Super

Man 1: Look! Up in the sky!

 

Man 2: It's a bird!

 

Man 3: It's a plane!

 

Man 1: Woah, youse guys serious?

 

Man 2: What?

 

Man 1: Ya' walkin' in downtown Metropolis, one of the largest damn cities in the world, and youse freak out when ya' see a bord?

 

Man 3: It's a plane!

 

Man 1: Fuckin' tourists, man. That up there is clearly Superman.

 

Man 2: Well from a distance it could have been a bird.

 

Man 3: It's a plane!

 

Man 1: When was the last time ya' saw a blue and red man-sized bord flyin' around? Never, that's when.

 

Man 2: Ok whatever, Jesus. So I can't tell the difference between Superman and a bird or-

 

Man 3: It's a plane!

 

Man 1: Hey fella, what's ya problem? This one screwed on right?

 

Man 2: He's my brother, he's a metahuman. His only power is having Super Tourette's.

 

Man 3: Cloud bitch poo poo fuck!

 

Man 2: Sigh. I love him but he is so emotionally draining.

 

Man 1: Yeah, yeah, I can see that.

 

Man 2: Alright next time I see something flying I'll just assume it's Superman.

 

Man 1: Tourists! Tourists, I swear to god! This is Metropolis, buddy. Literally every third person here can fly. We even have a flying dog.

 

Man 2: You guys have flying dogs?

 

Man 1: Dog. Singular. His name's Krypto, Superman's dog. Doesn't even train the sonofabitch, fuckin' dog shittin' everywhere. Disgustin'. Shat on my car last week. I kid you not, Superman has like eight different flyin' animals. Just captures the poor bastards, throws a cape on 'em, makes 'em fight crime.

 

Man 2: That's really fucked up.

 

Man 1: Totally fucked up. But what're you gonna do, eh? Guy's fuckin' Superman, he can melt ya' face or rip ya' arms off like nuthin'.

 

Man 2: Oh, ok. Thanks for the tip.

 

Man 1: Fuckin' whateva, buddy. You take it easy now, say high to ya' mutha for me.

 

Man 2: We should have stayed in Gotham.

 

Man 3: It's a plane!

Birthday

It was my birthday a little over a week ago. I've never been the type to get inappropriately excited for my birthday nor the holier-than-thou types that go out of their way to tell you how little of a shit they give for their birthday. To me it's always just been another day.

When I say "always," I am of course referring to life after turning 18. All children 3-17 get super stoked for their birthday, since it means (at best) you'll be getting a lot of presents and free pizza at Chuck E. Cheese or (at worst) your dad won't punch you in the face for 24 hours. Both good things! Alas, the onset of adulthood marks the death crawl towards maturity and responsibility and tax returns and no jumping balloons. Once jumping balloons were out of the picture my interest in future birthdays waned. 

"Hey! You've made it an entire year without dying! Please have some cake and take these gift cards to stores you don't really frequent from people you don't really know!" In a nutshell, birthdays.

Now my only real grievance (I wouldn't even call it a grievance. Y'know when your eyebrow kind of itches but not so bad that it necessitates an immediate itch? That is the exact feeling I have towards birthdays.) with the celebration of birthdays is when one is excited for one's own birthday.

Parents happy that their unemployed, do nothing piece of shit son has made it to 30 with no real life goals, let alone life achievements, to merit any form of celebration? Cool. Significant other wants to surprise the newly 28 year old man/woman/passable transsexual in their life with a day filled with romantic cliches (it's like the beginning of act 2, right before shit gets real)? That's cool too. Friends want to have drinks after work with a just turned 40 compatriot (I hope when I turn 40 one of my friends gets me one of those humorous birthday cards that has a tombstone or Death personified on it, so I can take my birthday cake knife and stab the living shit out of him/her for thinking something so fucking trite could be mistaken for being funny)? That is also cool.

But if I, a grown man and owner of dozens of books (if not dozens of dozens), were to get excited for my own birthday? Like, just excited that the anniversary of the day I punched myself out of my mother's womb was today? I'd be an asshole. If you are the biggest advocate of celebrating your birthday you are being a decent human person wrong. Holding one's own birthday with actual reverence is kind of like masturbating to pictures of oneself; it says so much without having to use any words.

Like I said (or alluded to. Whatever. Just keep fucking reading, alright? We're almost done.) earlier, your day of birth has almost nothing to do with you. It is about the people in your life who are grateful to know you, to love you. Your birthday is a celebration of the bonds forged through life, strengthened to endure any hardship or adversity. So before you dive into that double chocolate cake (it's not even gluten free, you fat cow) remember that those candles weren't put up for you. Not really.

Humor

Dear Dominic,

"...and so the mortician tells the necrophiliac that's not a cadaver, that's my wife!" I forget how it started, but that is the actual end to an actual joke one of my coworkers (let's call him Craig) told me. Craig is terrible at jokes. Like, fucking terrible. If I had a nickle for every time he told an unfunny joke I'd be all "holy shit, where did all these nickles come from!? Genie, take it back, take it all back! No more wishes!" or something of the sort. When he makes jokes I feel like American slavery was somewhat justified. Is there any thing I can do on my end to make him not not funny?

Regards,

The Green Power Ranger



Dear TGPR,

I've met many people like your friend in my life. Completely devoid of humor, they are missing the ability for their humor gland to secrete Laughamine, a neurotransmitter that makes you interesting in conversation and not a cow. It's science. There was a time when I worried that all the exposure to unfunny jokes from unfunny friends over the years would give me a form of cancer that doesn't have a ribbon or 5K attached to it. Horrifying. To combat such hypothetical illness, I have come up with a series of humor do's and don'ts that can easily to applied to your comedy challenged co-worker.

DO: Make context appropriate jokes

If everyone is talking about tax-rates being unreasonable, whimsically counter with tax related jokes. It shows that you are not only paying attention to the conversation at hand but have the quick wit to playfully turn discussed ideas on their respective heads.

Reading that last tip back makes it sound like I'm trying to write for The New Yorker. Which leads me to my second tip:

DON'T: Talk like you are trying to write for The New Yorker

It's fine if you read it, but, like, keep that shit to yourself alright? Reading The New Yorker, much like your gluten allergy and the godawful Nirvana cover band you play bass for, is the type of information that should be projected as little as possible.

Like right there! The way you just rolled your eyes and flipped your scarf! That's the kind of sassy fuckery people who read The New Yorker do! Cut that shit out, alright? I'm trying to help you here.

DO: Strategically use props

I'm not saying go full Carrot Top here. You don't need a suitcase full of rubber chickens and clattering teeth, although could you imagine if you did? People would be all like, "wtf bro, you has chickens?" and you'd be all like "yeah I do bro, cool right?" and they'd be all "we are friends now and forever." Fuck it, go get yourself some rubber chickens.

DON'T: Laugh maniacally at your own jokes

BECAUSE YOU LOOK LIKE A FUCKING ASSHOLE. A little smile, slight chuckle at your own material sure, that's fine. Reasonable even. But laughing like you just heard the funniest thing in your life? And it came from your own goddamn mouth? Gimme a break, dude.

DO: Utilize racial humor

After extensive daydreaming of researching stand up comedy I discovered that 65% of all jokes can be boiled down to "Black people and white people are different. Crazy, right?" So if in a pinch for a funny one liner, reference slavery or the Holocaust. But humorously.

DON'T: Be Jeff Dunham

This last tip should not be too difficult to pull off, unless you are already Jeff Dunham. If you are Jeff Dunham, sorry dude, you're fucked as far as being funny goes.

Hope these tips help your pathetic fraud of a human being co-worker to better make non-threatening amusing conversation in the future.

Love,

Dr. Dominic Coats

Ferg

I was 11 or 12 when my Dad first talked to me about how to deal with police. I forget what exactly prompted the lecture, but I remember him giving my brother and myself a quick rundown of what to do if we were to find ourselves face to face with a fucking pig with a badge an officer of the law.

 

"It's 'yes sir no sir' for everything the police officer says."

 

"What if it's a girl?"
 

"Don't be a smartass." I've been a smartass since forever. "Yes sir, no sir. Face him with your hands at your sides, and don't move your hands unless he tells you to put them in the air."

 

"Like I just don't care?" Oh, me. I was so Raven before That's So Raven.

At the time I thought this talk was akin to the ones ol' Pop-Pop had given in regards to speaking to elders, teachers, the Pope, etc. An etiquette type thing. It didn't cross my mind until I was much older that he was genuinely concerned that my lack of officer talkin' finesse could get me arrested or killed. Luckily I have only had a handful of cop encounters in my life, none of which have ended with me dying in a hail of gunfire. Good job Dad!

 

The underlying issue of my Father's warning was that people would treat me differently because of the color of my skin. And the silky smoothness of my skin. Go ahead, touch it. No, really, touch my skin. C'mon, touch it. See? Fucking smooth, right? I know, it's crazy. Who wouldn't want to oppress this skin, na' mean? 

 

I digress.

 

There have been times where I am very conscious of the fact that I am a minority. When I get followed around a grocery store by employees, when I walk past a woman gripping her purse with all her might, when I get pulled over while walking, I generally assume that my skin had something to do with the matter. While the above examples totes suck whenever they happen, they do not happen to me as often as they did to my Father when he was my age. And they certainly do not carry the same viciousness as when my Grandpa was my age.

 

I feel ambivalent talking about dealing with prejudice because, while I feel the effects on a daily basis, such prejudice serves as little more than a nuiscance. I'm not being barred from entering establishments and I can whistle at white women to my heart's content without fear of retribution. Like, they can tell me to fuck off but I don't have to worry about them lynching me, y'know? Nothing that happens to me is really all that bad, and other ethnicities have their own little racial obstacles they must navigate during their day to day.

 

On the flipside, I find it frustrating that some people refuse to belive such prejudice even exists. They Quantum Leap around American history, highlighting the kick-ass freedom parts whilst glossing over the Trail of Tears, Japanese internment, and the death of Emmett Till. They see a large percentage of blacks in prison, but don't see that for similar offenses to white men black men recieve harsher sentences.

 

I had a co-worker ask me (paraphrasing) "If racism is still around, then why do white people think Michael Jordan is the greatest basketball player ever? If they were really racist wouldn't they call Larry Bird the greatest?" Can't see the forest for the trees.

 

I don't know what happened in Ferguson on August 9, 2014. I do know that it is a pretty stupid idea to get into a physical altercation with an armed police officer, and I do know that a police officer shooting an unarmed man six times is doing a shitty job of being a police officer. I also know that Mr. Brown's complexion only served to expedite his demise. I understand the anger of the black community. I don't agree with the looting or Al Sharptons of the world, but I understand the anger.

 

From my paternal grandfather, to my Dad, to myself, I can see the anger dissipating. My progenitor's have every right to remain indignant until the day they die, for they lived through injustice the likes of which I literally cannot fathom. And I'm great at fathoming shit. However, for myself, my generation, our barriers are not as omnipresent. Racism is still prevalent, but it no longer has a death grip on our lives.

Jesus

Sara: High! How are you doing?

 

Jesus: Great, how are you?

 

S: Fantastic, fantastic. So sorry to keep you waiting, I had to take a call from distribution that just dragged on and on.

 

J: No worries, I understand how it can be.

 

S: Please, please come inside. Have a seat right here, thank you.

 

J: Sure thing.

 

S: You've been waiting quite a bit so I'm going to be very blunt and cut to the chase; the reason we called you in for an interview is because you have one of the most impressive resumes we have ever seen.

 

J: Aww shucks, I'm blushing.

 

S: I don't mean to speak in... what's the word, hyperbole? But seriously, your resume reads like a 'what-to-do' for aspiring Best Buy Team Leads. The extensive experience working our Jasper store, sensitivity training you volunteered yourself for, and dying for our sins after being wrongfully sentenced by Pontius Pilate are all huge pluses.

 

J: You are too kind.

 

S: Plus I haven't seen many people pull off Comic Sans on their resume, but I would expect no less from the Son of God.

J: Thank you. Well I've never been too big a fan of Times New Roman, or Romans for that matter, so I tend to switch up the font here and there.

S: Your references all spoke glowingly of both your work ethic and ability to cure leprosy. One of your references, John I think it was? Seemed a bit off compared to the other three.

J: He can be a bit over dramatic but he's a good dude.

 

S: Going over your work history I see you mostly worked in miracles between 33 and 1996.

J: Oh, I was, uh, in Heaven serving with my Father. It was an administrative position, mostly paperwork and the like.

S: What made you leave, Your Holiness? I imagine serving as the right hand of God is a pretty tough position to walk away from.

J: Just odd hours, honestly. Mostly because the Sun never sets. Makes it hard to know what time it is.

S: So Jesus, tell me what you feel you can bring to the Best Buy staff? How do you feel you can help this store succeed? I guess what I'm asking is, why should we hire you?

J: Well first of all, I am Jesus.

S: ...

J: ...

S: The Perfect Man, with the perfect answer. Listen, being honest with you Christ Almighty, you got the job. You had the job the moment you walked in this office.

J: Excellent! Wonderful! I am Jesus!

S: However, discussing with my supervisor we feel that you are a bit overqualified for this position.

 

J: Is it because I'm your Lord and Savior, turned water into wine, all that?

 

S: Exactly, exactly. But let me clarify. We like what you bring to the table. We really do. We just don't want to hire you and then three days later you ascend to Heaven or accept a position at Circuit City. It's not very often we get a deity of your caliber wanting to work for Best Buy.

J: I will do whatever you ask using my name, so that the Father will be glorified by the Son... I will do it. (JN 14:13)

S: I don't think that answered my question but I like Bible references. Congratulations, Jesus Christ, welcome to Best Buy.

J: Appreciate this. Thank you so much.

S: We'll be giving you a call some time this week to let you know when your first day and orientation is.

J: I'll be looking forward to it.

S: Um, Jesus?

J: Yes, my child?

S: Just one final question, if you don't mind.

J: Sure, anything.

S: ...so are you, like, your own dad or uh, how... how does that work?

Laundry

I fucking hate doing laundry.

It's a 20-25 minute walk from my apartment to the nearest laundromat. While I could drive, these legs of granite aren't going to chisel themselves. I load my duffle bag with clothes and snacks, walk in a circle five times before exiting my door (I have OCD), then lock/unlock my door eight times (OCD again; it's not quirky, it's miserable) and head about my way.

As I near the laundromat I notice a motley crew of foul mouthed children playing a rather raucous game of craps in the parking lot. Recognizing the smallest child, and hoping to avoid conflict, I quietly shuffle by whilst avoiding eye contact.

"Hey Coats!" The smallest child calls to me. He flicks his cigarette and approaches menacingly. "Ya' got a lotta fuckin' nerve, ya' know that?"

"Knuckles, please, I just need a little more time," I plead. He flips out his butterfly knife and grabs me by the collar.

"Ya' got one week, ya' hear me? One fuckin' week, then I gut ya' like the fuckin' pig ya' are. Understand, friend?"

"Yes sir, thank you sir." He balls up his fist and punches me in the stomach, which elicits laughter from his fellow eight year olds. I sort of have a gambling problem, and sort of owe people money.

Dragging myself into the laundromat I'm greeted by grainy Ranchera music and babies running around in diapers. The mounted television is playing one of those Mexican game shows that has some clowns, some hot women, and some mustaches. The scene causes either nostalgia or indigestion to briefly consume my being, as my local laundromat is the closest I will come to visiting El Paso, my home, for the foreseeable future.

As I'm loading my clothes into the nearest washer I feel a tiny foot repeatedly kicking my leg. A small, ice cream stained toddler stands behind me, his face in perpetual I'm-about-to-sneeze-I'm-about-to-sneeze-no-wait-I'm-good mode. His mother quickly runs up and grabs him by the hand, apologizing. He looks up at me, with his stupid three year old eyes, turns absent-mindedly to his left, then does the most impressively awkward sprint I have ever, or will ever, see in my life. Like a gazelle missing one leg, with its remaining legs on fire. Ambivalent as to what to do in such a situation, I turn to the mother and say "Cute kid."

"Oh, thank you," she smiles politely. "He's not mine." Her smile slowly dissipates. "Not yet." She is staring off into the distance. "Soon. Soon he will be." Her eyes are the eyes of one who has seen much sorrow, of one who will see much more. "Mine. Forever."

Focusing on the task at hand I put my quarters in the washing machine. Not one to disappoint, the washing machine eats my quarters. The machine reads ERROR: DESPAIR. Using my Ring of Summoning (+2 Wisdom, +15 Mana) I call forth Quarter Wizard Lady the Gray.

She stops sweeping the floors and comes to my aid. "Que paso? It eat you quarters?"

 

"Your grace, this washing machine has broken the Pact of Six and consumed my quarters without having first laundered my laundry. I beg your assistance in retribution, o' Great Wizard."

"Oh, este no work. No use it." Quarter Wizard Lady's sagacity never fails to impress me. She hands me six quarters. "Different one."

"You humble me with your assistance, Quarter Wizard Lady. A thousand pardons for having disturbed you from your sweeping." She grunts and waddles off to sweep floors that need sweeping.

Many moons later I transfer my clothes from a washing machine to a dryer. I briefly contemplate what would happen if one put a washing machine into a dryer, then quickly shake such juvenile thoughts from my head. Obviously it would make a Transformer®.

 

I notice that an older gentleman is removing my laundry from the dryer. I reach for my wallet to flip a silver dollar for his troubles, then I realize he is stealing my clothes. I flare my lats to look hella jacked and more intimidating, then ask him what he is doing.

 

"Him what he is doing?" My brain and mouth don't always see eye to eye.

 

"What?"

 

"What are you doing?"

 

"Getting my laundry."

 

"That's my laundry."

 

"Whaaaaaaat?"

 

"Do you work for UNT?"

 

"Maybe, maybe not. What's it to you?"  

"Because those are UNT shirts I wear for work."

"Oh, it looks like you're right. These are clearly shirts for pussies."

"There's no need for name calling."

"There's also no need for you to have such colorful underwear."

"Just drop the clothes, dude."

"You must say that alot." He drops the clothes, then he drops the mic.

I fucking hate doing laundry.

Games

My carriage rolls to a stop as I reach my destination. Hugo, my driver, hastily opens my door.

 

"Thank you, Hugo. I shall send for you when I am ready."

 

"Yes sir, very good sir."

 

I dust off my spatterdashes, adjust my handkerchief, and leisurely twirl my cane as I make my way toward my friend's apartment. I stroll by two lovely young women, and tip my hat to them. "Good evening ladies. Mayhaps this be the apartment of one Evelyn Miller?"

 

"Nah, next one over. What the fuck are you wearing?" asks the more boorish of the two.

 

"Why, only the latest coat from famed Italian designer Sergio Mozzarella." Instinctively I twirl so they may absorb the entirety of my coat.  

 

"You look like a fucking asshole."

 

"Charmed, I'm sure." I tip my hat and genitalia towards them and bid them adieu. 'Adieu' is Mexican for 'sayonara,' which in turn is Asian for 'goodbye.' Language! I approach Evelyn's door and bang the ever loving shit out of it. I quickly ruffle up my cravat; a properly ruffled cravat serves as a visual aphrodisiac for women and some household plants.

 

She opens the door, looking ravishing as always. Her Homer Simpson pajama pants, ketchup stained t shirt, and complete lack of make up only serve to accentuate her beauty. "Dominic, what's with the costume? It's just board games, not a Halloween party." She laughs erotically. Or nervously, one of the two.

 

"Oh, bwa ha ha! Fa la la la! Scrumpleedo! My dear, you mustn't jest like so; you shall make me laugh off my new wig." I place my hat and coat away, though I do find it strange there are no negroes to do so for me. I walk- no, glide -towards the living room to great the other guests. There are roughly eight people spread out on various couches and the floor itself, partaking in delectable imported cheese and Steel Reserve™ malt liquor.  All eight stop speaking as soon as I enter the room. Knowing a cue if I ever saw one, I perform the most elegant of bows in the history of elegant bows.

 

"Good evening. I am Lord Dominic Coats, Duke of Ravenshire. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, you fucking faggots." Oh, dear. It appears I have accidentally let out another homophobic epithet. A remnant of my father's convictions, I assure you; it is most unbecoming of a gentleman and a habit I try mightily to shake.

 

"Er, uh... a thousand pardons. What I had meant to say was 'a pleasure to make your acquaintance, you fucking faggots and ladies.'" Pleased with my swift recovery, the guests clap politely and nod in agreement.  

 

Afterwards I assert myself as the belle of the ball. But, like, the dude version. I regale my fellow guests with delightful tales of hunting trips with Lord Baron Von Poopshitcz, my harrowing escape from the fiendish Redcoats during the summer of 1775, and that time I hit a deer driving from Fort Worth to Austin. Alas, my tales would not be enough to satiate the party for the entirety of the evening.

 

"Alright! Everyone get your drinks! Game time!" Evelyn says. She holds various games in her hands; Monopoly, Apples to Apples, Priests and Ladders, RENT! The Movie: The Game, and more. "What'd y'all want to play first?"

 

Her question holds little merit, for whatever game is decided upon shall end no differently; me, standing above the mangled and charred corpses of my enemies, victorious.

 

 

 

TO BE CONTINUED...

Nigerian

Dear Friend and Acquaintance,

Forgive for such an informal notice of assistance. I am Prince Charmander Agabi, Defense Secretary of the Nigerian People of Freedom Republic. As you may well already be aware of and know, we are currently fighting the Nigerian Army of Tyranny and Oppression. We have only now recently begun to march single file onto Abuja, our capital city of Nigeria, seeking to overthrow President Bulbasaur Okafor. His leadership has been an outrage and injustice to our people. To fight the government people we must properly have the funds to make do so.

To aid in the fight we shall transport the sum of 250000USD$ to your account, of which you will re route to an offshore account near a shore. Upon successful completion we shall transfer 10000USD$ to your account successfully. I would not ask you of this if not very necessary. We shall need your account information and date of birth to verify your trust and once verified we shall transfer you the sum of 250000USD$ immediately. The people of Nigeria thank you friend.

Regards,

Prince Charmander Agabi


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

My Dearest Charmander,

 

Oh! Has it been so many years, my love! Many an evening I have waited on the veranda, praying to catch a glimpse of your carriage returned from the War, or for the postman to deliver a message of your good health. Instead, many an evening I lay awake in tears for I was greeted with no such correspondence. For so long I have yearned for your touch, for the rough, callused hands of an African warlord masquerading as a diplomat, and now, after all this time, you return to me!

 

Oh! The way you held me in the foyer as we basked in the moonlight, the way you gently nibbled on my ear like a man mouse nibbles on a woman mouse's ear, the way you sent your military junta to slaughter an entire village so that we could leisurely stroll through town square. My love! My sweet, sweet Charmander! Just the thought of your touching my body makes me... makes me...

 

Oh! It appears I have fainted. My delicate, womanly form could only take so much scandalous thoughts of you and I together before succumbing to my lady boner and losing consciousness.

 

Oh! I had initially feared for the worst when I sent letters to you on the war front only to have severed human fingers returned to me. Surely, I thought, surely this could not be true; the man who taught me burning the children of one's enemy is an effective method for squashing disobedience in one's own ranks could not meet so grisly a fate.

 

Oh! There is so much you have missed in your five years on the war front, my love! Without your military to buy their wares, the local machete factory has closed indefinitely. So has the Superfluous Military Medals factory, unfortunately. Many of the women your soldiers raped have given birth to healthy, beautiful mulatto children. Alas, my womb remains barren and devoid of child. But oh! With your return we shall rejoin our bodies in union, my legs spread out among the stars and heavens to receive your noble celestial ejaculate. Finally, my love, you shall have your heir!

Oh! You need not ask for my assistance with your war effort, my love; only tell me where, and I shall send the full extent of my resources to aid you. Unfortunately, there is but one stipulation. Currently, as you know, there is an embargo between the Colonies and Nigeria. Luckily, there is no such restrictions with either country trading with the Democratic Republic of Congo. If you were to transfer the sum of 500000USD$ to my account in the Congo, I would be able to repay with interest plus 250000USD$. While I make arrangements with my associates if you would be so kind as to write me with your account information and date of birth to verify that you are indeed the love of my life.

Devoted Always,

Lady Catherine Raventits 

Babies

Babies are adorable in moderation. Because they are lacking in social skills and general politeness, they do not know what moderation means. Also because they do not speak English. Sometimes, howerver, moderation will simply not do; babies are not needed at all. The following is a list of places I do not want to see babies anymore.

Grocery Store

Inside a Bag of Cereal

Quizno's

Working at a Quizno's

On a Sandwich Made at Quizno's

Riding a Dog Like a Horse

Inside a Basket Left On My Doorstep

Laundromat

Laundromat Parking Lot Playing Craps Looking Shady as Shit

Stuck Inside a Tree Trying to Get Honey a la Winnie the Pooh

On the Street Working as a Circus Barker

Barbershop

Barbershop 2: Back in Business

Police Interrogation Room During 'Good Cop, Baby Cop' Routine

In a Car as a Designated Driver

Dressed as Fruit Inside a Fruit Basket

Leading a Mosh Pit

On a Rollercoaster

Starting Power Forward For the Phoenix Suns

Operating a Rollercoaster

Inside a Basket Left On My Doorstep With a Heartfelt Note Saying That the Mother Loves the Baby With All Her Heart But She Is Incapable of Providing For Him and Prays That I Can Give Him the Type of Home He Needs

 

Department of Batman's Motor Vehicles

On a Cruise Ship

On a Somali Pirate Ship Boarding a Cruise Ship

On a Space Pirate Ship Boarding the International Space Station

Seriously Stop Fucking Leaving Babies On My Doorstep, There Are a Bunch of Cats in My Neighborhood and If I'm Not Home When You Drop Off the Baby He/She Will Almost Definitely Be Attacked By Cats

Erotica

James: 1-2-3-thrust! 1-2-3-thrust! 1-2-3-thrust! 1-2-

Mary: What are you doing?

J: I'm having sex with you.

M: No, no I can see that. Why are you counting?

J: To maintain an acceptable rhythm. I've learned that women love a proper rhythm.

M: Ok. Maybe... a faster rhythm?

J: 1-2-thrust?

M: It's a start.

 

[After some gentle thrusting]

J: Are you ok?

M: I'm fine.

J: How is my level of gentleness?

M: It's fine.

J: Should I be more gentle?

M: Less gentle, if anything.

J: If you insist.

[James increases speed of tempo to 1-thrust]

J: Bless you.

M: I didn't sneeze.

J: It looked like you were about to.

M: You say bless you before someone sneezes?

J: Preemptive blessing, yes.

M: Well, not to worry. I won't be sneezing anytime soon.

[Silence]

J: Are you about to sneeze now?

M: I don't think so.

J: Ok.

[Silence]

J: It's just you scrunched up your face a bit, like you were about to sneeze.

M: I'm not abou- HACHOO!

J: Bless you.

[Silence]

M: Thank you. Sorry for sneezing on your face.

J: It's fine. You didn't have a lot of mucus so it wasn't that bad.

M: It's because I took allergy medicine before you came over.

J: Wise. Shall we try a different position?

M: Wouldn't hurt.

J: If it does hurt please do not hesitate to let me know immediately.

[Both move around uncomfortably]

J: What position would you like?

M: Um, I don't know.

J: We could... go back to missionary.

M: Doggy. We will try doggy style.

J: Very well.

 

[Mary rests on her knees, waiting]

J: I am having reservations about this 'doggy style.'

M: What? Why?

J: I just... I just feel it reinforces archaic patriarchal stereotypes and paints you as uncharacteristically submissive.

M: I don't even-

J: You are a strong black woman! You deserve to be treated as such!

M: I'm Thai, actually.

J: Oh.

[Silence]

J: You're Thai?

M: Yes. My parents were born in Pattaya.

J: Well, as a strong cisgender woman of color I feel I am doing you a disservice by employing the doggy style technique.

M: You're not, honest. I assure you I have never felt more liberated than I do now.

J: ...really?

M: Really. This place is a place of love.

J: We are in the Loss Prevention office of a Wal Mart.

 

M: Yes. It is Loss Prevention, not Love Prevention. We are here because we love each other, and because we both had the same schedule today. Now please, would you kindly put your penis back inside my vagina?

[1 minute later]

J: How does it feel?

M: It feels al- HACHOO!

J: Bless you.

M: Thank you.

Looney

It was another miserable, rainy day in this miserable, rainy city. After running the beat for 12 years I'm actually upset when it isn't raining. 12 years. Every time I think of quitting the force, my good buddy Johnnie Walker calms me down. I take one last shot of whiskey before I grab my coat and head out the door. I was meeting Gomez over by ACME Tools. Phoned me earlier, something about a possible murder. Heh. In this city, there is no possible murder. Just murder.

I arrive in front of ACME Tools and the coats are already hauling the poor bastard off. Gomez is surveying the scene. He's always first to the scene.

"Glad you could join us, O'Malley. I was getting lonely." Always a smartass, too.

"Can it, Gomez. What've we got?"

"Well," he lights a cigarette, "seems like we got ourselves a classic case of wrong place at the wrong time."

 

I take in the area as Gomez continues. Directly in front of ACME Tools are the remains of a piano, presumably a piano that fell some distance. I look up to see the still dangling rope from where it snapped. "By wrong place you mean here, and wrong time you mean now?"

 

He stares blankly. "What the f- yeah. Yeah, that's what I'm getting at."

 

"I'm guessing this here piano crushed the man being hauled off right now. Any witnesses?"

 

"A few, still a little rattled. That dame over there gave me the rundown. At about 10:43 AM a one Mr. Wile E. Coyote enters ACME Tools. Owner says he was looking for a giant catapult to, and I quote, 'end that insufferable bird once and for all.'"

 

"Looks like the bird lives to fight another day," I say smugly. The only part of this job I don't hate is that I can be smug pretty much non-stop.

 

"Yeah. Well, owner tells Coyote that they don't sell catapults, so he ends up leaving the store somewhat irate. Witnesses say that right when he walked outside he barely dodged a runaway wedding cake on a cart by jumping right here," Gomez motions to where the piano lays. "He was heard saying 'boy, that was a close one,' seconds before this piano landed on him."

 

Looking up at the rope again I check for signs of foul play. After being distracted by a few clouds I stop checking for signs of foul play. "Where was the piano being moved to?"

 

"Third floor, ACME Music. Movers say the rope just snapped. Freak accident." It's my experience in this town that there are only freaks, no accidents. "Luckily, or unluckily, however you please, the piano didn't kill him. Witnesses say it just turned him into a giant accordion, his teeth replaced by piano keys for some reason."

 

"He had visible music notes swirling around his head, huh?" I know how this goes.

 

As does Gomez. He nods while lighting another cigarette, his first still burning in his left hand. "Yup. Coyote then stumbles around in a daze, mumbles something about forgetting to bring his sheet music, and heads south on Mulberry. That's when this safe fell on him." Gomez walks a little ways off to the opposite side of the building where, sure enough, a safe sits firmly rooted into the concrete.

 

"Being moved up to ACME Banking?"

 

"Being moved up to ACME Banking. Fourth floor." Looks like Life was selling sandwiches for a nickel and Coyote didn't even have a penny. "Somehow he managed to open the safe from the inside, and immediately vomited out gold coins and dollar bills. Why he ate them in the first place we'll never know."

 

I begin to think if this is mere coincidence, two foreign objects landing on one man mere seconds apart, or the endgame of a far more sinister plot. Thinking hurts my head. Knew I should've brought my whiskey. "So the musical notes floating around his head, still there?"

 

"Replaced by floating cash registers and dollar signs. That dame I told you about earlier was going to run over and check on him when she heard a Falling Whistle Sound Effect™. Stopped, looked up, and watched. This is what did the poor bastard in."

 

Gomez motions to just behind the safe as he lights a third cigarette, one for his mouth and each hand. I told him those things will kill him, and I think he mistook it for encouragement. As I look just past the safe, I feel stupid for not having seen this coming.

 

"The old fashioned skydiver-with-a-bag-filled-with-silverware-and-utensils-instead-of-a-parachute, huh? Eighth one this month." All of those jumpers had jumped out of planes owned by ACME Aviation. The mangled corpse of the skydiver was just now being attended to by paramedics. Spoons, forks, knives, and a few broken plates lay around his corpse. Of course, the only one eating fat after a snafu like this is Lady Death.

 

"When the skydiver, who we're still trying to ID, fell on Coyote they were both killed instantly. A real bloodbath, partner." Gomez shakes his head, hands on his hips. Not so much out of disbelief but relief. He knows that in this city, this accident could have been much worse. "Honestly we're lucky we know this much. Most witnesses only saw the piano bit but the dame over the way saw the whole thing. Said she was only here because she made a wrong turn at Albuquerque."

 

I stop dead in my tracks. It appears the plot has thickened.

Shooter

I am always hesitant to write on topical subjects. A political gaffe, celebrity snaffu, sporty sports thing, all of these seem rather temporal. To me such subjects are in direct conflict with the inherent endurance of the written word, and far be it from me to betray its will. Until recently the subject of mass shootings would be lumped with the aforementioned topics. Tragic and troubling yes, but not something that happens with great frequency. Unfortunately one cannot go more than two weeks without reading about a disgruntled psychopath taking a gun and indiscriminately killing innocents. Such violence has become endemic of the Western world, America in particular. I can think of no better allegory for the moral decay of our society and desensitization of the individual than a mass shooting.

By now we all know the drill. Someone with severe mental illness who clearly had no business owning a gun takes to the streets, crazed manifesto left behind more so out of obligation than desire to be understood. I mean, c'mon, have you ever read one of those things? These dudes don't even proofread their shit. Bang bang, X amount of people dead, community in mourning, President sends condolences in between holes 11 and 12, yadda yadda. After offing themselves or getting gunned down by cops having their most fun in years, the locals are left only a few brief moments of quiet, organic grieving. Once the initial tragedy is over a more protracted and artificial one rises from its ashes like the lamest fucking phoenix you have ever seen.

Camera crews from across the nation pour into whatever sleepy town is still reeling from having members of their community slaughtered. National pundits summon hours of looking-somber practice as they look somber, a grieving parent pleads for stricter gun controls, a cartoonishly conservative NRA representative demands looser gun controls, Wolf Blitzer watches over it all with the glazed eyes of one who has seen much suffering. Or one who works at CNN.

What is it about mass shooters that makes network news eat up every case like a fat kid eating... like, way too much food and stuff? (I don't know what it is recently but I can't make fat people analogies to save my life. Swear to god I used to knock that shit out of the park.) It can't just be the death toll, since the average network news ticker will casually sneak in the 900 brown people from Brownpeopleiztan killed in a tsunami in between news of a stupid cute puppy doing something stupid cute and Selena Gomez farting. Natural disasters do not illicit the type of tragedy-induced-news-watching the media loves to pump out, and neither do acts of terrorism in countries not America. An American mass shooting strikes all the perfect chords needed to sing a song of sorrow. Not too far away to seem irrelevant, not too close to seem urgent. Not too fast to seem accidental, not too protracted to seem institutional. 

As mentioned earlier, usually just after the tragedy has occurred a tearful parent or significant other or life coach will plead, demand for tighter restrictions on gun laws so as to avert further loss of life. One must question the sincerity of these people. So you didn't give two shits about gun rights until your child/spouse/life coach was killed? That's like those people who have a relative who falls ill to some rare disease and then start a charity or raise awareness to find a cure for said rare disease. They don't really want a cure, they just want a cure for their relative. While I agree that there should be some tightening on who is allowed to carry around something that only exists to end one's existence, the problem of mass shooters is ultimately one of communication. A mass shooter usually suffers from mental illness or is just a raging asshole, both problems that can be dealt with sans bloodshed with proper communication. The responsibility for said communication falls on the media, community, family, and individual in that order. 

On the opposite end of the spectrum you have the boorishly tasteless, hopelessly delusional crusaders who feel now would be a good time to remind people that guns are, like, totally radical. Totes rad, brah. When these characters start crawling out of whatever ass backwards red state where QUEERS CAN'T GET NO MARRIED CUZ JESUS they come from I start playing a drinking game. Every time one of them says "second amendment," "freedom," or "Obama taking away our rights," take a shot. So far I've only died of alcohol poisoning twice. If they wish to believe guns do a good job of protecting people, fine, believe all you want. Ignoring the fact that only a very small percentage of gun related homicides are in self defense, guns are not really the issue. People are the issue. Move the people pendulum, not the firearm pendulum.

Both sides, caricatured liberals and caricatured conservatives, are so embarrassingly dense it saddens me. I do not mean that metaphorically either; I'm legit bummed that human beings can become so entrenched in their stupidity, in their madness, that crazy becomes the norm. Speaking solely in hyperbole becomes an acceptable form of conversation. Indignation an acceptable reaction to disagreement. These are the people who bumper stickers were made for. No one likes bumper stickers.

Any loss of life is tragic, but the deepest mourning should be reserved for those closest to the victims. It is not something for a nation to observe, to analyze. We are talking about the loss of human life, not what some smug dipshit said on Twitter to another smug dipshit. Although, can you believe the nerve of Smug Dipshit A? I can't wait to read Yahoo's news report on Smug Dipshit B's counter barb. Enthralling. Why does one's suffering need to be broadcast by news networks? That's not news, that's private. Back the fuck off CNN and Fox News (MSNBC is usually just playing with finger paint and eating glue in a corner), peace is much easier to achieve without 20 cameras in one's face. The dead should not serve as fodder for national news networks. 

I'm not one who believes tragedies happen so we can learn from them, but I believe tragedies will happen again if we do not learn from them. The predictable national discourse does not exactly instill confidence on our ability to learn from mistakes, but I have not given up on humanity just yet. Faith shaken, hope endures.

Advice

A good way to extend the shelf life of fruits and vegetables is to buy whiskey instead.  

Running low on writing paper? Grab two sheets of paper then fold each from the top right corner to bottom left corner. Fold top left corner to bottom right corner. Fold from left to right. Fold top to bottom. Holding the center pull each corner up, then place one sheet over the other. You now either have a paper hat or two awkwardly folded pieces of paper.
 

Never trust a big butt and a smile. Poison! Poison! P-p-p-poison!

To help remember someone's name when first meeting them shake their hand firmly, look them in the eye, and kiss them. You never forget your first kiss.

If you are down in the dumps after breaking up with a significant other ride more public transportation during high traffic times. You'll get more than enough inappropriate physical contact and uncomfortable smelling of fellow patrons to last you a week.

Always bet on black people.
 

Do not take candy from strangers, as they are probably pedophiles. Honestly anyone offering you candy on a day that isn't Halloween is probably a pedophile.

Zoning out of conversations can be a useful tactic to retain some semblance of sanity if you work in an office, have shitty friends, or know someone named Peggy. Oh, really Peggy, the dog food you normally get at Tractor Supply moved to a different aisle? That's crazy! Madness! Please talk about that and only that for fucking 10 minutes even though you clearly see I am trying to politely end the conversation and be about my business.

Considering becoming a magician? Haha! You're hysterical as always!
 

Contemplating suicide but don't want to leave a mess after blowing your brains out with a shotgun? Try shooting yourself inside your tub with the shower curtain pulled back. Leaving cleaning supplies next to your soon-to-be rotting corpse is a thoughtful and appreciated gesture for whoever finds you first.
 

Standing on chairs during office meetings will confer an image of power and assertiveness that your co-workers will respect.

Don't pee on people! It's considered rude most of the time!

There is a difference between maintaining polite eye contact during conversation and creepy creep eye contact for creeps. Ignore this difference. Concentrate on the eyes. Look at them. Make a mental note of every time their eyes nervously glance away from yours. What are they hiding? What do they know? Maintain eye contact. Perhaps they know? Know what you did? No! How could they! That would be impossible. Continue to stare into their eyes. Into their being. Until it burns. Does it burn? DOES IT BURN?

Aim for the stars but remember, most of them are really far away!

Having guests over but not looking forward to the clean up afterwards? Give each guest a trash fanny pack to wear during the party. This trick will virtually eliminate garbage from piling up around your poorly decorated living room and they look oh so stylish too!

Don't use hashtags ever, because you're not an asshole.



Sports

[The Cleveland Noble Savages have just defeated the Jackson City Quadroons 116-110 in game 1 of the Offensive Team Name Basketball League (OTNBL) championship series. "No Shoes" Jackson, DeQwondarius the Magnificent, and Coach McCoacherson have taken their respective seats for questions. The following is the transcript from the Quadroon's post-game press conference]

No Shoes Jackson: Before we start this press conference I'd like to thank God for giving us the strength to go out and compete today. When I first prayed to Him I believe He told me He was on His way to Syria to blow up a school bus full of children, so for Him to take two hours out of His busy schedule for this literally meaningless game of basketball means a lot to us. I'd also like to give thanks to Chaac, the Mayan god of rain and water. We sacrificed a virgin for him before the game, but judging by the outcome I think we should have sacrificed two virgins. Now, questions? Yes, pale white man.

Reporter 1: No Shoes, it appears that you guys lost today because you scored less points than the Noble Savages. Going forward, have you guys considered scoring more points than the Noble Savages?

NSJ: Well that's definitely something that's on the table. Right now we're reviewing all our options, and even reviewing other people's options. But we won't be abandoning our identity; scoring less points than the other team has worked well for us in the past so I don't think we're going to remove that element completely.

Reporter 2: DeQwondarius the Magnificent there have been many troubling reports that you are using douchebag enhancing substances. Reports claim that you are exclusively wearing medium size shirts even though you are 6'8" and that you are using cheap cologne as air freshener. Sources also claim that you are considering getting a tribal tattoo. Is there any cause for concern?

DeQwondarius the Magnificent: Nah, kid, nah. Have I made mistakes in the past? Possibly. Will I make mistakes in the future? Definitely. Am I lacking in tact and sound judgment? Maybe. Did I answer your question? Probably. Do I thnk tribal tattoos are dope as fuck? Absolutely. Do I have any shame about using a term as dated as "dope as fuck?" Nah, kid, nah.

Reporter 2: What does that even mean?

DQM: It means next question.

Reporter 3: Hi, Garfield Marmaduke with Fictitious Sports Weekly.

DQM: No one cares who you are.

Reporter 3: Yes sir, sorry sir. Your Magnificence if I may?

DQM: You may.

Reporter 3: Remember that one play where you, like, grabbed the ball and you were, like, going left then you did this really cool spin move and you were going right and then you jumped up, like, really high and then that dude was coming at you but you were all, like, "rarrgh!!" and, like, dunked? And then everyone was all, like, "ooohhh shit damn!" Remember that?

DQM: It's hard to say for certain. LSD has pretty much destroyed my ability to form new memories and retain information.

Reporter 3: Oh. Ok, well, uh, it was super cool. Thanks for dunking and stuff.

Coach McCoacherson: Any questions for me?

Reporter 1: SIT THE FUCK BACK DOWN.

Reporter 4: This question is for No Shoes Jackson. No Shoes, will you ever wear shoes during a basketball game?

NSJ: No.

Reporter 2: A tangentially related question: is there any truth to the rumors that you will be traded to the Broadway run of Cats once the season is over?

NSJ: While I believe Cats is the most purr-fect show on Broadway I'd rather focus on winning this series before talking about any trades. Meow.

Reporter 1: DeQwondarius there has been-

 

DQM: DeQwondarius the Magnificent.

 

Reporter 1: I'm sorry?

 

DQM: It's DeQwondarius the Magnificent. You need to say the whole thing. Your Magnificence is also acceptable.

 

Reporter 1: DeQwondarius the Magnificent there has been some talk of the aggressive play both teams are known for and how this might be bad for the league. In the first quarter you were given a technical for stabbing Cleveland's Derrick Mulroney to death. Is this the type of aggressive play we can expect for the rest of the series?

 

DQM: Well, I'm a competitor. When I go out there I do anything and everything I can to make sure we win. Sometimes that means to crash the boards, sometimes that means to use a sharpened toothbrush to kill another human being. If it means a W then I will gladly murder every single one of those guys. Hell, I might even murder some of my own teammates.

 

Reporter 3: Is that why Coach McCoacherson is currently bleeding, Your Magnificence?

 

Coach: That's... that's my blood... everywhere...

 

NSJ: Y'know let's not get into who stabbed who, ok? The fact is that every team could use a DeQwondarius when they-

 

DQM: DeQwondarius the Magnificent.

 

NSJ: Apologies, Your Magnificence. Every team could use a DeQwondarius the Magnificent when they step onto the court. When you're playing for a national championship every cartoonishly unhinged lunatic in your locker room brings you one step closer to victory. Now if you'll excuse us we need to get Coach to a hospital.

 

Coach: I'm so... so cold...

Gyms

"Can I get a spot, bro?" asks the man curling in the squat rack.

I'm assuming he recently survived a rather harrowing attack from an escaped gorilla, as that is the only logical explanation for his shirt to be missing so much fabric that I feel like a liar for calling it a shirt. No one needs to see the entirety of your back and both nipples, dude. Malnourished Thai children didn't masterfully craft your clever shirt (Jewbacca? Oh I get it, because it's a Wookie with a yarmulke and nerd things are funny and this country has gone to shit) just so you could turn it into a toga starter kit.

"BRO! GODDAMN SPOT, BRO!" Curling in the squat rack is akin to pooping in a water fountain; aside from missing the original function entirely it is utterly contemptible, vile, disgusting, and lacking in consideration for one's fellow man. Plus he was only curling 70 lbs like a little bitch boy.

"You will not hurt anyone ever again." I say as I grab him by his collar, kick him in the chest a la Kareem Abdul-Jabbar in Game of Death, and stand heroically. A vaguely eastern European woman, head scarfed with breadbasket in hand, comes up to me.

"Thank you save us. You are like hero."

"It was nothing, Olga. I'm just a man looking to lift heavy weights."

"May god protect forever you." She kisses my hand and departs.

Having vanquished Chad (He looked like a Chad. Is that a racist statement? I dunno, I'm kind of on the fence about that.) from the squat rack I begin my workout in earnest. Squats are squatted. Grunts are grunted. Sweats are sweated. After completing a particularly grueling set of squats I rest on the squat rack itself, a valiant knight basking in the glory of slaying dragons. A troop of small men with smaller necks approach. I first believe them to be peasants from Olga's rival village, most likely bringing peace offerings or shamanic blessings to curry my favor. Villagers give me shit, like, all the time. It's super cute.

"Excuse me, how much longer do you have?" asks the largest of the small men.

"Until the sun rises in the west and sets in the east, until the rivers run dry and the mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When my womb quickens again, and I bear a living child. Then you will return, my sun-and-stars, and not before."

"What?"

"Five minutes."

Ten minutes later I leave for the pull up station and once there, I see her. Short brown hair glides over her sweet face, sweat beads down her soft white skin, Vibram Five Fingers adorn her yuppie feet. A CrossFit Aphrodite, she performs a set of 15 perfect form pull ups with the ease and grace of something that is really good at doing a lot of pull ups. I know only a handful of unassailable facts, irrefutable truths in this world; Obama was born in Nigeria, 9/11 was an inside job, the Holocaust was exaggerated. And I know that this woman must be mine. Summoning decades of torrid sexual conquest and training I approach her. I've learned in these situations it is best to speak sincerely rather than rely on convoluted pick up lines.

"Miss?"

She removes her headphones.

"I want to be inside you."

She puts her headphones back on.

Knowing that I have successfully planted a seed of lust I do not pursue her further. I complete my set of pull ups without incidence. Had their been incidence, I would have wrote about it. You're just going to have to trust me here. I have only one more exercise left in my routine, and make my way to the opposite side of the gym. As I near my goal I see a young man performing dumbbell military press. The weight appears to be a bit much for him, however, as I see his elbows slowly buckle. In a few brief seconds he may very well lose his fight with gravity. I could tell that without immediate intervention he was about to drop the weight on his head.

"You're about to drop the weight on your head," I said as he dropped the weight on his head. Proud of myself for accurately providing commentary for an in-progress tragedy I step over the now bleeding man and head towards the bench area.

If the squat rack is the Chapel of the Ascension, the dumbbell rack is Mount Sinai, and the Smith machine is, of course, a K-Mart in South Dakota then it follows that the bench area is Mecca. This most holy of sites is the culmination of any true bro's weight lifting pilgrimage, bro. After briefly becoming enthralled with my own reflection (I often wonder why every gym insists on having so many mirrors; it lends a funhouse-for-people-with-5%-bodyfat-and-low-self-esteem vibe) I refocus and load 405 onto the bar. Such a weight should not to be taken lightly, as it is fairly heavy. I approach the weight heavily, resting my hands on the bar. Whispering sweet nothings into the ever receptive ears of each individual plate, I promise I will be firm but gentle.

"I will love you forever. Don't ever leave me," I caress the weight, "or you'll be sorry. I swear to god you try to leave and I will fucking end you." Having proclaimed my unconditional love for the weight I slide onto the bench, but manly. All my mental preparation, all my training, has lead me to this singular moment along the space-time continuum. Muscles tensed, breath heavy, blood boiling. As I move the bar from the rack to directly over my chest I let out a guttural cry, a declaration that I am no slave to gravity. A declaration that had the apple hit me in the head I would have chucked that shit right back. I hear nothing of my fellow gym patrons, as they no longer exist. My focus has given way to bloodlust, and I allow it to wash over me, consume me. The weight is now on my chest, 405 pounds of iron resting, waiting, needing to be freed of the surly bonds of earth. I lift, and am free.
 

Gym

Rock Lobster awakens me from my slumber. It is 6 AM, or 0600 if you're an asshole. I briefly contemplate hitting the snooze, then less briefly wonder who invented the snooze button in the first place. I mean the point of an alarm is to wake you up, right? Well why would you add something that prevents an alarm from doing the only fucking thing it was created to do? That's like if every gun had one of those slapsticky BANG flags pop out before actually firing. I digress, for temporal assistance devices are not my concern at the moment; today is a weight training day, thus today is good.

 

It is now 6:30 AM, as the snooze button is an alluring temptress. I go through my regular pre-workout routine of eating waffles and crying in the shower for 10 minutes then depart for the gym. On my way I go over my lifting routine in my head. Visualizing each exercise, each rep, each awkward shuffle around a bunch of inappropriately dressed Middle Easterners (jeans and polos, c'mon dude) standing directly in front of the water fountain, all to prepare my mind for the onslaught I will subject my totes shredded muscles to. I then go over the virtue of modesty, and if I even need it. Continuing, I review what little I know of prepositions, and whether or not it's okay to end sentences with them. Finally, I conclude that I do not know how to think sentences in my head make nice pretty.

  

"Good morning! How are you doing today?" the swipe card lady asks.

"Lift heavy things," I reply. Visibly aroused by my laser-like focus she quickly hands me back my card and averts further eye contact.

"Fucking creep," she says, a ploy cover for her baser carnal desires. Such is the burden of a bro as jacked as I am, bro. Constant female attention at the most inopportune of times.

Steeling my nerve I walk past a plethora of cardio machines towards the weight room proper. Ellipticals, cardio bikes, treadmills, flunnels, sneedles, jibboos, gluppity-glupps, and other whimsical machines invented by Dr. Seuss take up a good majority of available gym floor. Every last one of them useless, every last one of them an affront to god. Many of my fellow gym patrons, these masters of time and money management, decided to get in their respective car, drive 10+ minutes to a gym and pay some douchetool wearing a shirt he bought from Baby GAP $30/month so they can walk. And we wonder how China is beating us in the arms (guns [biceps]) race. That's like bringing food to Chipotle and paying to cook there. If you just want to walk fucking go outside! Get some fresh air! But please, I implore you, do not waste precious gym space that could be used for literally anything else so you can leisurely stroll whilst digesting the latest episode of whatever drivel VH1 is shoving down the country's mouth this month.

Leaving the cardio machines behind I enter the locker room and run into an old friend. "Greetings, Old Naked Man."

"Greetings, Dominic. Shall I bend over in front of your face now or wait until you are tying your shoes?"

"No need today, Old Naked Man, I'm just here to use the weight scale."

"Ah, very well then. I'll just stand awkwardly near the exit so random passers-by may be subject to the abject horror that is my genitalia."

"Charming as always, Old Naked Man. I bid you good day."

I stow my things into the nearest locker and make my way towards the squat racks. What I see there shocks me, disappoints me, saddens me. And I know I'm the only man who can stop it from ever happening again.

WHAT DID OUR HERO SEE? WILL HE SURVIVE HIS LATEST GYM SESSION? WHERE WILL HIS ADVENTURES TAKE HIM NEXT? TUNE IN NEXT WEEK FOR THE CONCLUSION TO DOMINIC COATS AND THE TEMPLE OF DUDEBROS!! SAME COATS TIME, SAME COATS CHANNEL!!

Riddles

Two trains leave Central Station heading in opposite directions. Train A leaves at 12 PM going south at 70 mph. Train B leaves at 1 PM going north at 80 mph. Train A's destination is 300 miles away. Train B's destination is 200 miles away. What will the distance between the two trains be before Train A's conductor realizes that his wife is having an affair with Train B's conductor?

Four co-workers (Bill, Betty, Barry, and Xanderpuss McWendy's) in the woods have just escaped from a violent battle royale between teenagers that was being held in the same area their Team Building Seminar was scheduled. They come to a river that has a small boat on the bank. Only two can cross at a time, one must be left on the opposite shore while the other pilots the boat back to the other co-workers. Bill, who is bleeding profusely from his stomach after a katana wielding preteen stabbed him, cannot be left alone on either shore. Betty cannot be left alone on either shore with Xanderpuss McWendy's because Xanderpuss has a cleft lip and Betty is all "eww, that's nasty." Barry cannot operate the boat because "who am I, fucking Poseidon? Tell Xanderpuss to do it, that little shit has been dragging ass since we killed those kids with Uzis." Xanderpuss is Xanderpuss. How do you get the four across without anyone dying?

 

You receive a coupon in the mail for Red Lobster. Your car has exploded majestically so you must walk. After walking some time you come to a fork in the road where two men are standing. You're like "well shit, this looks sketch" but you approach them anyways. A sign next to the man on the left says TRUTH TELLER. A sign next to the man on the right says DON'T BELIEVE THE LIBERAL MEDIA. You ask the men which is the way to Red Lobster. The man on the left says "The left road." The man on the right says "IMPEACH OBAMA!!" Which road do you take?

There are 100 marbles in a bag. 50 are yellow marbles and 50 are black marbles. I tell you to grab 50 marbles total from the bag, 25 yellow and 25 African-American. After that I mix the 25 yellow and 25 negro marbles together in a separate bag. Now I tell you to leave the yellow marbles in the bag and only grab the colored marbles. How do you do it? HINT: Affirmative Action is allowed.

Sammy, Sara, Steve, Saul and Stephanie are eating dinner at your place. Sammy cannot sit next to Steve because Steve murdered his dog on a whim last winter. Sara cannot sit next to Saul or Stephanie because they both incessantly invite her to their swingers club. Saul cannot sit next to Sammy because Saul is a vampire and Sammy is a descendant of Abraham Van Helsing. Stephanie cannot sit next to Steve because Steve murdered her dog on a whim last spring (Steve acknowledges he has a problem and is seeing a therapist). What is the optimal seating arrangement for your guests?

 

Drinks

I have always found bars peculiar establishments. Watering holes sans sustenance, where one can drift slowly (or quickly if Everclear is involved) into euphoric inebriation. To get "so fucking wasted, bro," as it were. I am often invited out for a drink with friends or co-workers, and often I decline. Every now and again I will relent and throw them a bone (or boner, if you know what I mean [I apologize for the last joke, I have a court order to reference my erection at least once a day {I have a terrible lawyer, btw}]) and go out, but I always have an internal discussion over how I am making a terrible mistake. 

Drink? For what purpose? To simply be drunk? Aside from the fact I despise being drunk, becoming drunk is a solitary endeavor. Last I checked vodka doesn't provide a contact high. No need to surround myself with strange strangers yelling over a shitty Coheed & Cambria song about that one time they got so fucking wasted, bro.

Drink with friends? Then why go out to a bar? Just drink in whatever fixer-upper trash heap doubles as your humble abode and avoid the minor claustrophobia and missing phones custom to the pub/bar/dive experience.

Meet new people? Not to paint the entirety of the drinking population in one self-righteous brush but I'LL GO AHEAD AND DO JUST THAT: the typical bar patron lacks creativity, empathy, and the all important hmm-my-tattoos-are-looking-kinda-fucking-stupid-guess-I-should-stop-while-I'm-ahead sense. Those who regularly frequent bars are not my cup of tea as people go, since they are drinking alcohol, not tea.

The very idea of bars is akin to fast food playpens; a relatively safe environment for one to interact with strangers, gorge oneself on various pro-heart attack hors d'oeuvres, cry randomly, bleed mysteriously, and make bad decisions. Pinatas too. Sometimes there are pinatas.

And yet! There, near the garishly decorated pool table! Do you see the man blissfully unaware that that is actually not a dance conga but merely a line to the bathroom? The women's bathroom, no less. Do you see the man gurgling the lyrics to four separate songs that he Macgyvered into one mega-song? Do you see the man laughing at everything and nothing simultaneously? There stands the happy drunk (who is well past "so fucking wasted, bro," bro) to drown my cynicism with a parade of 50 cent wells. I once believed the phrase a misnomer. Happy drunk. Isn't one of the benefits of inebriation lowered inhibition and, conversely, lowered emotional connectedness? Wouldn't one be more numb than blithe?

Then I considered the thought of being connected, even if only tangentially, to others disconnected was enough to warrant a smile. A laugh towards the heavens. To enjoy the nether of the moment, chest bump nonexistence. That aside from the positive societal connotations a drink with friends has represented for centuries there is something more to drinking, more to dancing on tables like an asshole, that one can transcend the quiet pleasure of nursing one's last drink past simple inebriation and onto nirvana. Temporarily know the feeling of congruence between the universe and the self.

So I look at the puke-stained man carried out by friends as one who has captured a part of the essence of being. A scotch sophist, a bourbon Buddha.  Balance unsteady, world aligned.

Haiku

A few unrelated haiku

How to improve golf
Tusken raiders and sarlaccs
Who wouldn't watch that?

Her name was Candy
Studying to be artist
Likely a stripper

Jokester co-worker
The peanuts remain silent
Thank god no one's sick

Really need a muse
Would make my daydreams better
Looks good on cards too

Blood on the TV
Newspaper scoffs, Is there more?
We're working on it

Warrior, he says
Misanthrope more accurate
Off to slay dragons

I open the door
She smiles, not genuine
I am still outside

Not hungry for food
People greet me, I'm polite
Off to cook for one

Voices! There or not?
Sisyphus had it easy
Knows it's the boulder

She asked What is love?
I turned to her in reply
For motherfuckers

Question

Dear Mr. Coats,

 

     My best friend of almost 20 years, Rosemary, recently became pregnant with her first child. I am absolutely thrilled for her and her husband, and was honored when she asked me to host her baby shower. I accepted without any hesitation but now I am having some reservations. I mean, I've held one baby shower in the past so this ain't my first rodeo so to speak, but I've recently learned that Rosemary is pregnant with the Antichrist. Apparently a few months back Rosemary attended a Satanic ritual gathering she mistook for a Game of Thrones watch party. After a few rounds of tannis root punch and a brief raping by Beelzebub poof! She's carrying the Spawn of Satan. Now she's eating raw meat, speaking in Latin, and just subscribed to US Weekly. A two year subscription! What should I do?

Jumping Everywhere Seeking Ubiquitous Savior


Dear JESUS,

     Please, Mr. Coats is my father; call me Dr. Coats, I went to school. Also, your pen name feels rushed and contrived. Work on that. Now onto your question, which is a good one. As you already know hosting a baby shower can be a hectic affair, and this is never more true when said child is the harbinger of Armageddon. Now before you say 100 Hail Marys and stock up on holy water take a deep breath, chow on some raw meat, and relax. There are certain rules when hosting a baby shower, and some of them must be tweaked to appease the Beast.

1. When to Host the Baby Shower

    Timing for baby showers is important. Too late and Rosemary might be dead after the Antichrist rips himself from her stomach. Too soon and she won't have a baby bump to sport! Won't that look awkward for pictures! What you want to do is schedule the baby shower for the third trimester, third day, third hour. The 3-3-3 dating is in reverence for our Lord's true number (6-6-6) and looks great on invitations!

2. Sending Invitations

    Now I know sending hand written invitations may seem old hat, but this is your first chance to show your guests your creative flair and sedate them for the coming onslaught of death and destruction promised by the Adversary's birth. Take a man in your life who you hold dear, be it a husband, son, or what have you, and slaughter them. Using their blood write the invitations on parchment made from lamb skin (wink wink) and have them delivered in the dead of the night via raven.

3. Food and Drink

    This is where many women hosting a baby shower for the Antichrist mess up. A typical baby shower can last anywhere between 3-4 hours, so having food that tastes delish at room temperature is an absolute must. To tie into the shower's apocalyptian theme and as a sign of solidarity for the mother serve raw goat liver, sheep intestines, chicken heart, and Ritz crackers with cheese and veggies sprinkled on top. Yum! Drinks, of course, should be communion wine stolen from a church (burning down the church is a plus).

4. Activities/Games to Play

    Truth or Dare type games are safe and simple, yet expected. Why not spice things up a bit? With any party there will always be that one guest who just rubs people the wrong way. "There's not enough variety in the drinks, celebrating the birth of the Antichrist is blasphemous, wah wah wah." Take that curmudgeon (or if she doesn't exist, target the weakest amongst you) and offer her as a ritual sacrifice for the impending birth of the Son of the Morning. This game/sacrifice isn't about competition so remember to keep it light; killing a non-believer shouldn't be stressful, it should be fun!

5. This Tip Left Intentionally Blank

Well there you have it miss! Four(ish) easy(ish) tips(ish) to make sure(ish) Rosemary's baby shower is the baby shower to end them all(ish). Ave Satani!

Dr. Coats
  




Talks

The Talk- Wherein a parent vaguely describes one of the most physically basic yet emotionally complex interactions humanity partakes in to a youth who probably has more sexual partners than years. It is usually during this Talk wherein both parent and child realize the true depth of the generational gap separating one from the other. The patriarch looks into the youth's eyes, full of vigor and valium, and sees the tragedies of unfulfilled promises, missed opportunities, and broken condoms beckoning over the horizon. "Turn back!" they shout internally, "Stay young forever! Wear a fucking condom you dumbass, that pull out shit is like 50-50 at best." That is what they wish to say. What comes out, unfortunately, is much talk of birds, bees, and other animals who handle procreation with far more grace than we humans ever will. I mean, have you ever seen a horse fuck another horse? Majestic. 

Office Talk- From a distance, nigh indistinguishable from a menagerie of birds loudly squawking and white bird shitting all over a water cooler. The two defining characteristics of this Talk are a slight, disingenuous smile held throughout the entirety of the conversation and an E! News correspondent-like laughter on timed intervals rather than after something funny actually being said. Shackled to their desks for 45+ hours a week by the bourgeoisie, dreams of a better life long since dead, and someone didn't put ink in the printer again are you shitting me? Is it any wonder that the working class descends into mindlessly vile gossip about other departments, shady Machiavellian deals between enemies, and sport scores? 

Small Talk- Designating it as small should give one an idea of its place in the pantheon of talks. Purposefully devoid of purpose, all small talks can be accurately paraphrased as two faux friendly individuals affirming one another's existence. Whereas Office Talk is, thankfully, confined to the land of snazzy ties and TPS reports, Small Talk is free to bore the hell out of you anywhere at anytime. Its small stature is derived less from the subject matter usually entailed in such a discussion (You ever tried Charmin toilet paper? Because I got this coupon from my mother-in-law recently, bless her heart, and I was kind of iffy about it. I mean on one hand Cottonelle has always done right by my butt cheeks but the coupon is $1.50 off when you buy two and I'm like Hello! Cha-ching! See if I save $1.50 on the toilet paper then I can try out this new mouthwash that says it 'deep cleans' your mouth and then I can shoot myself in the fucking head.), rather, the lack of urgency inherent to such conversations proves its downfall. As far as conversation is concerned, when nothing is said with sincerity then nothing is said.  

Real Talk- Urban colloquialism (which has since been co-opted by hip young suburbanites and MTV 5) denoting speech overflowing with sincerity or realness, as it were. One equating one's words as "real" is an efficiently succinct way of saying "I'm really fucking annoying and you will not believe half the shit that comes out my mouth someone please punch this stupid Snapback off my head." While definitely not lacking in sincerity, Real Talk is almost completely devoid of rational thought. A declaration of forthcoming words being "real," are just as likely to express one's adulation for Schoolboy Q as they are to express one's desire for gays not to be allowed basic human rights. It is a buffer for stupidity, a shield; a man who wields a shield without a sword is a coward.

Crazy Talk- You seen the Moon Baby lately, baby? She followin' me all over the damn place, can't take a piss out my wallet for two seconds without BAM there go that Moon Baby again. Always askin' me 'bout "Ya' never returned my butterscotch, where my butterscotch," and I say her "Bitch! That was 20 damn years ago! Ain't never been back to the coast and you know what's what. WOO WOO!" But Moon Baby don't care, thinkin' she own the damn place what with her checks coming in everyday since the war, y'know? Cot damn war that's what did us in, yes sir I say you once that war hit? You 'member? And we done had to ration off all the carpet for the Moon Baby? Yeah, that's what it was, yup. Fuck that Moon Baby.

Good Talk- A title internalized before it is verbalized, this Talk is the penultimate aspiration of conversationalists the world over. Good in the same way the Sun is good to the Earth, having completed such a talk one is revitalized by the lack of pretension between two (or more, great conversation need not be monogamous) individuals, the total destruction of the defensive barriers we use to protect ourselves from ourselves, the unsaid yet unassailable feeling of congruence between emotion and verb. Such talks are rare, so rare in fact that after a period of time one forgets what a Good Talk feels like entirely. Self help books, life coaches, infomercials, Maury, and a plethora of you-suck-and-have-no-one-to-turn-to-but-that's-cool-we-can-make-you-feel-better-for-five-easy-payments-of-$19.95 type products would cease to exist if we were able to speak freely with our brothers and sisters.