it’s important that we all join together as a society, and put them in check.
    I think it’s important to examine oneself, ask oneself the tough questions, like, “Am I getting a little fat?” and, if yes, I think it’s important for society to mock that person, so as to motivate them to be the best they can be.
    I think it’s important to be quiet in movie theaters, unless you get scared and scream and throw up on the person in front of you. And if you’re sitting in a movie theater and someone behind you throws up all over you, I think it’s important that you forgive that person, and not make such a big fuss over it. He said sorry.
    If you decide you want to murder someone, I think it’s important to go through the proper channels, and get a permit, so you don’t get into any trouble.
    I think it’s important to have a plan in case of a home fire. My plan is to cry and cower in my bed until the firemen arrive.
    I think it’s important to live, but not so much to laugh, or love.
    Most of all, I think it’s important to agree with what I think is important--because if not, it will become important to me that your front door is covered in eggs.

Not The Best Tuesday

    I watched as Delvin threaded the needle, noticed the point. It looked sharp. This is going to hurt, I thought. Maybe I don’t really need those wings, I thought. Maybe I could just fly on airplanes like most people do. Delvin thought otherwise.
    “It’ll be great,” he said. “Flying. Nothing impresses the ladies like a man who can fly.”
    If I told you I wasn’t having synthetic wings sewn onto my back to be a more attractive mate to the opposite sex, I’d be lying. And Delvin knew that. Delvin had had no such problem. He did have a unicorn-like horn protruding from his forehead, which I assumed had a great deal to do with the women always flocking around his cage. Still, he believed that wings were the answer for me, and he was more than willing to help in the creation, and now, attachment of the planks of wood, on which we glued all those feathers, on which we'd attached silk, for luxury and comfort.
    Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. And so forth until, my back covered in blood, Delvin stood. “We’re all done.”
    “How do they look?”
    “They look great. Let’s test them out.”
    We walked up the stairs to the roof of the old glove factory. “This is gonna be awesome,” Delvin said.
    I stepped to the edge and looked down. Then I leaped, the possibilities of my new life with wings dancing through my mind. I’d rob banks with impunity. I’d be the best wide receiver the NFL has ever seen, despite my whiteness. I’d be surrounded by women, all of them gifted in the jugs and butt and face areas. “Yabba dabba doo,” I said in my best Fred Flintstone voice.
    Then I heard Delvin laugh in a sinister tone. At first I thought he was laughing at my Fred Flintstone--but, no, not that laugh. That laugh would have gone “Hee hee.” This laugh went, “Muhahaha.”
    Then I remembered how mean I was to Delvin all the time. And, just as the pavement approached my face, I felt an unfamiliar feeling, which I’d later find out was something called regret; for mistaking his visiting mother for an intruder and cursing at her, and punching her with a roll of quarters. For calling him “Hornface” all the time when he regularly, tearfully begged for me to call him by his given name. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t know his name. Delvin is just something I made up, for the sake of my story.
    I regretted impregnating his sister, then selling the baby to some guy I met at a Blink 182 concert. Most of all, I regretted that he had tricked me, that I was rapidly plummeting to my death. “Stop, drop, and roll,” I thought. In case of falling (or willfully jumping) off a building, you’re supposed to stop drop and roll. I think I read that somewhere. But then the pavement hit.
    I woke up to a river filled with damned souls. A three-headed dog was growling at me. A guy named Charon told me the dog's name was Cerberus. I petted Cerberus, and he bit me with each of his three mouths. Then Charon asked for some coins. The coins!
    No, I didn’t have any coins. So now, I’m just hanging out by this river of wailing corpses.
    Not the best Tuesday.

Sorry

    Judge Connors, members of the jury, law guys, witnesses and victims. I stand before you today an humbled, apologetic, but mostly a convicted man. Stealing that bulldozer was a mistake, and I’d like to apologize to the construction workers, the foreman, the architect and anyone else who may have been affected by my actions. I’m sorry.
    I realize now too, that, when I drove that bulldozer onto a busy city street, causing a 16-car pileup--most of which was part of a funeral procession--I was behaving irresponsibly. I’d like to apologize to the hearse driver, the Harrison family and most of all, the deceased Saul Harrison, for, as the widow so accurately described, “ruining the funeral completely.” Additionally, I’d like to apologize to the good folks at the Scheffer Family Funeral Home for my actions, and may I just say, you were all very professional and efficient in getting Mr. Harrison back in the coffin as quickly as possible.
    I’d like to apologize also to the George Washington Carver High School football team, whose bus was stranded behind in the pileup, and who were forced, because of my actions, to forfeit their semifinal playoff game, thereby eliminating any chance they had to play for a state championship. My bad, guys, my bad.
    Further, I’d like to apologize to anyone and everyone affected by my abandoning the bulldozer in the ambulance lane of the emergency room at Sacred Heart. I realize now that I could’ve easily left the bulldozer virtually anywhere else, that, had I done that, fewer people might have bled to death, as confused and frustrated paramedics wondered, “Hey, where’d that bulldozer come from?”
    I’m really, really sorry for that.
    I’d like to give a particularly sincere apology to those in attendance of Jeremy Holland’s Halloween party. When I burst in, without a costume, you were completely justified in politely asking me to leave--and now, I wish I would have. I apologize to all guests for my language, my obscene gesturing, and my punching several of you. Most of all, I’d like to apologize to Mr. Holland himself. Mr. Holland, I’m sorry for kicking your dog and grabbing your wife’s boobs, as well as for the accompanying “Honk honk” noise I made. I hope you’ll accept my apology.
    But most of all, I’d like to apologize to the people of Somalia. When I ran into who I believed was a friendly black fellow with a funny accent, but turned out to be a brutal Somali warlord, I was pretty drunk, from the beers I stole from Mr. Holland’s house, before trampling his flower bed and keying his car--oh, yeah, Mr. Holland, sorry for that stuff too, and the beer thing.
    Anyway, when General Abuukar Tahlil Saadaq approached me asking for $10,000--for what I believed to be an investment opportunity, but was in fact a large cache of outdated Soviet weapons--I was a sheet past three sheets and, frankly, I can’t tell you why I took out my checkbook. But I did, and I’m sorry.
    Of course, Abu--that’s what I call General Abuukar--Abu used my $10,000 to supply his militia of fundamentalist guerillas with weapons. Now, hundreds are dead, thousands have been displaced and martial law has been declared in Mogadishu. For this, I am sorry. If anyone in the court today speaks Somali, please pass that on to those guys.
    As sentencing approaches, I throw myself on the mercy of the court. And though I cannot defend my stealing a bulldozer, causing a multiple car pileup, ruining a funeral, robbing some high school kids of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, blocking the entrance of a busy emergency room, ruining a Halloween party, or helping to fund a ruthless Somali militia, when deciding my fate, just know this: I’m really, really sorry.

Few Remember My Stint On Family Matters

The Future

I like to think about the future.

The occasional whirring of flying cars the only sound outside of my space house, my space wife, 46 years my junior, fixing me the futuristic equivalent of chicken spaghetti casserole. Our 17 children, all boys, are outside floating around, playing the futuristic equivalent of baseball. All of them will go onto to the Major Leagues, because my space wife is Dominican and those guys are still really good at baseball. I’m 89-years-old, but due to advances in medicine and the healing powers of whiskey, which they discovered in 2041, I’m still in great health. I’m virile, svelte and spry as a cheetah, which is what we call cheetahs in the future. And what’s this? My Dominican space wife is pregnant again!

We’re pretty busy what with the sex and the casseroles and the passersby who recognize me immediately for something great I did. I’m not sure what yet because, you know, it’s the future. “There he goes!” they say, doffing their caps.
    My Dominican wife finishes the casserole and calls me to dinner. She starts to call the kids too, but I scowl at her and shake my head no, because they’re getting on in years and they need the practice if they’re going to make the majors. “It’s a little dry,” I say after a bite, and she hangs her head.
    “Just kidding,” I say, and we have a hearty chuckle. Then I say, “But seriously, order some pizza.”
    The pizza smells delicious, and I dive in. “Mmm,” I say, “What’s this meaty type stuff on here?”
    “Grilled puppy, of course,” she says in her cute accent.
    “Blech,” I say, spitting the chewed up pizza onto the floor, frantically wiping my tongue with my space napkin.
    “But honey,” my hot, rich Dominican wife says, as she cleans the chewed up pizza from the floor. “Puppy is an acceptable pizza topping in the future.”
    “Of course,” I say, and laugh. But I wonder for a moment if life wasn’t better in the past, before I could describe the taste of a puppy*. I’m scratching my awesome, silvery future-beard in thought when the civil defense sirens begin to wail. “Heavens to Murgatroid,” I say, because that’s what we say in the future, and run to the bedroom to grab the ray gun.
    I fight valiantly but the robots win the war. They take me prisoner, and force me to mine for sand, which is a treasured commodity on their planet. Occasionally, I spit at them, and say, “Get your goddamned metal hands off of me.”
    Only later will I figure out that they speak English after all, and that explains all those beatings. I have several torrid love affairs with exotic ladies and a few of the sexier robots, but I never see my hot, rich Dominican space wife again, and I wish someone would have told me how hot robot genitals can get during coitus. Working in the sand mines, we’re forced to subsist on a diet of seagull beaks and robot water, which is just like  regular water, only it’s vodka.
    So I guess that part’s not so bad.

    Anyway, I don’t like to think about the future.

    *It’s like chicken, only more soul-scarring.

Big Cat Capers, Featuring Ace Chandler: Part II

Our hero was holding his trusty .38 to Possum’s wrinkled, drooping 96-year-old face when Francis and Johnny arrived. Ace’s headquarters was really just his garage, modified with a small radio, a police scanner and a makeshift waterboarding station.
    “Tell me what you know!” Ace yelled.
    “I don’t know anything, Ace,” Possum said. “I haven’t swung a possum since 1949. Not until just now at least.”
    “Horsefeathers!” Ace said. “I got your calling card.”
    Ace put down his gun and reached into his pocket, handed his prisoner a crumpled piece of paper. Possum looked over the note, and began laughing. “This is a fake,” he said. “I’m afraid someone’s trying to frame me.”
    “Oh, you’re all wet,” Ace said. “You’ve wanted me dead since ’19.”
    “It is true,” Possum admitted. “I did want you dead, but that was a long, long time ago. Truth is, when you went missing with that Russian broad, we thought you were already dead. We had a little party in honor of the occasion. But trust me, Ace: I have neither the lung capacity or the hip function to be a criminal anymore. For Chrissakes, look at me.”
    Possum made a fair point. In the sixty odd years Ace spent frozen in the Moscow Kremlin, his old nemeses were aging. And aging. And, in many cases, dying. Now, when he looked at Possum Jones, he didn’t see a despicable criminal, but a kind of sad- but mostly funny-looking old man.
    “Tell me this Possum,” Ace barked. “What do you Pussy Cats do in your hideout? Play friendly games of Monopoly?”
    “No,” Possum said. “We lost the car, the shoe and the thimble, so only a couple of us can play at a time, and that’s no fun. No, we mostly just talk about the weather, how kids these days bother us, and how the designated hitter rule is confusing and vaguely insulting to us--well, that, and we like to take pictures of ourselves with our faces pressed together, and smiling. Some of us like to give the peace sign, but I don’t. Then we like to put those pictures on Facebook with cute captions, and talk about how our hair looks.”
    “And what of your cronies? Muskrat? Nutria? The Cats, House- and Jungle-?”
    “Dead, nursing home, dead, wheelchair-bound--diabetes.”
    “Fair enough,” Ace said, defeat in his voice. “Untie him Francis. Johnny, you go to the bureau and grab my consolation whiskey.” Ace lit another cigarette, and moaned in pleasure as he took the first drag. “You sure Jungle Cat Baker’s pushing up daisies?”
    “Dead as a doornail, honest,” Possum said. “He had cancer... The pain, it got so bad, one day, we came home, and...”
    “He passed.”
    “Yeah, mauled to death by a panther.”
    “That’s ironic.”
    “Yeah, yeah it is. What’s with the interest in Baker?”
    “The fellows who are trying to rub me out. They used a lion.”
    “Hm.”
    “What?”
    “I said, ‘hm’” Possum said. “Fella came to my store a couple weeks ago, looking for a lion.”
    “What’d he look like, Possum?”
    “Well, he was your average Joe. He wore a striped shirt, a beret. He might have been an albino.”
    “Anything else? Anything out of the ordinary?”
    “Oh, yeah. He had a mustache.”
    Ace’s eyes lit up, when he saw Johnny bringing his delicious consolation whiskey. After a couple sips though, they lit up again, a little brighter than before. “Johnny, go put away my consolation whiskey. Bring me my accomplishment whiskey and fire up the car.
    “We’re going to pay a visit to ‘Mustache’ Duchamp.”


    Mustache Duchamp lived in an abandoned train car down near the quarry, emerging only to occasionally frighten the townspeople with his requests to be treated like a normal human being. Mothers would hold their children a little tighter when they saw “Ol Mustache” coming down the street, and gasp dramatically as he tipped his hat and offered up a “Good morning to you, ma’am.”
    It was near midnight when mustache heard a rapping at the door of his train car. Confused and pale with terror, or lack of pigment, Mustache slid open the train car door. “Can I help you?” he asked.
    Ace grabbed mustache by his stained, tattered collar. “You there, Mustache--what do you know about lions? Start singin’!”
    “Nothing,” Mustache said, “I swear. And please, don’t call me ‘Mustache!’ My name is Clarence.”
    “Yeah, well my man Possum here says different, see,” Ace said, nodding at the old man behind him. “You callin’ ‘im a liar?”
    “No!” Mustache said. “But what would I know about lions? I live in a train car!”
    “Time was, Mustache, folks that knew the most about lions lived in train cars!”
    Confused, Mustache shrugged. Ace wound up to sock Mustache in the mustache, but Possum caught his hand. “Ace--” he said. “This isn’t the man you’s looking for. Fellow we saw,” he continued, gesturing toward the possum on the end of the leash, “was whiter than this fellow--Isn’t that right, Darrell?”
    The possum nodded confidently.
    “Whiter than him?” Ace said incredulously. “No, no, that don’t add up. Look at this freak!”
    “Please,” Mustache pleaded, “My name is Musta--Clarence. My name is Clarence.”
    “Why should I believe you, Possum?” Ace said.
    “Oh, I don’t know,” Possum said, gesturing at his possum. “But we know what we seen, and this ghostly creeper isn’t him.”
    Mustache started to demur to the “ghostly” crack, but Ace spoke over him.
    “I don’t know why,” he said, “But I believe you.
    “Sorry, Mustache.”

    “Let me ask you, Possum,” Ace said back at Headquarters. “Why are you such a help all of the sudden?”
    “Dunno,” Possum said. “I guess it’s just nice to have someone to talk to again, something to do. Like I said, most of the old gang is long dead. Mabel passed, must’ve been ten years ago, now. It’s just--it’s nice to have a friend, outside of Darren here.”
    When Possum ended his soliloquy, Ace was slumped on the couch snoring. Possum shook him awake.
    “...Guh?” Ace said. “Oh, hey Possum. You think you could identify that fellow if you saw him again?”
    “Sure,” Possum said.
    “Good. Go home and get some sleep. We’ve got some work to do tomorrow.”
    “Sounds good... friend.”
    “What? Oh yes, good, see you tomorrow.”

    The next morning, Ace had a burger for breakfast, some sliders for desert and grabbed a patty melt for the road. He tipped his hat to a woman as he stepped into the street outside of his house, and the woman grimaced because she was really a man with long hair. Ace shrugged his shoulders and kept on.
    Our hero arrived at the old folks’ home at a quarter past nine, and asked to see Possum Jones. The woman at the desk said, “Oh, you must mean Alfred,” she said. “He’s expecting you. It’s room 316.”
    Ace took the stairs up to the third floor, because he read that little things like that can sometimes be a big help when it comes to burning calories. On the last step, he stubbed his toe, and yelled, “Dammit!”
    When he looked up, a nun was shaking her head in disappointment.
  

    When Ace finally made it to room 316, he lit a cigarette and knocked on Possum’s door. It smelled a little like pee in there. Wait, no--a lot like pee. “Come on Possum,” Ace yelled. “We’ve got work to do.”
    Frustrated by the silence, Ace tried the door. It was unlocked.
    Possum was nowhere to be seen. The TV was on a golf tournament. The door to Darren’s cage was ajar. For a moment, Ace thought that, perhaps, Possum had forgotten their appointment and taken Darren for a stroll. He was pretty old, after all. Then he saw Darren’s leash on the counter next to the colorful bottles of pills, and--even more curiously--a note written in blood. Wait, no, that was just red ink.
    “Dear Ace, or random nursing home employee,” the note read. “I have kidnapped Alfred and his beloved possum, Darren. If you wish to see them alive again, have Ace Chandler--yes you, Ace--at the old typewriter factory at midnight. Bring no one. Actually, bring some gin. We have tonic and limes but no gin, so it’s like, what do we do with that, right? Okay, so bring gin. But no people. Cheers--the kidnapper.”
    Ace would guess later that Possum left his oxygen tank on. Because just after he finished reading the letter, as the nurse turned to him and told him, in stern tones, that he wasn’t allowed to smoke in there, the third floor of the Happy Hills Retirement home exploded in a prodigious blast.
   

Big Cat Capers, Featuring Ace Chandler: Part I

 Kablamo!
    The piano came from somewhere above and smashed against the pavement just behind our hero Ace Chandler, who then turned, considered the scattered ivory keys and the mangled, splintered wood. “Well,” Ace said, looking at Johnny. “That was queer.”
    The two shrugged, and continued on. “Oh yeah,” Ace sang, unaffected. “Gettin’ some burgers, gettin’ some burgers, gettin’ some burg-burg-burgers!” Ace continued his hamburger song, Johnny nodding along to the uncertain, frenetic melody, until our pair of heroes came to a cross street. Ace pushed the little button, muttering to himself, “Burgers, I love burgers, with cheese and onions, it tastes like America!”
    Ace’s song was finally interrupted by a loud crack and a “ping” sound. Looking up at the “Stop” sign, Johnny tapped our hero on the shoulder. “Uh, Ace,” he said. “Was that bullet hole there before?”
    “Dammit Johnny,” Ace said, doing a little hamburger dance now. “I can't go noticing every little bullet hole in every little stop sign. You've got eyes.”
    "But, my cataracts," Johnny demurred. "I... Never mind."
    When the two turned onto Dealey, and came face to face with a full-grown male African lion, Ace finally ceased in his pre-burger revelry. “I believe,” he told Johnny, as the two were wildly running from the lion that was chasing them, “That some skulduggery is afoot.”
    “What?” Johnny yelled, adjusting his hearing aid.
    The pair ducked into an alley. The lion walked past, confused and hungry-looking.
    Ace, breathing heavily now and coughing, pulled out a cigarette.
    “Cousin,” he said. “Someone’s trying to bump me off.”

    “Who could it be?” Francis said, back at Headquarters. “Prussian Pete? Doctor Blackwood? Those guys who sent you that note last week?”
    “Eureka!” Ace yelled.
    Indeed, the week before, a mysterious note had arrived in the mail. “Ace--we’re going to kill you,” it said. “Next week--probably sometime later in the week--maybe Wednesday, but definitely not on Tuesday or Monday. Also, probably not on the weekend. Okay, so probably between Wednesday and Friday--we’re going to kill you. (evilly) Hahahahahahaha.”
    Ace had forgotten about the note shortly thereafter, as Johnny and he were to meet for hamburgers, but, digging it from the trash bin in his office, he took note of the black cat scrawled on the bottom of the note.
    “The black cat,” Francis said. “The calling card of the Main Street Pussy Cats.”
    The Main Street Pussy Cats and our pleasant-smelling hero had a long history indeed. He had busted them twice for rum running in the 1920s, and once for cockfighting. 
    They were particularly fond of using animals as weapons. “Possum” Jones, the gang’s leader, got his name for his preferred method of combat, which was swinging possums, by the tail, at his opponent. It was much the same for “Muskrat” Peters, “Housecat” Jefferson and Possum’s cousin “Nutria” Jones. “A lion” Ace said, shaking his head. “It must have been old 'Jungle Cat' Baker, the no-good nogoodnik! Let's go, we're gonna catch us a tiger by the tail." 
   
    After stopping for hamburgers at Greasy Pete’s, our gang of crime fighters went across town to the Pussy Cats’ old hideout. Economic revitalization had turned what was once a seedy hotbed of opium, gambling and the most affordable hookers in town into a pristine bastion of glass office buildings and people who always wore pants--even still, Ace smelled treachery, and took to investigating.
    Using his trusty grappling hook, our hero ascended the side of the old tannery where the Pussy Cats used to hang out. Now the location of a graphic design studio, the townspeople watched Ace curiously as he made his way, step by step, up the front of the building. Finally arriving on the roof, Ace came face to face with an unkempt twenty-something wearing red, horned-rim glasses and smoking a cigarette. As a man who fought the reds for most of his waking life, Ace hated the young hipster immediately.
    “Huach” the kid said, as Ace kicked him in the stomach. “What do you know about the Main Street Pussy Cats! Where were you yesterday at five o’clock! You think you can get away with ruining Ace Chandler’s afternoon stroll!”
    “Wha-who-what” the kid said, spitting blood onto the gravel. “What are you talking about? I work here.”
    “Applesauce! That’s what they always say,” Ace said. “Which one are you? Muskrat? Possum? Housecat?”
    “This is a graphic design studio, dude” the hipster said. “I work here.”
    Ace thought about kicking him again, but the kid pulled out his wallet. “Look,” he said. “Look, this is my ID card.”
    “Oh,” our hero said, scratching his head. “Are you sure you’re not a Pussy Cat?”
    The kid looked up at him confused, and still shaken from the stomach-kicking.
    “Well, I guess I believe you, kid,” Ace said. “Good day.”
    As he turned to make his descent, Ace paused. “Hey kid,” he said.
    “Yeah?” he said.
    “Can you butt me?”
    “What?”
    “Well don’t you speak English?! I want a fag.”
    “Fag?”
    “A cigarette! Now make with the ciggy, before I reintroduce my wingtips to your gut!”
    “Take the pack,” the kid said, and tossing them to Ace. “Just leave, please.”
    “Thanks kid,” Ace said. “Now you keep your nose clean.”



    Back on the ground, Ace lit one of the unfortunate hipster’s cigarettes. “It was a dead-end,” Ace told Johnny. “No, there are no Pussy Cats here. Just a graphic design studio, whatever the hell that is.”
    “Uh Ace,” Johnny said. “Look over there.”
    Across the street, tucked under a pet shop called “Pussy Cats! Pussy Cats!, was a small room whose sign read “Main St. Pussy Cats Hang Out,” with a large, illuminated arrow pointing to the front door.
    “Well I'll be,” Ace said, laughing. “I reckon it’s high time we got some answers.”

    Ace, Johnny and Francis were hiding under a pile of coats just outside the front door, when, several hours later, it swung open with a creak. Ace held a finger up as if to say, “Whoa--not yet,” or “I’m number one.”
    Whoever it was, he must have not noticed the six legs emerging from a curious pile of coats that hadn’t been there earlier, because he walked by undaunted. When the footsteps faded, when their pitter-patter was approaching the limits of audibility, our white toothed hero sprang into action. With his shoes in his hands, so as to not draw the attention of the trailed, he followed the man for around a half a mile. The man stopped suddenly, at a “Do Not Walk” sign, and Ace crept up behind.
    “Surprise!” Ace yelled, and the man turned.
    Just before the net sprang from Ace’s trusty net gun, he recognized the man’s face. It was Possum Jones, the ring leader and big cheese of the Pussy Cats.
    Possum, his oxygen tank and his trusty possum struggled against the netting, which made Ace laugh. Possum tried to swing his possum at Ace as he approached, but realizing that he hadn’t enough space or freedom to mount any effective possum beating, Possum set his possum down, defeated.
    “Looks like you’re all tangled up,” Ace said, wishing someone was around to hear his joke.
    “Ace Chandler,” Possum said. “You finally did it. You finally caught the Possum.”
    Ace gathered the entangled possums, and summoning his associates with his trusty duck whistle, began to drag them back to headquarters for a cool drink, some questioning and, as he told Possum, “a whole lotta’ waterboarding.”

Introducing Ace Chandler

Detective, patriot and problem drinker Ace Chandler spent his life fighting the evil onslaught of Nazis, Communists and the ever-elusive Commie-Nazis, whatever they are. But after a forgettable night with an unforgettable Russian woman posing as a slightly memorable American girl, Ace was left frozen in a block of ice in the Moscow Kremlin. Sixty years later, he was thawed out, alive and open for business. The only trouble is, there are no Nazis; there are no Commies; all that remains is a semi-comfortable suburban life, a dwindling group of elderly friends and a thirst for justice that won’t be sated, no matter how hard anyone tries.

Six Signs Your Girlfriend is Actually Lex Luthor

Oh, we've all been there. You meet a pretty girl, and, like those strippers that one time, you're pretty sure she likes you. You date a little, feel her up a couple times, maybe see her naked. That's cool. Then, your mind turns to the future, and you wonder, as all men do from time to time, is my girlfriend who she says, or is she evil scientist extraordinaire Lex Luthor?

Six simple questions to solve this oh-so-masculine quandary:

*Regardless of the flow of conversation, does she always brings up Superman, particularly how she hates him and wants to destroy him?

*Does she live in a nice apartment, or the Hall of Doom?

*Did she once break off the top of the Washington Monument and hurl it point first at Superman?

*Is she a scientist? A mad scientist, as it were?

*Is she bald?

*Does she have a penis that is also bald?

Erma

    Sitting on a stool in the barn one night, scrawling my picks for that week’s football games in a small notebook, the family cow, Erma, lowed loudly, cleared its throat and then spoke. “No, no,” she said, in response to my pen scratching. “Stafford is out. You want to take Cincinnati and the points.”
    “You can talk,” I said, stunned at first. “Cincy over Detroit, huh?”
    “You can bet on it,” Erma said.
    “I would,” I told Erma. “But Cincinnati’s playing Jacksonville this week.”
    Erma was visibly embarrassed. “But, I thought...”
    “Yeah, well you thought wrong,” I said. “Ya fuckin' idiot.”

Folding Chairs and You: A Primer

    Scientific studies have shown that nine out of every ten Americans owns a folding chair. Yet, unfortunately, very few of these Americans know exactly how to operate this curious doodad with any efficiency.
    One of the more arousing characteristics of the modern folding chair is its versatility--however, this is also the cause for a lot of confused grunts and frustrated head-scratching around households of every brand throughout the nation. Which is to say, a folding chair is a little like a kazoo: it’s hard to figure out initially, but once you do, man oh man, you’re in for one gem of a hoedown. (For more on how to operate your kazoo, consult my earlier piece, Kazoos and You: Squeaking Through the Postmodern Age).
    Upon purchasing a folding chair, you’ll want to inspect it: Does it have four legs? Is it furry and breathing? Is it meowing?
    If you answered “yes” to all of these questions, you’ve made the common rookie mistake of confusing a folding chair with a house cat. Don’t beat yourself up over it--this is a mistake we’ve all made at one time or another. If you sat on the cat, believing it to be a folding chair, simply discard the body in a nearby receptacle. If it is still alive, leave it outside and let it roam free, as nature intended.
    In order to avoid this mistake in the future, here are some basic differences between the house cat and the folding chair:

Cat: Animate
Chair: Inanimate

Cat: Furry and warm
Chair: Cold and metal

Cat: Occasionally meows
Chair: Occasionally creaks

Cat: Not good for sitting
Chair: Good for sitting

    Now, once you’ve purchased a folding chair, and inspected it to make sure it’s not a cat or some other animal, you’ll want to master the chair in its sitting mode. To do this, unfold the chair and set it down on an even surface. Then, simply place your buttocks in the seat part.
    Congratulations, you’ve taken the first step on your journey to becoming a folding chair connoisseur!
    Of course, this is only one of the myriad uses for the folding chair. The second-most popular use of the folding chair, according to the National Council on Folding Chairs, is as a weapon. Stand up, and fold the chair back up. Now, holding the legs in your hands, lift the chair over your head and swing it at whoever you think deserves a good folding chair bashing. If you notice a painful throbbing in your head after a few minutes, there’s a good chance you’re hitting yourself--another common rookie mistake. Simply bandage your wounds, and practice. If you haven’t mastered this step after a few weeks, you may need to consider taking lessons. Many YMCAs and Athletic Clubs offer classes in the art of hitting people with folding chairs, the number growing every day.
    Not all uses of the folding chair are violent. Some, like the “Talky Chair” routine for example, are quite funny. The “Talky Chair” can be used to delight relatives at a family reunion, attract women, or even console a mourning widow. Pull it off, and you’ll be the belle of the ball. Botch it, and you’ll just be another dickface who doesn’t know his way around a folding chair.
    To accomplish the “Talky Chair,” return your chair to sitting position. Now, grab the seat with one hand, the back with the other, and move them up and down, like a moving mouth. Now, simply talk in a funny, voice--to accomplish this, ask yourself, "What would a folding chair talk like?" Some, more seasoned crowds may demand refined “Talky Chair” material, but for most, the idea of a chair talking is enough to have them rolling.
    If, after you’ve mastered these three basic uses, you’re interested in learning more about folding chairs, vis a vis, how to get the most out of your folding chair, you may consider my extensive guidebooks on the following folding chair disciplines:

*The Folding Chair as a Projectile
*The Folding Chair as a Sex Partner; or Why You Shouldn’t Try To Have Sex With Your Folding Chair
*The Folding Chair as a Musical Instrument
*Cats & Folding Chairs: The Subtle Differences
*Blenders, and Other Things That Aren’t Folding Chairs

Jeff's Rebuttal

“The human body is a beautiful thing,” the pornographer said. “In our work, we strip away a literal and figural facade, and that process, in itself, is beautiful.” The pornographer pointed at his day’s subject, a buxom blond known best for her buxomness, named Kandi. “Look at Kandi here,” he said. “Look me in the eye and tell me her body isn’t beautiful.”
    The interviewer grinned and gave a thumbs up, as if to say, "Boing-oing-oing."
    “As I was saying,” said the pornographer. “We live in an age where violence is romanticized. Where any kid can turn on the TV and see images of dead bodies, of oppression and famine. And yet, we’re told that this,” he said, pointing again to Kandi’s naked body, “this is obscene!”
    “This pornographer makes a pretty good point,” the interviewer thought to himself.
    Then the fat, naked, hairy guy walked in.

Confusion at 45,000 Feet

Pilot (after dropping incendiary bombs): Bullseye, Jonesy. Those red bastards won’t be able to sprout so much as a patch of grass for the next twenty years.

Copilot: Not a patch of grass?

Pilot: Not a patch of grass.

Copilot (confused): And why’d you call them red?

Pilot (indignant): Because they’re communists, Jonesy, Jesus.

Copilot (more confused): Japan are communists?

Pilot: No, China. Damn Jonesy, you--

Copilot: Wait, but wasn’t that--

Pilot: Yes, Japan.

Copilot: But, wait, did they say to bomb Japan or China?

Pilot: China... Right?

Copilot: I think so, yeah, but that was Japan.

Pilot: Dammit, not again.

Copilot: The general’s gonna be pissed.

Pilot: Well no shit, Jonesy.

Copilot: Should we, uh--

Pilot: No, I’m not going back. We’ve gone too far.

Copilot: Yeah, I’m getting pretty hungry

Pilot: Whew, tell me about it. I could eat a horse.

Copilot: A horse?

Pilot: Yep, a horse.

Copilot: Wow, you are hungry. Chipotle?

Pilot: Yeah. Oh, and uh, if anyone asks, we bombed China.

Behind You! Story Nuggets II

The Links

The new golf course was pretty nice, but on the ninth hole, there was a nasty dog leg. We all looked at each other, and took a long puff from a our cigars as if to say, “Whoa, what’s up with the dog leg?”. Then Ron just picked it up and threw it in the woods with the rest of the dog.

Leviathan

I think blue whales are beautiful and magnificent animals, but God help them if they think they’re getting their slimy fins on my krill.

The Family Basement

For some reason when I was a kid, my family’s basement reminded me of a scary dungeon. Maybe it was because it was really dark down there, and there were all those skeletons.

 The SSandwich; or, A Friendly Gesture

I think it would be weird if Hitler did something nice for you one time, like bringing you a sandwich or something. Because then anytime everyone was ganging up on him and talking about how terrible he was, you’d want to join in. But the sandwich thing, that was really thoughtful.

Honest Mistake

Sometimes I hope earth is invaded by robots from another planet, because I always imagine robots would be fun to kill. You’re having a great old time just stabbing away at their robot torsos, and you’re feeling really heroic and then...Blood? Robots don’t bleed! Who is this?!

Dead Ringer

Tina got angry at me when I made a joke in the middle of the funeral. But, with her father’s mustache, I’m pretty sure everyone else got my “Weekend at Bernie’s” impression.

Lenka

I guess the first clue I had to Lenka’s true identity was the skull piles. I’d try to bring them up casually every once in a while, but she’d always change the subject to something else, like the drapes in the kitchen, or the motif of the living room, which always struck her as “gaudy.”
    “Hey, uh, Lenka,” I’d say. “What’s with the skull piles?”
    “God!” she’d yell. “You know, it’s not a crime for a girl to have a life of her own! You don’t own me!” and so forth, until I found myself stumbling over hurried apologies. “You’re right,” I’d say. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”
    But, as piles of human skulls sometimes will, the skull piles would weigh on my mind. We’d always find ourselves in the same argument again the next day.
    The skull piles weren’t the only thing. There were also all those blood-stained plastic sheets, and those newspaper clippings detailing gruesome stories of murder and cannibalism, that she kept in her lingerie drawer. Then there was that time she sat me down and said, “I need to talk to you.”
    I tuned her out, as something good was on television, but I’m pretty sure I heard the words, “intestines,” “streamers,” and “blood orgy.” When the commercials came on, I said, “So tell me again, what’s with the skull piles?” and she left the room in a huff.
    Why I didn’t leave her when I was 99.9 percent sure she routinely and viciously murdered strangers and feasted on their gooey insides, I don’t know*. When I did finally leave, she whispered goodbye and kissed me on the lips. It tasted like person.
    Even now I think about her. What she’s doing, who she’s eating. When the authorities are going to figure out her twisted game. And what was with all those skulls?
    (*The sex. I’m pretty sure it was the sex.)

The Schoolmarm

    I admit now that perhaps I was wrong in calling the schoolmarm a dried up old hag. But it’s not as though I called her a ‘bitch.’ It’s not like I killed anyone. The last I checked, the schoolmarm was in stable condition, and there’s no way to prove that my calling her a dried up old hag led to the outburst that caused the heart attack.
    So, sorry, but I was almost sure she wasn’t within earshot, because she is really old and old people aren’t that good at hearing. Really, too, I was only using that term, “dried up old hag,” to liven up my story, the one that ends with me exclaiming, “So I said, sucks to you, ya’ old bitch!”
    That one always got a lot of laughs from the guys. And even though none of the guys were around, I had to practice telling the story some time so, when the guys did arrive, I could tell my “the schoolmarm is an old bitch” story with perfect rhythm and inflection--for optimal laughs.
    That term might have been harsh.
    Then again, the schoolmarm’s skin really is quite dry, so the dried up part at least is accurate.
    As, obviously, is the “old” part. A hag is traditionally thought of as a mean old woman, so that part is true too--as evidenced by her yelling at me for calling her a dried up old hag.
    No, I can’t rightly be blamed for this one. No one can, I reckon. Except for that schoolmarm, the dried up old hag.

Sophie

No sooner had Sophie stepped back and said, “Did you just bite me?” than I realized, probably, I shouldn’t have bitten her.
    Oh, this damned pride of mine, I thought. I could have pinched her, or poked her a little bit--a bite! What was I? Some kind of beast? Some uncivilized hound incapable of discussing my problems like an adult human? I tried to say “I’m sorry,” but the words wouldn’t come, so, instead, I put my arms out at my sides and made a face that seemed to me to say, “Uh, I really lost control there--my bad.”
    Sophie had tears in her eyes, and the words still wouldn’t come. I got down on all fours and nuzzled her bite wound with my mouth and nose area, but again she pulled away. “No!” she said.
    “What have I become?” I thought. “Oh, woe is me, he who bites and occasionally scratches to solve petty disputes!”
    Whether she was hurt more by the emotional trauma or the bite itself, I did not know. Probably the bite, though, because I bit her really hard. Still, she was hurt--that much was certain. Ashamed, I laid on the floor and whimpered my penance, to which she came over and scratched me under my beard.
    “It’s okay,” she said, in infantile tones. “But you can’t just bite me.”

    Driving home that night, I still felt pretty bad about that whole “Biting Sophie” thing. And even though I’ll never agree with her assertion that Rocky II was better than Rocky III, I know now that that’s no excuse.

Knocky Knock Knock Knock

Like most people, I used to adhere to the old truism “don’t knock it ‘til you try it” with all the zeal of a dog clothes manufacturer in the week leading up to the big dog parade, or Stalin. But whenever someone says that, it usually means that whatever you may be knocking deserves to be knocked, or at least prodded at a little. I’m pretty sure I can knock eating a railroad tie, for example. Have I tried it?
    Sure. But I was pretty sure of its knockability before then.
    Then of course I got drunk, and, before I knew it, there I was at the kitchen table, a large, splintery railroad tie stuffed between two slices of potato bread and a blend of six Italian cheeses.
    I was about halfway through with the sandwich when, with a mouthful of wood and bread and cheese I thought, next time, I’ll just knock railroad tie eating beforehand and save myself and everyone around me the trouble.
    I’ve only tried railroad tie eating three or four times since then, and I can tell you, it’s not an acquired taste! Aside from the splinters and unpleasant texture, you have to deal with the angry people down at the railroad commission knocking at your door at all hours.
    So before you go stealing railroad ties and eating them, just know, brother, it ain’t worth it! (Not even with delicious potato bread and a succulent blend of exotic cheeses!)

Some Other Things I’ll Knock Before Trying

• Live grenade juggling
• Broken glass swimming
• Human trafficking
• Chivalry
• Paella
• Scrapbooking
• Hornet snorting
• Bear raping

Twizzler Beard: A Delicious Tragedy

    One morning, as I awoke from my anxious dreams of half-man, half-moose hybrid beasts, I discovered that on the pile of newspapers on which I sleep, my beard had been turned from a regular beard made of hair, to one made of Twizzlers candy straws. I lay there on my back, a cherry scent emanating from my sugary mustache, my sticky facial locks sticking to my upper chest, the dog chewing at my face rather contentedly.
    “What’s happened to me?” I thought. My beard supplies, now rendered useless by my metamorphosis, lay on my dresser: my beard comb, my beard wax, my beard blowdryer, all suited for a normal man’s beard. My trinkets, which I liked to carry around in my beard sat on the dresser as well, and I quickly realized that, unless I wished my trinkets to be forever sticky, I would have to find a new means of conveying them about town. “Oh well,” I thought. “At least I got all these Twizzlers.”
    I would quickly discover that the notion of a Twizzler beard, much like the Rodin sculpture composed of peanut butter (which was eaten by Nazis in 1943) or that fountain in Rome made of hot links (eaten by Visigoths in 327 CE), is tragic by its very nature--it's beauty being true but always ephemeral, and delicious. As the old timers say, “You can’t have your Twizzler beard and eat it too.”
    For breakfast, I ate the left side of my beard, and saved the right for lunch. I carefully tweezed off my Twizzler mustache and had that for dinner. By midnight, my Twizzler beard was but a memory. As I lay in bed that night, chewing on the goatee part of my Twizzler beard, the last remaining piece of my tasty candy beard, I pondered the meaning of this peculiar development:
    “Will my Twizzler beard ever grow back,” I wondered hopefully; “If so, will it come in different flavors, or will it remain the standard cherry?”; “Do girls like to eat Twizzlers?”
    And also: “My stomach hurts.”

A Serious Story

Dick Harden hated double-entendre.

It was for this reason that he dropped out of wood shop in high school and skipped college, the destination of most of his filthy-minded classmates, to take a job as a nut picker down at the Springdale Nut Farm. Shortly thereafter, the tawdry sense of humor prevalent among the migrant workers at Springdale preempted him to put down nuts for good.

Old Dick got around a good bit in those days: clams, kielbasa, pork butt. He sold them all down at Richard’s Sack & Suds, during his stint as the boner at the deli there. He laid carpet, he campaigned for Mike Hunt (the unsuccessful democratic mayoral candidate), he even spent some time as a bosom presser down at Wang’s Laundromat.

Dick was a ladies man. Around the time I met him, he was dating a pretty young thing named Eileen Ulick. After that it was Sharon Cox, and Betty Humpter after her. None of them worked out, as they always left a trail of snickering jokesters in their wake. No, Dick wasn’t one for double-entendre, or those who seemed to so enjoy it.

Dick once pulled me aside at the old textile factory--where we worked together as muff winders--and said to me, “The waters of bad taste are threatening to break the levees of decency in this country, and I’m not going to stand for it, Jimmy. I’ll get my finger in that dyke yet!”

That day was the last time I saw Dick. He was killed in an electrical accident while working as an impregnation inspector for the city. Earlier this year I visited his grave to pay my respects. His epitaph read, simply, “Dick Harden: Forever An Upright Man.”

How Fergie And I Are Different

Fergie: A woman
Scott: A man

Fergie: Four top five singles
Scott: Zero top five singles (yet)

Fergie: Okay Calves
Scott: Great calves

Fergie: “Where is the love?”
Scott: “Where’s my fucking hamburger?”

Fergie: So three-thousand and eight
Scott: So two-thousand and late

Fergie: Married Josh Duhamel
Scott: Proposed to Josh Duhamel, but was turned down

Fergie: Has a feeling that tonight’s gonna be a good night
Scott: Has a feeling tonight will be mediocre at best

Fergie: No wiener
Scott: Wiener

A Cry From The West

    When the shells went silent, Paul lit a cigarette against the tremble in his hands. He thought briefly of his family back in Tulsa, Ma, Pa, Dooly, Little Pete, Big Doug and Fat Sherri, wondered what they were doing, if they were thinking of him. This time last year, he was the star left end of Tulsa Senior High. Now, he was dirty, cold and scared, an 18-year-old kid in a new and frightening world. But, accepting his duty and his fate maybe, he gritted his teeth and went over the top to launch a grenade at the German line.
    The explosion shook the ground and he hunkered back down into the dugout as chunks of earth rained from the blackening sky. As what remained of the sun began to set, and after a lull in the chattering of rifles, he took out a letter he’d gotten from his sweetheart. “Dearest Paul,” it said--and then gunfire from a lingering Mauser rifle. “Jerry son of a bitch!” Paul grunted, and reached for his sidearm. And then, “Ow, papercut! Ow, ow, ow!”
    Later that night, Paul stopped crying. Then America won the war.

Fancy Rats

“I’d like one rat, please,” I told the man. His name was Mario, his name tag said, and he looked at me for a moment as though he were trying to solve a case on one of those procedural crime shows, before waving me over to a corner, near a noisy bird cage. “Do you want a regular rat?” he asked. “Or a fancy rat?”
    Frankly, I was stymied by the man’s question. Throughout my life, I’d attached a great many adjectives to the great many rats I’d come in contact with, but never did I use a word like “fancy” or even “ornamental.”
    “I’ll just show you one of each, and then you can decide for yourself,” the man said, taking note of the confused look on my face.
    As we walked to the rat station, I imagined little rats, wearing little top hats, little monocles and little tuxedos with tails on them. Maybe one of the rats goes to the other one and says, “Tally ho, Gerald. Would you have the time?” And Gerald, one of the fancier of the fancy rats, would produce the time piece from his coat pocket while demurring, “I say, why not just look at the clock tower?” The first rat, named Stanley, would say, “Old chum, it’s these blasted cataracts,” and Gerald would say “Well, as you like it, it’s half three.”
    Later that evening, Gerald and his wife Elaine would go to Stanley’s for an elegant dinner party, complete with Stanley’s wife Marie’s famed shepherd’s pie. They’d drink tea out of dainty chinaware and joke about politics and society, and what’s to be done with these working class rabble-rousers?
    After a grand and lovely evening, the couples would bid each other adieu, by saying, with a doff of the cap, “I bid you adieu.”
    It was all very elegant.
    But when we got to the case, there were no timepieces or tuxedos or top hats. Some of the fancy rats wore overalls, some of them t-shirts and shorts. Seemingly each piece of raiment was covered in paint. One of the fancy rats had a little Mercedes, but it couldn’t have been any less than 15 years old--the rest drove pickup trucks. I did notice some art on the walls of their single-story, Spanish mission-style homes, but they looked like those cheap reprints you buy from a frame store.
    “Well, what do you think sir?” the man asked.
    “They’re kind of fancy,” I said, defeated. “I guess.”