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.)