Archive for September, 2012

Jello Biafra forced to change stage name by some asshole gelatin company

September 28, 2012

Remember those sub-Gwar metal machine musical comedians, Green Jelly (where my umlauts at?)?  No?  What about Jello Biafra of that smash hit punk bandwich, the Dead (not Ted, contrary to popular belief) Kennedys?  No???  Oy, this is going to be harder than I thought.
Well, there was this punk musician in the 1980s, right, called Jello Biafra.  His real name was never revealed, much like that of Chip Z’Nuff, but his stage name (Jello Biafra, in case you forgot) is currently to be changed to something else under ze orders of Bill Cosby Affiliated Gelatin And Pudding Incorporated (not the real name of the company!).  Two names Mr. Biafra has considered include Juggalo Biafra (which he is no longer considering for obvious reasons) and Pudd’nhead Willis. The name “Pudd’nhead” is a tribute to an underrated mystery novel by Samuel “Mark Twain” Clemens, a huge influence on Biafra’s controversial political humor.  The unnameable company did not say the word “pudding” is trademarked too, and if it were, “Twain” Clemens would be sued too. The “Willis” is a tribute to Wesley Willis, an African-American schizophrenic outsider musician and artist who is dead now (hint, hint) but whose legacy will also be carried out by a similar musician, ventriloquist and more than two-time alien abductee David Liebe Hart of Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job! and Check It Out With Dr. Steve Brule fame, whose debut punk album will be released in 2013… I think.

In addition, a once-frequent collaborator of Biafra, Mojo Nixon (real name also unknown), is also undergoing pseudonym-related legal challenges from Mojo, the favorite file-sharing program of bored college students in Tha Dorms™.  Biafra and Nixon are both potentially members of the Church of the SubGenius (actually according to the Reverend Ivan Stang, Biafra is not officially a member, nor is William S. Burroughs), and collaborated on a cover of the late Phil Ochs’ “Love Me, I’m A Liberal” and Nixon (Mojo, not Richard) received a legendary mention in the song “Punk Rock Girl” by the band The Dead Milkmen, which might as well have been a secret side project of The Dead Kennedys.

On top of all that, the right-wing political correctness movement is boycotting the Dr. Demento Show as they believe the names of the show and its host are offensive to Margaret Thatcher.


P. F. Squirm’s Almanack

September 28, 2012
  1. Like planet, like sun.
  2. Your mother spits at your image.
  3. It looks like a sham punk from here.
  4. My roommates fight like Katz and Dogg.
  5. His mark is worse than his might.
  6. The back pops here.
  7. Thyme costs money.
  8. It’s all about carnival of the fetish.
  9. It looks like the bawl’s in your snort.
  10. Another one fights the lust.
  11. When Bush comes to shove, it’s moo or die.
  12. It’s like shooting Phish from a barrel.
  13. I think you’re gasping at bras.
  14. I still hang on to a Zimmer of dope.
  15. Keep your features tossed.
  16. I see spite at the friend of a tattle.
  17. My parents panned their hopes for me.
  18. Why not shoot yourself? Who knows, you may be reincarnated on the moon.
  19. What makes a sound, becomes a sound.
  20. You’ll get your just brinners.
  21. Are you rolling my keg?
  22. This looks like The Blow Job. I thought I told you, I don’t want to see anymore Andy Warhol films.
  23. I think she’s just spanking your brain.
  24. He pulled the whale over his size.
  25. He hasn’t got a Henny to his name.
  26. They gasped all the way to the grave.
  27. Honey doesn’t glow on bees.
  28. Put your funny where your mouth is.
  29. He’s rolling in blow.
  30. There’s no such thing as a twee punch.
  31. For what it’s worth, he weighs more now than he would in gold.
  32. She’s shorn as a track.
  33. He’s not preying with a full neck.
  34. I can’t bite my way out of a tapir trap.
  35. It was just a Wayne Knight stand.
  36. Why be so swig-headed?
  37. I ate a bad caul with the last mullet.
  38. I shigged when I should have shagged.
  39. Keep your woes to the tombstone.
  40. It ain’t over until the frat lady swings.
  41. This alignment’s got no Boehner.
  42. At least he went out in a craze of gory.
  43. It’s a mutter of gov. and talk.
  44. I’ll have to burn the Twilight books tonight.
  45. He who lives by the horde dies from the horde.
  46. At least you’ll get your soot in the jar.
  47. That rebbe’s got the long peyes.
  48. We’ve got to start drinking offside the rocks.
  49. He’s betting over the pill.
  50. You’ll make runny hand owners kissed.

Entire Fraternity Fails Greek Alphabet Quiz (from Leech Life, UCSBL’s mag & zine)

September 25, 2012

The thirty-seven undergraduate members of Sigma Theta Delta™, a UC Santa Bong Leech™ fraternity with long Southern traditions, all enrolled in a remedial Greek studies course, apparently as a joke, the nature of which is restricted to Sigmas (I am but a lowly Kappa Iota Kappa Epsilon). Perhaps unsurprisingly, each and every one of the 37 failed the quiz with a grade of 30% or lower. On first inspection, it appeared that 34 of them had actually shown up to class, but the professor didn’t know or care about names or faces of his/her students, and upon further inspection, it has been revealed that as a part of a hazing ritual, pledges took the test in place of the frat brothers. Maybe that explains the nature of the joke mentioned in Sentence One, who knows. I digress though, so anyhau…

Oh yeah, and actually one of the frat bros was replaced by a sorority sis, not a pledge with that decision. One can only assume nookie was involved. Professor Whit H. W. Whitemann™ did in fact notice a female where a male was supposed to be, but casually remarked, “Like, the ancient Greeks invented homosexuality, man. You dig? So, like, yeah, transexuality could possibly be a trend within Greek life, y’know what I’m sayin’?” His supervisor and identical twin brother, Assistant Dean Baron von Whitemann™ was noticeably disappointed by the lack of effort demonstrated by the pledges, telling Leech Life® from his Hawking-esque text-to-speech wheelchair programme, “I had always hoped that we’d see a resurgence of interest in the def culture which gave birth to the fratz. I’m talking about The Greeks™, in case you forgot. Aristotle, Archimedes, Aristophanes, Agnew, such good guyz. But this Sigma Haus is now on its last legs, unless they’re drunk enough to not be able to walk (lol I’m a hypocrite). Some of the kids didn’t know that Sigma, Theta, and Zappa were actual Greek letters; I swear to Der Fuhrer, I mean Gawd. Oh snap, I can walk again! But hmmm, I still can’t talk without this Hawking Mechanism™ and I’m still incontinent and/or impotent. Damn you, Kubrick, you Jewish Hollywoodman! I don’t curr if you’re an atheist now, it don’t matter to this Whitemann™! Wait, did you say the Greeks invented homosexuality? Aww, then fuck Greek Culture 101.6. Smothers, take the frat brothers off the Eleventy-tuple Secret Probation list. They’re probably all fine young Aryan gentlemen anyhey.”

“I’m glad that the Dean™ understands us,” said Dick Moist, the president of the Sigma Haus whose father owns not one, but 37 auto dealerships, none of which will ever hire a non-frat boy like you, thank you very much, but all female students need apply. “None of us care about the Greek alphabet (or their big-brained philosoraptor razzmatazz), but it’s not like we had a choice. If we had made up our own language, not that we could, that would be nerdy and shit. Sure, there are engineers in our frat but they’re only in it for the money™, not the nerdshit. So get serious, it’s not like we’d use Ay-rabic either.”

Troglodyte Comix #1

September 16, 2012

In the winter (or was it autumn, or summer even?) of 2011, P. Squirm released the first (and obviously only) issue of Troglodyte Comix to Lost Cause Legitimate Publishing. It only consisted of one Brick Maldonado story, despite promising the likes of Pigfather, Franz the Gat, and “The Rest” (a sort of emaciated Chad Laurel). All copies have been lost, except for mine, and it’s not for sale, so here is a transcript for the people:

NARRATOR: Brick Maldonado contemplates the future!


(looks at some rather unhealthy-looking juggalo corpses in his cell block)

BRICK: Oh wait, it wasn’t a dream!! The long-awaited JUGGALO MASSACRE has finally arrived!

LIVE JUGGALO: Where’s the POSSE when ya need ‘em?

BRICK: Now I can enjoy JAIL without all the juggalos.

NARRATOR: 2 days later…

BRICK: Y’know, I’m actually starting to miss the little clowns. Maybe I’ll find a way to resurrect them.

(approaches DOCTOR JOCKTOR, who wears a prison uniform/scrubs reading “trust me, I’m a prisoner”)

BRICK: Doctor Jocktor, how goes the resurrection recommended?

JOCKTOR: I’m afraid it’s no use, Mr. Brick. The juggalos were just TOO PATHETIC to resurrect. There be ONLY ONE DOCTOR in this entire PENITENTIARY who can do this job, and it AIN’T ME!

(points at a portly unibrowed prisoner with a baseball cap reading “Cal Tech School of Medicinal Engineering” and a prison uniform reading “C++. C++ run. Run C++ run.”

PORTLY PRISONER: What’chall lookin’ at me fer? I’m not a doctor, just BIG-BONED!

JOCKTOR: Don’t play dumb, DOCTOR ANTI-KEVORKIAN, we all know what you’re capable of.

PORTLY PRISONER: Oh, you mean JACK-JACK? He lived in the cell next to me. But I got HUNGRY, and ATE HIM! Then I started wearing his hat! Oh yeah, and his uniform.

JOCKTOR: That’s it. I’m going in. (climbs into PORTLY PRISONER’s mouth)

BRICK: Take me along!

JOCKTOR: Sure! Hop in.

NARRATOR: Inside the stomach of A FAT MAN… (BRICK MALDONADO crawls next to an attractive BLONDE LADY in a red bikini)

BLONDE LADY: I never thought I’d see the day!

BRICK: D-D-D-Doctor? Anti-Kevorkian? You’re so much prettier than I thought you’d be.

ANTI-KEVORKIAN: Ah, well, being stuck in this body for so long has really enhanced my physical features.

BRICK: Now where did my friend Dr. Jocktor go?

DR. ANTI-KEVORKIAN: He’s been in my bed this whole time! (points at double bed inside PORTLY PRISONER’S stomach)

JOCKTOR (post-coitus): Ready for some more DOCTOR-ON-DOCTOR, Jackie?

BRICK: You can’t fuck my woman like that, DOCTOR JOCKTOR! She’s all mine!

JACKIE: Easy, jailbird. Who says we can’t all climb in my oh-so luxurious bed?

(cut to threesome)


JACKIE: You know, after we’re all done fucking, I can resurrect all those juggalos for you!

BRICK: Awww, Dr. Anti-Kevorkian! Who needs juggalos when I got you?

JOCKTOR: Oh yeah!

JACKIE: Harder!

BRICK: Feels so good.

PORTLY PRISONER: Is nobody else going to eat those dead juggalos?

DEAD JUGGALO: Nah, go ahead.


BRICK: I hope you enjoyed my latest adventure, “The Day All Juggalos Died.” hat’s that, Billy Fishlips from Mainesville, Massachusetts? You didn’t like it? Guess it’s time for me to escape from jail!

NARRATOR: The home of Billy Fishlips…

BRICK: (punches BILLY) Develop better taste in comix!



NARRATOR: The inmates at Pig’s Head Penitentiary answer the question: “What is a troglodyte?”

BRICK: Somebody with different opinions than myself!

JACKIE: What do I know? I’m just a highly sexualized misogynist stereotype. Yeah, I have a medical degree, so what?

JOCKTOR: I recall having a TROGLODYTE on the sole of my foot in seventh grade. It hurt. (his prison uniform/scrubs now reads “I told you I was a quack”)

PORTLY PRISONER (still eating dead juggalos): Mmm… juggalos.

DEAD JUGGALO: You’re all wrong! It’s a type of caveman! Use your heads!

The Girl From Bollywood High

September 13, 2012

Faster than a speeding Zephyr, she climbed into my cast of late-teen lovers

Raven bangs eat at my sensitivities like crow, yet she is no glutton for curs

As she scorns my apparitions, once frankfurters y Apollo con carne

Do the Lamentations of Thanatos apply to her Old World wavelengths?

Nary a single may curse cum larynx the rapids she supplies to prosimians

Sorrow and empty thanks: sour symptom of the epistemological felons

Hooting uncouth and sans karat for a posthumous glimpse of the girl from Bollywood High.

The Fusilli Jerry (parody of “Taxman” by George Harrison)

September 13, 2012

Kramer’s vanity grew overweight

He purchased a new license plate

And it said “ASSMAN”

Kramer’s got “ASSMAN”

And you’re heckling with no one but ASSMAN

“He’s an ASSMAN! He’s an ASSMAN!”

Jerry Seinfeld got the gist

He blamed a crude proctologist

“Butt Doctor’s ASSMAN”

Kramer’s a has-been

Since they heckled no one but “ASSMAN”

“Twenty years ago, you’d be on TV with the word ‘ASSMAN’ on your license plate!”

Newman’s a dog-despising nerd (“Hello, Mr. ASSMAN!”)

His friend Kramer said the magic word (“Dilophosaurus!”)

So he got ASSRAPED

Kramer got ASSRAPED

By Jurassic Pork and US Mail’s own Norman Newman

“I’m not an ASSMAN, that’s what’s so insane about this!”

Kramer’s ass was getting pissed

He went to the proctologist

Butt Doc was ASSMAN

So thank you Newman

For helping Kramer solve the case of ASSMAN

“If only there were a horrible name that I could call you, that would make you as angry as ASSMAN!”

Who Wrote Melvin Snix?

September 1, 2012

If you really want to know about me, I might as well go through all of that crap about my childhood and stuff and suchus.  Well, I don’t really feel like going through all that, as a matter of fact.

Please allow me to introduce myself.  My name is James Kenneth Lurg.  That name just sounds so fake though.  That’s why I usually go by Jimmy.  This is my story.

My story begins at Morrissey High School in San Francisco, my hometown.  It was in the middle of eleventh grade, if I’m correct.  It was the students’ lunch break.  The next class I had was my favorite, Mr. Lemke’s chemistry class.  Mr. Lemke was an excellent teacher.  As I was eating the tuna sandwich I made the night before, a tall shadow approached me.  The shadow belonged to the guy that was my worst enemy, Wayne Jid.  Wayne was the class president, and probably the most popular guy in the school.  His dark hair and dark blue eyes were considered handsome by virtually everybody.  He was also one of the only fifteen Jewish kids in the school.  He started cracking up when he saw me.

“Hey Jimmy!  Guess who I scored last night?” snickered Wayne.  He was grinning.  Wayne had a reputation for his many one-night stands.

“I don’t really care,” I snapped at that bastard Wayne Jid.

“Wendy Myst,” he laughed at me, and left to join the other snobs.  I had liked Wendy Myst since sixth grade, and now practically everyone at the whole goddam school knew.

“Dammit,” I muttered angrily to myself.  I walked away in anger.

*                                       *                             *

Well, it wasn’t that much longer that I got my report card.  I was at home with my parents.  I also had two brothers, Johnny and Jerome.  Johnny had recently started a career as a second-rate actor in plays such as The Goldman Cometh.  Jerome was dead thanks to a terminal illness no one had ever seen before.  As my father looked down all the F’s on the report card, his face dropped.  I definitely had some trouble this semester.

“How the hell could you let me down?!” shouted my father.  “We do so much for you, and you just flunk every single fucking class?  Goddam shame on you, James Kenneth Lurg!”

I figured it was time to drop out of Morrissey High.  There was no other option.  Seven classes failed was a major letdown for my entire family.  Even my nine-year old sister Lucy was speechless when my mother told her about the unacceptable grades I had received.  The next day, my parents left to visit my overrated brother Johnny in Seattle, Washington.

I returned to Morrissey for one last day.  First, I talked to this kid Stewart Rogg, who was a major pain at school, but one of the only people to talk to.  He was this disgusting arrogant kid who didn’t really have any friends.  He had a bushy brown unibrow that matched his uncombed hair and foggy glasses he never cleaned.  And though you couldn’t really tell, he was part of one of the richest families in San Francisco.

“Well, I’ll be seein’ ya, Jimmy.  Too bad ya failed Lemke.”  He snorted rudely, and limped away, to flirt with some girls that hated him.  Jesus, what a bastard.  I couldn’t believe I considered him my friend.

I was going to talk to Wendy for the last time, but she was with Wayne.  I waited patiently for that knucklehead Wayne to leave.  Once he did, I said hello to Wendy.  She was wearing a purple skirt that looked nice with her brown hair.

“Wendy, I have something to say….” I began.

“Jimmy, I can’t love you.  I love Wayne.  He’s a great guy and you’re OK, don’t get me wrong, but you’ve gotta change.  You can’t go flunking all your classes.”

“I’ve already dropped out,” I explained.  “I talked to Principal Fisher today.”

This one dumbass jock by the name of McNommer passed, snickering at the fact that I was actually talking to Wendy.

“Please, Wendy, you’re the only thing I ever think about.  Come to your senses and be my lover.  I’m a nobody.  Without you, I’m a nobody.  With you, everyone would respect me.  But I guess it’s too late.  I love you, Wendy.  Even if you can’t, I still will forever.”  Wendy turned her back on me, and I went to my last class with Lemke.

“Lurg, it was a pleasurable time having you in class.  I’ll miss you!” said Lemke, weeping a bit.  A couple kids in class stared at me.

*                                       *                                       *

After the final bell rang and the student were dismissed, I walked home.  However, I made a stop into Dirk’s Diner, owned by some guy named Dirk Fishbaugh.  When I came inside, an attractive woman with long brown hair was sitting in the front.  She looked wealthy, and struck me as familiar, so I started talking to her.

“Excuse me, but…you look very familiar.  Do I know you?” I asked her.

“Oh!  You’re Jim Lurg, aren’t you?” she asked.  “My son Stewart talks about you all the time!”

“Stewart?  Last name?” I wondered, worried who that Stewart might be.

“Rogg.  I’m his mom, Rachel Rogg.  So, how’s school going?”
“I dropped out.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mrs. Rogg sighed.  “The school life isn’t for everyone.”  She was very well-groomed in comparison to Stewart.  “By the way, how is Stewart in school?”

“Stewart?  He’s a cool guy, I like him, a bunch of kids like him.”

“That’s odd,” said Mrs. Rogg, “He’s always complaining about how everyone picks on him.

“Well, he’s liked, but he’s not well-liked,” I explained to her.  I went away, and got a table.  The waiter came up to me.  I knew this guy from school.  He had graduated last year, making him a couple years older than me.  His name was Randy Jabbo.  He was tall and gangly, with curly red hair.

“Do you go to Morrissey?” wondered Randy Jabbo, after I ordered a club sandwich and a Dr. Pepper.

“Yes,” I responded.  “I did.  I don’t get it.  I tried my hardest and all of my teachers flunked me.  And my sex life is awful.”

“Well, if you’ve been failing your classes, your sex life should be terrible.  School comes before everything else.  I was an honor student, and I’ve got a terrific girlfriend.”

“How come you’re a waiter, then?”

Jabbo chuckled.  “I’m currently at Stanford.  It’s so difficult at Stanford I couldn’t get  a better job.  Well, good luck in the real world!”  Jabbo left to give Rachel Rogg her lobster.

A few minutes later, Randy Jabbo returned with my Dr. Pepper.  “Here, sir,” he chuckled.  I drank it up in no time, and went to the dirty restroom in the front of Dirk’s Diner.

As I washed my hands, a drunken man I didn’t notice before staggered over towards me.  He was several years older than me, probably my brother Johnny’s age, but looked older than Johnny.  He had prematurely gray hair and only one eye, which was unnaturally yellow.

“Rastik’s the name,” hiccupped the drunk.  “I heard you say that your sex life was—hic—awful, am I right?  Well, here’s the deal.  Call 555-5555 for a good time.”  My brother had actually complained about this Rastik guy who went to school with him.

“Who the hell is that?” I wondered.

“Her name’s Julia Desmond.  Former nightclub singer,” Rastik snickered.

“OK, um, sure,” I said hesitantly, and called that number on a restroom pay phone.

“Hullo, who would this be?” snapped a rough manly voice.

“Um…hi, this is Arthur Hilko,” I stammered, using a favorite pseudonym of my brother’s.

“Arnold Hilgo, eh?  Look, I don’t have time for you right now.  Wait your turn.  There’s fifty other guys that came before ya, dammit!”  Julia Desmond hung up.

“You know, Rastik, I’ve already got a girl I love who’s not some crusty old whore.”

“Well, who—hic—is it then?” burped Rastik.

“Her name’s Wendy Myst.  She’s way out of my league though.”

“If you love her, why don’t you give her a buzz?”  But Rastik was ignorant to my emotions and I quickly left the restroom to return to my table.  I paid the bill to Randy Jabbo, who thanked me for something that I don’t think was the cash.

*                                       *                             *

I woke up early Saturday morning because I had had a bad dream about my deceased brother Jerome.  It was a somewhat odd dream, and the contents of the dream I cannot recall.  However, I remember that I also dreamed about a girl that I liked named Dawn Elmis who was in my theatre class my freshman year.  She had brown hair, which was darker than Wendy’s, and ruby lips that weren’t as great as Wendy’s, but still nice.

I decided to give Dawn a call.  She was a very smart girl.  I carefully dialed her number.

“Hello,” greeted a feminine Greek accent that belonged to Dawn’s mother.

“Hi, this is Jimmy Lurg.  Is Dawn there?”

“Yus, here she is.”

“Hi, Jimmy?” answered the calm, relaxed voice of Dawn Elmis.

“Hi Dawn.  I’m really bored, and I’m…wondering, do you wanna meet me at, say, Glen Park?”

“Sure, Jimmy!  Listen, Wendy told me about how you dropped out…I feel sorry that you have to go through all that.”

“Thanks!  Well, I’ll see you at Glen Park around noon!”  I hung up, happy that I finally had a date.  Dawn wasn’t extremely popular, but she had dated a couple guys before, Todd Casill and Seth Glep.  I wasn’t really friends with Todd or Seth, but they had also both been in theatre.

*                                       *                                       *

Glen Park was a pretty small park, so I had no problem finding Dawn.  She was sitting on a bench talking to one of her girlfriends, Shirley something.  She excitedly greeted me, and asked if we could see As You Like It at the Fergus Theatre.  I said that was fine, and we walked down the street to that particular theatre.

The Shakespeare play was boring and hard to understand.  Dawn was laughing heavily over the course of the play over jokes that seemed rather dull.  I pretended to be enjoying As You Like It at first, but then quit the funny business.  Dawn and I had a conversation about the play afterward, and then she knew I didn’t think much of Shakespeare.

“You know, Jimmy, I was expecting a guy who was more of a theatre buff.  Like that handsome senior whose family owns that pizzeria.”

“Handsome?  I thought you liked me!” I said, a tad angry.

“I thought I did too.  But, I guess you’re just not my type.  See you at school.  Wait, I forgot, you don’t go to school anymore.  Well, goodbye!”  She went out the door.

*                                       *                                       *

When I returned home, my little sister Lucy was there waiting for me there.

“Where were you last night?” I asked her.

“At a slumber party at Stephanie Serrano’s.  All my friends were there.”
“Oh, I forgot,” I said.  “How was that?”
“It was fine.  How come you dropped out of Morrissey?”
“Huh?  Well, I don’t need the education.”

“What’re you gonna become then?”

“I don’t know, Lucy, I don’t know.  I’d like to become a scientist, but I failed chemistry, which was my favorite class.  So, in short, I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you visit Mr. Lemke?  He said you were his favorite student, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, I should.  I have his address, and I’d feel welcome there.  Bye, Lucy!”  I walked away from my sister, and found Lemke’s dumpy apartment building on Irving Street.  I went up to the seventeenth floor, where he made his residence.  I knocked on his door.  The lean, gray-haired mousy man that was Mr. Lemke opened the door.

“Heyho, Jimmy!  What brings you here?”

“I’m just visiting, that’s all.”

“Okay, come on in!  Mr. Lemke let me inside.  A large woman was sitting on the couch.  She also had gray hair and was Lemke’s age.  She had to be Lemke’s wife.

“You know, Jimmy, you weren’t the only one who failed my class, believe it or not.  There was that sleepy sophomore Vincent Jumguts.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I wondered.

“You probably will never see Vincent Jumguts again, will you?”

“Well, no, but it’s a little private.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.  As I said before, Jimmy, the school life may be oriented towards all races, religions, and disabilities, but it really isn’t for everyone.  Our son…he dropped out.  Did I ever tell you that?”

“No,” I replied, “you never told me about your son.  How old is he?”
“He passed away when he was 18.  He wasn’t making very smart decisions.  It really was a tragedy.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Lemke,” I said to my favorite teacher.  I decided to watch the Archie Bunker show, which to me was a hilarious sitcom.  As I lay down on the chair and saw Archie Bunker quarrel with Meathead, I fell sound asleep.

“Wake up, Jimmy!” laughed a very familiar voice.  I did wake up, and saw a disturbing sight.  My trusted teacher, Mr. Lemke, was tickling my stomach!  I screamed, and started running out the door.

“What’s eating him, Mark?” droned Mrs. Lemke to her husband, but before I could hear my teacher’s response, I was already gone.

*                             *                             *

Lucy’s fourth grade class was taking a field trip to the San Francisco Bay Aquarium on Monday.  Since my parents would come home at 2:00 that day, I obviously came along to avoid my parents’ anger.

I visited the aquarium in the tour group before Lucy’s class.  A worn-out, mustachioed man led the way.  He looked somewhat stoned.

“This is our sea turtle.  We call him Meathook,” muttered the aquarium worker.  I stared at the sea turtle.  Something was rather odd about it.  There was a whole bunch of colorful graffiti sketched onto its green shell, but one spray-painted message stood out among the rest.  In huge, capital letters read “FUCK YOU.”  This poor turtle’s message was unacceptable.  Lucy would wonder what the blue blazes this meant, and some idiot kid would explain sex to her.

Lucy’s class, led by her nervous teacher, Ms. Johnson, walked towards the turtle.  Two nerdy-looking boys were laughing heavily and were engaged in a conversation.

“I can’t wait to see Meathook!” said one, happily.

“Yeah!  He’s such a cool turtle!” said the other.

“Neil, Morty, calm down,” Ms. Johnson squealed, as the two nerdy fourth graders rushed over towards Meathook’s tank.

“Don’t look at the turtle, kids!” I exclaimed to these poor bastards, but they took no notice of me.  Their eyes were glued to the sea turtle’s tank.

“Whoa!  He’s got graffiti all over him!”

“Yeah!  What does that word mean?”
I sighed and left these innocent children.

“Wait up!” shrieked Lucy, who started tagging along.  Eventually, she got sick of me and hurried back with her classmates.

As I slowly walked back home, a thick rain fell onto the ground.  While everyone was trying to escape from this rain, I refused to move.  I stayed on the intersection of Bryant and Bacon Streets, cars rushing past me in all directions.  Knowing there was nothing left for me to do, I started to cry.  Then, my tears grew, and grew, until I was bawling like a baby.  Then I collapsed onto the ground, in utter misery.

*                             *                             *

I opened my eyes, only to face…Johnny?  My brother’s face was sad and troubled.

“Johnny,” I murmured.  With him was another face.  It was one of Johnny’s friends, who was tall and thin, with thick glasses.  If I remember correctly, his name was Frank Ramut.  Frank’s face was sad, but not as sad as Johnny’s.

I looked around.  I was in a plain room with undecorated white walls, which was definitely an asylum.  A psychiatrist was also here, scribbling something down on a notepad.

“Dr. Gaz, is he okay?” wondered Johnny.  His hand touched my back, and I noticed that it was lacking a ring finger.

“Yes, but he is too insane to leave yet.  We’ll have to do some experiments and operations.  James Kenneth Lurg, we’re gonna make you a genius!” the psychiatrist remarked.

“Hoo jeez,” I muttered to myself.  I didn’t know what was to become of me.  I was starting to miss everyone I had known.  Even those scumbags, Wayne Jid and Stewart Rogg.  Hell, I missed the carefree days of my childhood, where I would go on adventures with my little brother Jerome.  If only I hadn’t dropped out…

The Nightmare Before Festivus

September 1, 2012

Kirk Cane had finally escaped from the corrupt grasp of San Francisco.  He had returned to Fillville, his hometown in Ventura County.  This was a good place for a person with a background like Kirk’s.

Kirk was incredibly excited when he was chosen to lead Fillville’s Halloween parade, the town’s most notable event.  He had been hand-picked by Mayor Indigo!  The parade ended up being a great attraction.  Everyone enjoyed the spooky floats and the spookier costumes.  Kirk was chosen to lead these festive parades for five years.  At the end of the fifth year, however, he grew tired of all the grim, dark pleasure.

“We all had a damn awesome time,” Kirk told Fillville’s easily-amused citizens for the fifth time.  But the boredom in his raspy, drug-afflicted voice was definitely more noticeable than ever.  Kirk approached Monica, Mayor Indigo’s lovely nineteen-year old daughter.

“Baby, don’t you think Halloween’s a little overrated?”

“No!  And don’t call me ‘baby!’” Monica snapped, and called a friend on her mobile telephone.

*                             *                             *

A couple months later, Kirk decided to take a long walk out of Fillville to think about what could be done to make the village even better.  He passed several tiny towns, until he arrived at Slotown in Central California.  When he came there, he saw a wonderful little city.  Everyone was observing a December holiday that wasn’t Christmas.  It was a stunning display.  There were very high metal poles everywhere, which small children were mindlessly dancing around.  Kirk peeked into a large house’s window.  A family was discussing areas that each of them could improve on.  He also saw a feast of spaghetti on the long table.

A little crippled boy was rereading a letter he had written to the mysterious St. Hoffa, the Patron Saint of Hope, who apparently disappeared in the 1970’s, and returned every December 23rd, to give gifts to Slotown’s youth.  What was the name of this holiday?  Kirk noticed a banner reading, “Happy Festivus!”  That had to be this astounding holiday’s name.

*                             *                             *

Mayor Indigo was extraordinarily worried about Kirk Cane’s strange disappearance.

“Did you check the delicatessen?  The airport?  The slums?  The country club?  The cemetery?  The synagogue?” Indigo questioned each and every one of the citizens for four whole days.

“Here he comes!” remarked the middle-aged psychiatrist Dr. Renston, as a shady figure embarked upon Fillville.

“Hurrah!” cheered Indigo, his pale frown morphing into an outrageously wide smile.

“Yessir, I’m back,” Kirk snickered.  “I, however, have news to share with all of you.  You see, I discovered a much nicer holiday than Halloween.  You see, this is Festivus.  And this is a Festivus pole.”  Kirk took a stubby metal pole from Slotown out of his bag.

“A pole?  A pole?” asked one.

“Doesn’t look very cool,” added another.

“Yes, looks rather dull.”

“Do you hang stuff from it?  Like a troll?”
“Or an expensive mink stole!”

“It’s a pole, alright?  And you have to tell each other how they’ve disappointed you over the year.”

“Doesn’t sound very nice,” Mayor Indigo said, scowling again.

“But, there’s this saint, Hoffa, that gives children awesome gifts!  C’mon!”

“That sounds acceptable.  But where’s the creepiness?” wondered Indigo.

Monica’s brown eyes were rolling at each of Kirk’s words.

“There is no creepiness!  That’s what’s great about it!” Kirk remarked.  “It’s a holiday of giving!”

“Oh, like Christmas,” Dr. Renston realized.

“No, better than Christmas.  Plus, it’s not a religious holiday, so all you Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, and Hinduists are not left out!”

“Well, will you all applaud for Master Cane’s discovery?” Indigo questioned the town.

Everyone clapped loudly for Kirk.

“Wait, you still don’t understand Festivus!” Kirk cried in dismay.  “That’s not the whole holid…forget it.  Fuck.”  He left the scene, humming a tune he wrote as a teenager.

*                             *                             *


The next day, Kirk turned to Dr. Renston’s three misbehaving children, who were  named Craig, Clyde, and Chad.

“Kids, can you fetch St. Hoffa, the Patron Saint of Hope, from Slotown?”

“Why should we?” snapped Clyde.

“Because if you do, your father will spoil you three to no end.”

The three children cackled with selfish greed, and skipped out of town.

“Kirk, this Festivus shindig will turn out horrible,” Monica told Kirk.

“Nosiree!  Sweetie, you never know.  This may be the best thing that ever happened to Fillville.”

“I swear, Kirk, Festivus will be a disaster.”

*                             *                             *

“We got ‘im good!” Craig told Kirk two days later when the brothers returned.  Inside the huge bag was a dark man who was muttering terrifying poetry to himself.

“This isn’t St. Hoffa.  This is St. Kafka, the Patron Saint of Doom!  You musta not gone north enough.  It’s Slotown, not Agview.”

“Sure,” Chad chuckled.  As they left Fillville again, the wicked children had a new plan.  In an underground mansion located below Fillville lived a British aristocrat named Mr. Brownstone.  This Mr. Brownstone was banished from Fillville for cannibalism.  Since Mr. Brownstone was an urban legend, feeding someone to him seemed rather funny.  So, when the evil kids returned from Slotown, they slid St. Hoffa’s plump, juicy body into the large hole on the outskirts of town which led to the Brownstone Manor underground.

“Where’s St. Hoffa?” Kirk asked the Renston children.

“We couldn’t find Hoffa.  You’ll have to be him for Slotown.”

“Damn kids.  What do you mean, be St. Hoffa?”

“You know, like the Grinch,” laughed Clyde.

“Fine, I will.”  Kirk wandered away to help Mayor Indigo and Dr. Renston with Festivus decorations.

“I already told you, Festivus is going to be a major flop!” scoffed Monica as her father stuffed shoeboxes with such lame and hideous gifts as human eyeballs, frankenfurters, Prozac capsules, and woolen socks.

“I got the pole ready,” said Dr. Renston, pointing it out to Kirk with a yellow finger.

“It’s Festivus tomorrow!  Odd how time flies,” realized Kirk.

Meanwhile, beneath Fillville, Mr. Brownstone finally woke up from a nap of twenty days.  The six-foot-six rich Brit made his way towards St. Hoffa.

“Why, hello, old chap!  Want to go for a stroll!”  Hoffa reluctantly went over to Mr. Brownstone’s spacious ballroom.

“Righto!  Let’s dance shall we?  Of course, sir, of course we shall.”

*                             *                             *

“Well, I’m off,” snickered Kirk, and he left Fillville dressed in a red shirt and hat, just like Hoffa!  He had no idea what exactly was happening right below his feet.

“It’s gonna fail!” hollered Monica for the last time.

“Quiet!  I’m sick of your pessimism,” said Dr. Renston, and the psychiatrist pushed her into the hole he sadly forgot led to Mr. Brownstone’s lair.

Kirk slipped into one two-story abode in Slotown.  He tiptoed up the stairs, and opened a bedroom’s door.  A redheaded girl slept in the bed.  Posters of Johnny Depp filled the room.

Kirk noticed a pole in her room.  He started to place a shoebox underneath the pole, when the girl woke up.

“St. Hoffa?” asked the teenage girl sleepily.

“You’re kinda hot,” Kirk snickered, as the girl got a good look at his ugly face.

“What the hell?  You’re not Hoffa!” the girl gasped.

“Here’s your present,” Kirk told her,” showing her a dirty pair of plaid boxer briefs.  The girl ran to her parents, who called 911.

Kirk visited each and every Slotown residence, from the dumpy apartment buildings, to the house of one Ben Simon, which did not have any Festivus poles for some odd reason.  As he left this house, he was chased out of Slotown by a dozen policemen and two dozen angry parents.

*                             *                             *


“Mayor, it was disastrous!  Monica was right!” Kirk told Indigo.

“Um…Monica’s probably dead.  Dr. Renston placed her down to Mr. Brownstone’s underground mansion!” wept the bumbling mayor.

“Horrible!” sighed Kirk.  He jumped into the pit on the outskirts of town.

“Another guest?  Lady, come bring this marvelous bloke to tea,” Mr. Brownstone said, licking his lips.

“Not so fast!” Kirk screamed.

“Oh!  You’re here for the next big ball, are you?  I know you must be, or my name’s not Brownstone!”

“Let them go!  They don’t need to be your lunch.”

“Supper, actually,” corrected Mr. Brownstone.  Kirk was not amused.

“I’m here to save Festivus from your evil wrath.  That man you’re about to devour is a saint.  Get it?”

Mr. Brownstone gasped.  “You’re joking!  You’re joking!  I can’t believe my eyes!  You’re joking me!  You gotta be!  This can’t be the right guy!”

Kirk then challenged Mr. Brownstone to a game of poker.  Whoever won would get to keep St. Hoffa and Monica.

“We Brits are great shakes at bridge,” Mr. Brownstone lied, and took a swig of ale.  He then easily lost to Kirk.  “You numskull!  Why I oughta eat you whole!”  Kirk finally escaped with Monica and Hoffa.  The three of them carefully concealed the underground den, so that giant clumps of rock crushed Mr. Brownstone’s mansion and killed the carnivorous Englishman dwelling there.

*                             *                             *

“You did it!  Festivus may have failed, but my daughter and the spirit of Festivus are saved!” exclaimed Mayor Indigo.

St. Hoffa pointed out a book he wrote to Kirk.

A Festivus Carol?  That’s great!  Now we can finally figure out what Festivus is all about.  Thanks!”  But Hoffa was already running silently out of Fillville to save Slotown’s own Festivus.

“Well, next year’s Festivus will be much better than Halloween,” Mayor Indigo boasted.

“No, no, no.  Why the hell can’t we have Halloween and those excellent parades anymore?  How about a scary holiday with all the Festivus cheer?  One with pumpkins around a pole?  In other words, a cross between Halloween and Festivus!  It’s genius!”

“A Festivus for the rest of us,” agreed Indigo, grinning from ear to ear.  Kirk pinned him to the ground.

A Tale of Two City Folk

September 1, 2012

Watterson blankly stared at the television screen.  He hated summer because he had nothing to do.  While he was not particularly good at his job, he actually enjoyed being a bowling instructor.  Everyone he knew referred to him as “Coach” Watterson, not David, Dave, or anything of that nature.  The Hardy Factor was on, but Coach Watterson wasn’t really paying attention.  He may have been conservative politically, but Chuck Hardy was way too conservative for the Coach.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone for months.  He had simply stayed in his messy living room of his apartment, watching television, drinking Old Spitinureye whiskey and changing his challenged son Billy’s diapers whenever he heard the wailing.  Coach was completely bored.  That’s when he heard the doorbell ring.

The near-three hundred pound coach struggled out of his seat.  He was still wearing his sweaty coaching uniform, with the whistle and everything.  The Coach waddled to the bathroom, and put on some Axe, before opening the door.

“Hello?” asked Coach Watterson.  In the doorway stood a tall, thin man with prematurely gray hair, a long red toucan’s snout, and yellow teeth that looked like he had smeared butter instead of toothpaste on them.  He was wearing a cheap green suit from Goodwill and a very loose brown tie.  A beer stain remained on his chest.  “Oh, hi, Kirk.”

“Hi Coach,” snickered Kirk Hacker, the Coach’s bartender friend from across the hall.  Kirk was more than a neighbor—he and Coach had been good friends throughout high school, even though Kirk was a druggie and Watterson was the football team’s infamous water-boy.  “Wanna come to Parker’s with me?”

“Coach Watterson sez: Sure,” answered Coach, using his bizarre speech pattern that had denied him a scholarship to any college.  However, Kirk was a high school dropout.  Coach had not seen his other good friend, Parker Laurel for months now, though his son Chad was on his baseball team.

“But…Parker lives in that trailer park now!  How the hey are we supposed to get there?”

“You know how.  Take the subway.  Sheesh, dumbass.”  Kirk snickered, and stepped into the kitchen.  He checked the refrigerator for a Drunkenduxx, but every whiskey bottle there was an Old Spitinureye.  Kirk spat on the rocky tile.  “Well, are you ready?”

“I was…Coach Watter…I was waiting for you!” the Coach stuttered anxiously.

“That’s good.  Now, let’s get to the Subway station.

*                             *                             *

Meanwhile, Charles F. Hardy III, better known as “Chuck Hardy,” was standing in the basement of his five-story penthouse mansion.  He looked cunningly at his new “friend,” Parker Laurel.

“You know this woman, do you?” wondered Chuck, as he handed Parker a picture of an old flame of his, the wealthier-than-him Madison Wellington Howell.  “Well, your mission is to kidnap her so she and I can get married, maybe have some kids—just like me, you know?”

“AUKH,” responded Parker as he dim-wittedly nibbled on a piece of cheesecake.  “Why not just find her Myspace?”

“I don’t want her to think of me as a stalker.  If you kidnapped her, things just might be different.”

“AUKH—I don’t wanna do this.”

“Then, let’s find you a partner.  A Jew is necessary.  How about—Isaac Weinstein?”

“Nope.  I hate his guts.”

“Then—Craig Coleman!  That’s brilliant!  Coleman is terrified of me!  That is brilliant!  Parker, you’re a genius.”

“AUKH,” responded Parker reluctantly, as he finished his cheesecake.

*                             *                             *

As Kirk and the Coach boarded the subway to Fairview Central Station, a blonde woman entered behind them.  She was in Kirk’s opinion, gorgeous, with a lavender fur coat and big brown eyes with long lashes.  Coach Watterson didn’t desire to look at her, not that he was gay or anything, but he didn’t find her attractive.  She was carrying a teal purse made of alligator skin.

“Hey Kirk, I had this freakin’ strange dream last night.  There was this zebra in a trench coat, you see…”

“Not now, Watterson.  Man, is she a beauty.”  Kirk massaged his privates a bit, then snickered a little more.

“Kirk, we’re there!  God, what the hell are you doing anyway?”  Kirk came out of his drug-affected trance, to realize that the attractive woman was gone.  In her place was her teal purse.  Kirk examined the purse, to find a driver’s license reading:  Madison Wellington Howell, Age 31, 23768 Indigo Drive, Longview, Oklahoma.

“Oklahoma!” screeched Kirk.

“Is this some kind of game?  Come on, for God’s sake!” snapped Coach Watterson.  “You’re the one who wanted to visit Parker anyway!”

“Alright,” muttered Kirk, and he stumbled out of the subway.  “I got that blonde chick’s purse an’ wallet.”

“Coach Watterson sez: You thief!  You oughta be ashamed.  Now, let’s get moving.”

“No, seriously, she left it on the cab.  She’s from Oklahoma.  She didn’t strike me as a redneck, though.”

“You idiot!”  Coach was feeling headstrong.  “If you have her purse, you should return it to her!”

“Oklahoma, though.  Where are we, in California?”

“Yes.  Idiot, we are in California.  Fairview, California.”

“Idiot?  Well, I’m not the one repeating my name every third sentence.  You don’t see me going ‘Kirk Hacker sez: I gotta piss my pants,’ do you?”
“Coach Watterson sez: That’s not my point.”

“Fuck it.  Fine, let’s go to Oklahoma.  If that’s the best we can do.  You got that truck, right?”

“Yep.  My 1997 Chevy Carpenter.”

“Let’s get that girl,” snickered Kirk.

*                                       *                             *

“This is a bad idea.  I can sense that this was a bad idea.  Me, and you, and Chuck Hardy.  Hoy jeez,” whined Mr. Coleman.

“AUKH—shut up, you selfish tool.  If you want to mope and grope, you can mope and grope in your damn principal’s office.”

“Hoy jeez, hoy jeez, hoy jeez,” grumbled Coleman, rocking around in his car seat.  His greasy toothbrush mustache was unshaven, but his tie was tied, unlike Kirk’s.  “Harrible, just harrible.”

The unlikely pair sped off in Coleman’s crappy 1988 Toyota for Oklahoma.

*                                       *                             *

After hours of driving, and tons of weird conversation, Coach Watterson and Kirk Hacker had reached Reno, Nevada.  They sat in their car at a Shell gas station.

“…my mom mentioned that I might have a brother…” Kirk rambled vaguely.

“Coach Watterson sez: That’s interesting.  That reminds me of a joke I heard on the Prairie Home Companion the other day…you know, I’m getting pretty hungry.”

“You’re telling me!”

“That’s not how you use that phrase, Kirk.”

“Whatever.  Let’s just stop at the Sizzler or the Delicio’s.

“I’d rather go to Sizzler.”

*                                       *                                       *

They ended up going to Delicio’s, which was a chain of fast food restaurants.

Coach and Kirk sat in a booth next to a suspicious red-haired man.  The forty-year old waitress stepped up to them.  “What would you like?”

“I’d like a Grand Scramble,” answered Kirk.
“I’d like those Pigs in a Quilt,” answered Coach Watterson.

“Alrighty, it’ll come up soon,” mumbled the waitress and left.

The red-haired man smoked a cigarette and approached the dumbastic duo.  “You two gents wouldn’t have heard of a kidnapping which took place in Oklahoma?”

“That’s interesting, we were just going to Oklahoma,” said the Coach.

“What a weird coincidence,” Kirk snickered.

“Well, be on your knees, boys.  If you find the kidnapper, call me at 362-4360.  Oh yeah, just in case, the area code is…”  The strange man, who was not in police garb or anything, wrote down his phone number on Kirk’s yellow napkin with a black pen.  His name was apparently “Paul O’Hare.” The man left the restaurant.

“Alright, thanks,” Kirk said sarcastically.

“What the hey was that about?” wondered Coach Watterson to himself.

“I don’t know,” snickered Kirk, and he threw the yellow napkin in the garbage can.

*                             *                             *

Coach Watterson and Kirk paid for their Grand Scramble and Pigs in a Quilt, and went straight back to Watterson’s hick Chevy Carpenter.

“That guy was bonkers,” Kirk snickered.

“Coach Watterson sez: Agreed.”

The two laughed a bit, discussing random subjects.  As they got to Utah, a hitchhiker came into sight on a log.

“Why should you never go to McDonald’s?” questioned Kirk.  He and Coach Watterson had just picked up a stash of marijuana from an illegal pot grove in eastern Nevada, and were practically stoned.  He laughed at the upcoming punchline.

“Coach Watterson sez: I don’t know.  Why should you never go to McDonald’s?”

Kirk swallowed excitedly.  “Because Michael Jackson lives there!”

“That’s pretty funny, Danny!” Watterson laughed absent-mindedly.

“Hey look, a hitchhiker!  Maybe he wants some of our stash!”  The two clumsily waved at the man, who had a mullet, a sweat-laden tank top, and a long red toucan’s snout.

“Whoa, thanks!  My name’s Lyle Reynolds…I’m on the run from the Socs; thanks for getting me.  Where are you headed anyway?”

“Can’t remember,” burped Kirk.

“Coach Warson sez: I think it’s like, Longovia or something.  We’re from this place called…eh…Fairview, in California.”

“Fairview, California.  Interesting, my dad lived in Fairview once.  He was a roadie for the sturge band Larenks, so he traveled around the country.”

“Yeah, verry clever.  So where do you wanna get dropped off, anyhow?”

“You know, maybe you’re too stoned to drive.  Let me drive!”

*                                       *                             *

Coach Watterson and Kirk slept soundly and dreamed of zebras in trench coats; of McDonald’s restaurants inhabited by pasty-skinned pop stars; of edible stimulants.  When they awoke, they were in a parking lot in the middle of nowhere.

“Coach…Welcome to Denver, Colorado,” stated Watterson sleepily.

“Where the hell are we?”

“I just said, Denver, Colorado.  What happened last night?”

“I can barely remember.  I just remember some hitchhiker talking about his running socks or something.”

“Weird.  I can’t remember anything, and I’m usually the sensible one.”

“Forget you!”

All of a sudden, a dingy 1988 Toyota Harker sped into view. A black-tied smoking man with a large untamed mustache and buck teeth appeared.  While Kirk could not recognize his former ninth grade English teacher, Coach Watterson knew his boss very well.  It was Mr. Craig Coleman, the principal of Fairview Elementary.

Another man waddled out after him.  He had curly blond hair and a black unibrow.  He snorted with an “AUKH” sound a couple times.  A woman screamed from inside the old sedan’s rusty trunk.

“AUKH—you’re finished!” sniggered the man, who was barely recognizable as Parker Laurel.

“Parker, what the hey are you doing here?” asked Watterson.

Parker nibbled on a piece of cheesecake nervously.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” muttered a frail, whiny voice.  This was Coleman again.  Coleman got out a shotgun and his Parkinson’s-affected hand pulled the trigger at Kirk.  However, because of his bad reflexes, Parker was shot instead.

“AUKH!” shouted Parker as he fell to the floor, bleeding heavily.

“Does anyone know CPR?” asked Watterson.

“Heh heh, what’s CPR?” Kirk snickered.  “Wait, Parker’s dead?”

“He’s not dead yet!” snapped Coleman.  He steadily blew on Parker Laurel’s mouth unsuccessfully.  “Hoy jeez, I might have to change my name again.  Jay Sachs—Craig Coleman—Ralph something?  Hoy jeez!”

“Coach Watterson sez: Check the trunk, Kirk!”

“Why?” wondered Kirk.

“You idiot!  That lady Madison Howell is in there!  How stupid are you?”

“Not stupid enough to use my name in every third sentence,” muttered Kirk, and opened the trunk.  “Fuh!  It won’t budge!”

All of a sudden, a FBI car appeared.  A red-haired man stepped out.  “OK, when I say your name, raise your right hand and shout ‘Aye!’  Kirk X. Hacker?”

“Aye!” Kirk snickered.

“Parker G. Laurel?”

There was no response but Coleman’s huffing on the lifeless figure of the aforementioned.  The man, Paul O’Hare, wrote something down.

“Jayson Sachs?”

Coleman stopped huffing.  “Aye jeez.”

“Alright.  That covers everyone but—David Ignatius Watterson?”

“Heh heh, Ignatius!” Kirk snickered.

“Coach Watterson sez: Aye!”

“Which one of you guys kidnapped Longview’s seventeenth wealthiest woman, Madison Wellington Howell?”

Kirk and Coach Watterson both instantly pointed to Craig Coleman.

“Alright.  Jayson Sachs?  It says here that you live with your father—one       Harry Sachs.  Is that true?”


“Well, we’ll tell Daddy that he will not see his son for twenty months.  And, who killed the rather husky blond man?”

“He’s not dead!” wept Coleman.

“He’s not breathing either.  Twenty years, Sachs.”  Paul O’Hare opened the car door, releasing a once-sleeping Madison.  She was just as pretty (to Kirk) as ever.

*                                       *                             *

“So, Madison, can we go for it?” snickered Kirk as the FBI car sped off.

“Sir, I have a husband.  You’re ten years too late.  Plus, he’s twelve times the man you are.”

“Shit!” Kirk screamed, and ran off.

Kirk and Coach Watterson returned to Fairview, California.  Parker’s son Chad was sent all the way to New Jersey to meet his biological mother, Sydney Fine.  Coleman was replaced by Coach Watterson as principal, but Watterson could not help his catchphrase to stay “Coach Watterson sez.”  (Nothing good happened to Kirk, which really upset him.)

As Watterson turned on the television, he saw that The Hardy Factor was off the air.  And he was happy.

The B.S. Hour Episode Two

September 1, 2012

SKIT ONE: Wile E. Peyote (as seen on the backs of Cap’n Crunk cereal boxes)


(The rambunctious Wile E. Peyote runs rapidly across the Grand Canyon, chasing after the elusive Choadrunner.  Suddenly, he runs into an Arizonian replica of Ayers Rock, smashing his sleek, green body into the stone structure.  He removes a sign from his slacks reading “Psychedelic, ain’t it?”

Psychedelic indeed.  For while it appears that Peyote is dying, he in fact is dining at Joe’s Grab Shack, eating some choadrunner chowder.  The Ayers Rock Incident is truly a hallucination)

PEYOTE (to the waitress): More choadrunner please!  And while you’re at it, bring me some of that Cactus Cooler!  (Peyote laughs in a stoned manner, but his distorted chuckles are drowned out by the ultimate Pee-Wee Herman laugh track.)


SKIT TWO: Taiwan Mushpot


PEYOTE: Hi, I’m Wile E. Peyote, star of a beloved cartoon.  Yes, we all loved the 1960’s, but when Woodstock gave way to evils such as Sir Mix-A-Lot, decent animation turned into Ghey Arnold and The Chimpsons.  That’s why I’ve decided to star in a decent cartoon.  Here’s the pilot episode.


(the camera focuses on San Lu’bispo High School.)


NARRATOR (Morgan Freeman): A member of the San Lu’bispo High faculty is actually kung-fu wizard Taiwan Mushpot!

(focus on Principal Ozzy Caul)

NARRATOR: Is it you, Mr. Caul?

MR. CAUL (grumbling): Naw.

(focus on Kimberly)

NARRATOR: Kimberly, the Department Chair?

KIMBERLY: I don’t think so.

(focus on Wile E. Peyote)

NARRATOR: Wile E. Peyote, the sleepy-eyed janitor?

PEYOTE: Could beeeeeeeee!

(Morgan Freeman, Christopher Walken, and uncredited others join in the theme song)

Taiwan Mushpot, the Wolf with the Kung-Fu Stink

Taiwan Mushpot, more knowledgeable than Professor Frink

He’s got a minute hand and a millennium hand, an eon hand and more

Taiwan Mushpot—put those hands in the air like you’re superior to a bear!
MR. CAUL: We’ve got a major vandalism disaster.

MUSHPOT: (thinking out loud) If there’s a problem, hey, I’ll solve it!  (runs out to the Teacher’s Lounge) Hey, I’ve got a great idea.  I’ll check the lounge before I wreck the lounge.  (opens door and looks inside) Hey, there’s a Crunkberry under the fridge.  What nostalgia!  And speaking of nostalgia, there’s my ex-arch nemesis, the Choadrunner.


MUSHPOT: Choadrunner, I’m confused and need your help.  Who did all this vandalism? (the Choadrunner leads Taiwan Mushpot to a bunch of seniors.)

Thanks, Choadrunner, but which one is the vandal here?

(tape skips 2 minutes)

KIMBERLY: Wow, Taiwan Mushpot, you found those evil vandals!  You’re much more useful than that scummbag, Wile E. Peyote!  He can’t even mop up his own mess, let alone vandalism. (kisses Mushpot)

MUSHPOT: Yeah, I hear Peyote’s leaving San Lu’bispo High for Missino Prep.

KIMBERLY: Why the hey would he do something that drastic?

MUSHPOT: That school’s terrible and so is this Hong Kong Phooey rip-off.
SKIT THREE: Phallucy Male Enhancement

(cut to “Preppy” Dan Druff)

NARRATOR (Morgan Freeman): Meet Dan.  He’s the preppiest guy in town!  But he wasn’t always preppy.  You see, it wasn’t until he started taking Phallucy Male Enhancement that he won the heart of master preppie Spira Thame!

PREPPY DAN: Hi, I’m Preppy Dan.  Ever wanted more than your parents could afford?  Now you can get all that action, with Phallucy Male Enhancement.  It really works!  But don’t take it from me, take it from my preppie-ass girlfriend, Spira.

SPIRA THAME: Whenever I see a guy who takes anything but Phallucy, why I…I just keep on walking.

(Preppy Dan grimaces in suspicion.)


SKIT FOUR: Seeing-Eye Doctors

(cut to Jack Pumblechook)

PUMBLECHOOK: Hello.  I’m Jack Pumblechook, the Ancestor of Grunge.  People listened to my music during the time of Christ, and even though it gave them horrendous ideas and ear damage, well, they loved it.  As you may have already assumed, I am extremely elderly and currently, I am illegally blind.  But I am also exceptionally wealthy, and can easily afford a seeing-eye doctor.  Say hello, Doc.  (The doctor barks)

PUMBLECHOOK: Seeing-eye doctors.  If you’re sightless but nowhere near penniless, get one today!


SKIT FIVE: The Debs (sitcom)

(cut to the living room of the Debs family)

MRS. DEBS: Derek, how were your five hours on social networking sites?

DEREK: They were great, but my Facebook peers voted me “worst sense of humor.”  It’s completely fine though, as I can’t tell sarcasm from sardines.

MRS. DEBS (shouting): Derek D. Debs!  How are you supposed to become a homecoming god when you’re less funny than David Spade?

DEREK: I’ll try harder, Mom.

MRS. DEBS: This isn’t something small like…academic failure.  This is popularity!  It’s the only way through life, son, the only way through life.  (turns to Della) How was your time drinking hard liquor in the creek?

DELLA: Mom, I’m a teetotaler.  Besides, the label on my Prozac says “Do not mix with alcohol.”

MRS. DEBS: (shouting) Della D. Debs!  How are you supposed to become a prom goddess when you’re as sober as Donny Osmond?

DELLA: (sobbing) Sorry, Mom!

(Dathan runs to the defense of his sister and brother)

DATHAN: Mom!  Popularity isn’t everything!  Why, our own great-great-uncle, Eugene V. Debs, was a f*cking Commie.

MRS. DEBS: Wash your mouth out with soap, Dathan!  Using the “C” word…I won’t have it.  Not only was your Uncle Eugene a Socialist, but he is our family’s Voldemort.  Don’t speak his name!

DATHAN: Who’s Voldemort?

MRS. DEBS: Dathan D. Debs!  How are you supposed to become a cheerleading god when you’ve never read Harry Potter, hmmm?  Popularity is king!

(MR. DEBS rushes through the front door into the living room)

MR. DEBS: Honey, I’m home, and I got a gigantic promotion due to my countless friendships.  Remember kids, it’s not what you know, it’s who you know.

MRS. DEBS: (suggestively) And I know tons of people, hehehehe.

MR. DEBS: Yes, me too!  Every single member of the country club, and the arch-mayor himself.  Isn’t that great?

MRS. DEBS: Dichard D. Debs!  How are you supposed to become anything when you’re obviously as straight as William Tell’s apple and not his arrow?


SKIT SIX: Planet of the Bonobos


NARRATOR (Morgan Freeman): We’ve all seen Planet of the Apes.  With the unbelievably intelligent gorillas, chimpanzees, and orangutans, y’know what I’m saying?  But what that movie forgot to include was bonobos.  Yes, bonobos, I say.  These “pygmy chimps” are by far the most promiscuous species on our graying Earth, engaging in every sexual activity known to man!  Even sodomy!

PROFESSOR FRINK: Err…Mr. Freeman, sir, I am a certified scientist, and I know for a fact that bonobos do not engage in sodomy (shivers).

NARRATOR: What about gommorrhea?


SKIT SEVEN: Uncle Hunchry’s Outhouse (kid’s show!)

(cut to Hunchry, the pleasantly disgruntled hunchback.  Hundreds of two to five-year old kids cheer and applaud the show’s unattractive host, but their screams are drowned out by the ultimate Pee-Wee Herman laugh track)

HUNCHRY: Hey kiddies, I’m Uncle Hunchry and this is my show—which just happens to have my name!  Who knew?  I have a hunch that you did!  (leaps clumsily into the audience) Now for a game of Simon Sez!  Simon Sez, jump around!

(A babyish yet somehow trippy Raffi cover version of House of Pain’s “Jump Around” plays.  Kids jump everywhere on the set.  The camera is at risk of breaking.)

HUNCHRY: Wasn’t that special?  Simon Sez, drink your tangerine-flavored milk!  Simon Sez, torture your parents until they buy you a Tickle-Me Hunchry doll!  Torture Hunchry himself so Hunchry himself will buy you a Tickle-Me Hunchry doll!  (one child, a four-year old hunchback himself and especially fond of Hunchry, attempts to torture Hunchry with his bare hands.  Hunchry however knocks the kid to the ground.)

HUNCHRY: No, no, no, Simon didn’t say!  You get nothing from me!  (the kid stays in place with angelic eyes) Get out of here, you slovenly boy, you’re lowering my Nielsen ratings!


SKIT NINE: Screwmonkey

(cut to the half-witted ringtail lemur, Screwmonkey.  The prosimian drinks a bathtub filled to the brim with a mixture of Windex and Drano)

SCREWMONKEY: I do say, this stuff tastes of tainted Earl Grey!

NARRATOR (Christopher Walken): He’ll never learn.  Bad Screwmonkey.  Good Snickerdoodle! (brings up the image of a large snickerdoodle) Dominic’s Snickerdoodles, on Foothill and Atascadero!


SKIT TEN: Zack Black and the Squib Bus


(Focus on alleyway near East Privet Drive.  Enter Zack Black and Edsel McDonald, carrying stickball bats)


EDSEL: You know what, Zack, you suck!

ZACK: (raises eyebrows) That’s not nice.  I thought we were friends.

EDSEL: I’m gonna go play with Mark Evans!  (exit)


ZACK: I wish I had a friend, who wasn’t like Edsel McDonald.  Hell, I wish I had parents.  Too bad the only relative I have left is Uncle Psoriasis, who’s in Alcatraz.

(enter Vernon Dursley, and Petunia Dursley)

VERNON: Bloody orphans.  Why do orphans always get adopted?
PETUNIA: And why are adoptees always these bloody orphans?

ZACK: You could always adopt me.

PETUNIA: It’s talking to us, Vernie.

VERNON: Want me to get my gopher repellent?
(Cut to 4 Privet Drive)

VERNON: Pull me out forty Benjamins, Tuna.  Tomorrow’s Dud-Dud’s birthday!

PETUNIA: Harry, fetch me my king-sized purse!

HARRY: (literally comes out of the closet) Which one?

PETUNIA: I only have one because you keep touching them!

HARRY: Righty-O, Aunt. (hands Petunia the purse, which she opens to find Zack Black)

VERNON: Where’s my gopher repellent, you bitch?  (addressing Harry, btw)
HARRY: Oh, that’s no gopher.  That’s this one kid at my school.

ZACK: Hello!

(enter Dudley P. Dursley)

DUDLEY: (crying) I got too much brown in my underpants, Mummy!

PETUNIA: There, there, Dud-Dud.  Everything will be alright.

VERNON: You know, Dudley’s shit smells much better than Harry’s.  Or the gopher’s, probably.


(Next day.  Enter Piers, Malcolm, Dennis, Gordon, and Dudley—the Unibrowed Five, along with the Dursleys.  Zack Black is there too.)

VERNON: Dud-Dud, I got you 398456 presents.

DUDLEY: But I got 45789500896503 last year.

VERNON: Then Petunia, let’s add 1111294804190866986907689 more!

DUDLEY: I want to go to the zoo, Daddy!

GORDON: I like monkeys!

PIERS: Monkeys are dumb.  Let’s see snakes!

DUDLEY: Yeah, snakes are awesome!

MALCOLM: Snakes?  Screw you guys, I’m going home.

DENNIS: You guys are fags.  Speaking of which, anyone got a cig?

GORDON: I do, but I can’t light it because my species hasn’t discovered fire yet.

(cut to the Surrey Zoo!)

PIERS: Why are the Gay Gopher & Harry Peter joining us?  Don’t snakes eat gophers?

HARRY: Some do and some don’t.

DUDLEY: Oh!  There’s a snake!  Br-Br-Brazilian cornsnake, huh-huh, corn.

PIERS: Huh-huh, snake.

SNAKE: (to Harry) Ese, man, you gotta lemme outta here, man.  This place mucho bad man, mucho bad!


SKIT ELEVEN: Voices of Bonobos (explicit content)

(cut to Bonobo’s Peak Elementary School’s auditorium.  An assembly/concert is taking place)

SPECIAL GUEST STAR: Hi, I’m Jeff Beck, I’m a guit…

BONOBO #1: How big is it, bub?

JEFF BECK: My Fender is…why, I’ve never measured it.

BONOBO #2: Not your stupid blunt club, your cock, ya drooble!

JEFF BECK: Wow.  You know, coincidentally, my penis is technically a circumcised Fender.

BONOBO #3: Cool, does it play “Heartbreaker” when you beat it?