Category Archives: Satire

Hug your perodactyls


We are tribal beasts. Picking sides is inherent in our DNA. This began when caveman realized it was much safer to sleep with another caveman than say a pterodactyl. Nothing against pterodactyls, to each his own, but forget to pay the electric bill and I hear they would hold quite the grudge. Thankfully, we had a major climate event, precipitated by a massive meteor shower. Debris blocked out the sun, and all hell froze over. Those who had saved for the future were majorly pissed. All those pelts collecting interest and for what? For this? Thanks, Obama. But alas, a few survived. A few good cavemen, that is. The dinosaurs died, which is just as well. I’ve seen Jurassic Park. It was gonna be us or them fueling vehicles with the oily remains of the other, and besides, imagine the headache Mr. Ford would have endured engineering the Model T for dinosaurs, of all people. About the climate change, the democrats said, “I told you so,” and the republicans immediately blocked out their sun, and did so with stones. To prevent another event, a bipartisan counsel of caveman thought it best to offer sacrifices to the Gods. First they offered virgins, and then the Kardashians. The Gods were intrigued, but also disgusted with themselves. Prophets came along to tell us so much, and whether we believed them or not we decided it was best for all involved to go ahead and kill them. Soon enough, caveman evolved into people, and people into poets. No longer were bathroom walls utilitarian, but sounding boards of inspiration. Kilroy was everywhere, thick as thieves with the shithouse poet – remember the classic: here I sit all broken hearted? They don’t write shit like that anymore. Nowadays, it’s all crap. Somewhere in time we decided that worshipping several Gods was a major pain in the checkbook, and so we sent Them to the Cayman Islands where Jeff Probst hosted the very first Survivor television game show. Reality T.V. was born, alliances and betrayals until only one God took home the million-dollar prize. When that was all spent, blown on God knows what, God went ahead and wrote the all-time best seller, and more or less retired on the royalties. He washed his hands of us, and said, “God helps those who help themselves, now bug off.” We modeled corporate America in this fashion, finding it best to be screwed over by one Supreme Being than by several, just like in prison. And then the three little piggy’s came along, and took capitalism to the next level. Why should the fattest, laziest pig enjoy the fruits of the mere fat and lazy pigs? You want shelter; build a proper shelter. The Big Bad Wolf invoked the judicial branch of our governance, for we could no longer tolerate the savage beasts huffing and puffing and blowing down homes. Seriously, who does that? This inspired insurance companies, which inspired commodities trading, which inspired Wall Street. Everything was for sale, and marketing firms, inspired by Paris Hilton, realized over time that fear got top dollar. Fear sells mints and condoms and the things that condoms cover, politicians. Fear entertains; we peons are little more than gladiators in the coliseum dicing each other up for the king. Well, some of us are gladiators. Others are roosters in a cockfight, or snails in a snail fight. Either way, we wear the color liberal, or we wear the color conservative. We are yin; and they are yang. We fear those who aren’t us. We invent new and interesting ways to kill ourselves, and defend these ways and attack these ways with feelings and statistics. We kill for these ways. People die for these ways. Sadly, we hold fast to these ways, as these ways defend the very hatred that necessitates these ways.
Alas, here we sit, all broken hearted.
Hug your pterodactyls; the meteor showers are coming.

It’s That Time Of Year Again.


“Well, shit, Mark, what are we going to call it?”

“Hell if I know, Pete; you’re the Idea Man.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

“If you knew I was going to say that, why the hell did you ask me the question in the first damn place?”

“Because I’m fresh out of ideas, that’s why, which is no way an Idea Man ought to be.  Was a time when they would come to me and I’d spit’em out lickety split.   Remember ‘Have it your way?'”

“Yep.  That was a good’un.”

“Goddamn right it was a good one.  Brilliant when you stop and think about it.  ‘Cause it’s the same greasy bun and slab of meat , just gotta pretend like the condiments a big deal is all, and–”

“Yeah.  I said it was a good’un, not that I wanted to hear the whole damn story again.”

“Well, it’s a damn good story, Mark, and a damn good story ain’t never get old.”

“Maybe it ain’t so good as you think it is, Pete?”

“Hey.  Remember: ‘It takes a lick’n and keeps on tick’n?'”

“How could I forget?”

“That was some golden shit, Mark.  Catchy, you know, how it rhymed and all, every empty head in America making it their own, saying that about their cars and their kids; hell,  they even named one of them there pornographic films after that one.  ‘She takes a lick’n, and keeps on tick’n.'”

“Heard that was a pretty good flick; heard is all; never watch the stuff myself.”

“Or what about the time they asked me to rename the city, and I said, ‘What city?  You mean The Big Apple?’  And they said, ‘Perfect,’ and handed me a check for a hundred grand.”

“That was you?”

“Goddamn right that was me, and I did the same for The Windy City and The Twin Cities and The City of Brotherly Love, although the last one there was a bit of a stretch.”

“I had no idea.”

“Of course you had no idea; I’m the Idea Man, or at least I was.  Until today.  Shit.  I guess my mind ain’t what it used to be?”

“Maybe you got that … what’ya call it?”


“Yeah, dementia.”

“That was mine, too.”

“So you do got dementia.”

“No I don’t have dementia, I’m saying I coined the name is all, and Viagra, and Propecia, and Allegra.  All in the same day!”

“What about delusional, did you coin that’un too?”

“Remember ‘Hope and Change?’  Or ‘Where’s the beef?’  Or how about: ‘Is that your final answer?’  Mine, mine, mine!  So why is this one so damn hard?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Mine too!”

“Oh, brother.”

“And ‘Put a Little South in Your Mouth,‘ which they also made into a pornographic film, the sick bastards.”

“I don’t remember that one.”

“The saying, or the film?”

“Uhm, the saying, of course.”

“Shit, Mark, what if the ole attic is empty?  Mine.  Or the well has run dry?  Mine also.”

“Maybe you’re looking at this the wrong way, Pete?  Maybe, ’cause the event is happening in springtime and all, you go with something like March Mayhem, or April Anarchy?”

“Tell me what you think about this: ‘The Commotion on the Court?’  Or this: ‘The Basketball Brouhaha?'”

“Or how about March Madness?  That has a nice ring to it, and when they get down to sixteen teams, we call it The Sweet Sixteen?  Eight teams would be The Elite Eight?  And so on until we reach The Final Four?”

“Anybody ever call you the Idea Man, Mark?”

“Not that I’m aware of, Pete.”

“My point exactly.  Now think here.  Time’s a-wasting!  Hey!  I got it!  How about we go with March Madness?”


“Yeah really!  And when they get down to sixteen teams, we call it The Sweet Sixteen?”

“Tell me why we’re friends again?”

“Eight teams we’ll call The Elite Eight.  Oh, man, I’m on a roll here, Mark.  This is some golden shit.”

“This is some shit, all right.”

“Any idea what I’m thinking of for the final four.”

“Some idea, sure.”

“I’m back, baby.  Mine.  Back in the saddle again!  Mine also.”


(“Hashtags?  Yeah.  I came up with that shit, you bet!”)









State of the Union


Tonight, right this vey minute, my soiled and smelly clothes are in the washing machine, and the state of the union is soon to be squeaky clean and lint free.  I’ve my nightly cocktail next to my computer, which isn’t what you think.  No, it’s not whiskey or wine, but a concoction of water and vitamins with a dash of melatonin to help me fall asleep.  The state of the union is getting ready for bed.  In the morning, I’m taking my oldest child to the orthodontist for round two of this three round process, and needless to say, her state of the union isn’t so great these days.  In the carport there are empty boxes and a printer that went bad after two years, and sometime before the end of the week I must drive to the dump/recycling center and make a deposit.  Yes, there are household chores and work-related issues, and the state of the union is so so.  We had Chinese food for dinner, and I’m bloated with MSG, and my left foot hurts when I run, my back is getting old, my eyes don’t see so great anymore, and when I do this with my left shoulder, ouch.  State of the union?  Sucks!  Let’s not talk about the vehicle situation, or the television that I ordered back in December and that still hasn’t arrived.  Those non-delivery, lying, bait-and-switch, fast-talking bitches.  It’s the year 2015, and when I was in high school I thought no way would I live to see the year, what with hover boards and flying cars and robots massaging your feet, but here I am, worse for the wear, and none of that has come to pass.  Instead we have Google and cell phones and an endless stream of Internet garbage, adding to my A-D-D and obsessive compulsive disorder. Siri, how’s the state of the union?

“Did you say store with onions?”

“No.  The state of the union?  How is it?”

“Did you say state with unions?”

“Siri, go fuck yourself.”

“Did you say what I think you said?”

At least with Siri I know she doesn’t know, and I can only presume that she knows she doesn’t know, but all these other talking heads, these blow hards, I actually think they believe they have the answers.  And that state of the union scares the hell out of me.

Well, the washing machine is chiming a lovely tune, which means my soiled clothes are ready for the dryer.  I’ll drink my nightly cocktail, read for a while, and pray for a better tomorrow.

“Siri, know any good prayers?”

“Yes.  There are Bartletts and Boscs and–”

“No.  Not pears.  I said do you know any good prayers?”

“Did you say good players?”

“Forget it.  Goodnight Siri.”

The state of the union?  It’s what you make it.  Don’t count on Siri, nor the politicians.




#Political Madness


Our Commander in Chief saluted with a cup of coffee in his right hand, and while the military is up in arms, so to speak, Starbucks couldn’t be happier.  Well, perhaps Starbucks could have been happier, would our Commander in Chief been holding a cup from their fine establishment.  Imagine the advertisement: Starbucks (and our President) salutes the military!

And while coffee is great (I’m as hopelessly addicted as the now deceased Hugo Chavez, who reportedly drank fifty cups a day), the salute is sacred.  The history of the salute goes back in time to the stone age, or later, when General T Rex, not to be confused with the hip-hop artists Ty Rex, and General Spino Saurus approached one another on the field of battle to negotiate a treatise.  The two generals came together and saluted, showing that they weren’t carrying ninja stars.  They talked, negotiated, and only then did they go about savagely killing one another.

Show up with a hot cup of joe, and the other might assume that you intend to splash this in their face, or that there might be a dagger inside.  Do this with a Starbucks logo on the cup, and you could be facing a lawsuit, for this is neither the preferred nor authorized method of waking up in the morning.

So get it right, Commander in Chief; hold the coffee in your left hand, if you must (and of course you must, I mean, everyone loves coffee) and salute with an open hand; it shows that you’re a trustworthy guy, and not sneaky in the least, honors the tradition, and then, and only then, should you go and bomb the terrorists.

For further lessons in military etiquette, please feel free to contact me via email.  We’ll hold a coffee summit, and chat!

A glass of 1968 Urine, please!


I’m not aging like a fine red wine.  No, sir.  Quite the  contrary.  My cork is compromised, and I’m smelling more like vinegar … or is it urine?  Let me explain …

When I was much younger, we used to run until we vomited.  Out there in the Oregon woodlands, we opened her up for miles on end.  At the end of the course, whoever wasn’t puking their guts out didn’t try hard enough, your typical collegiate machismo.  Nowadays, I can’t reach that threshold.  My legs give out, my lungs, and just the other day it was my bladder.   That’s right, in the humidity and heat of North Carolina, I went on a run, and was eventually faced with two options: 1) Duck into someone’s backyard and relieve myself; or 2) keep on trucking like back in the day … and relieve myself.  Option number one came with thoughts of cops and subsequent judges.  Option two came with shame and a quick load of laundry.  In the end, the decision was relatively easy.  Fortunately, there wasn’t much foot traffic, just me and my wet britches hogging the sidewalk.  Someone honked, presumably the same fine gentleman with an I-honk-for-dummies sticker affixed to his bumper.  I’d like to think that I brightened up his day.  His wife may have left him, his wallet empty, but at least he wasn’t no dumb sonofabitch with wet-assed britches running in this god-awful heat.  Or perhaps the honk was from a neighbor wishing to bid adieu, who knows.  Either way, my kids found this hilarious, dad standing there in his running shorts, a big wet spot where his dignity used to be.

Ten or so years ago there would have been lies instead of confessions.  A sprinkler or a water balloon right to my manhood, blam!  But I’m over that now.  I’m not perfect, never was, and never will be.  I’ve also peed in the pool, there I’ve said it.  Some nights I snore.  Feta cheese gives me gas.  I cry at sappy movies, and then hate myself for it afterwards.  And yes, I’ve lied about the tears.  There was something in my eye, blah blah blah, you know the drill.

I blame my shame on Superman.  We watch him in the movies, admire him, want to be him.  But ultimately, we all fall short.  Each and every one of us is slower than a speeding bullet, less powerful than a locomotive, and can barely leap from bed in the morning, let alone the tallest building.

And while my kids might be older, and no longer see the big S on my chest, I’m still going to throw on my cape and imagine.  So go ahead and honk for dummies, who cares.  I’ve got miles to soar, and I’m not quite there yet.  Although, you may smell me when I get there, the stink of vinegar, urine, or worse, oh my!

The Vlad Father


In my country, they called me The Vlad Father. It is funny joke, ha ha, and I laugh. Yes, I am a fan of the jokes. The jesters would come to me, one by one, and some would make Vlad giggle. Others would fail miserably, and for them Vlad had joke of his own: What do you call jester who is black, blue and dead all over? You! Ha ha. It is funny because it is true. But there came time when Vlad’s brand of humor was no longer welcomed, and so he sneak across borders and find himself here, in America, where everyone is jester. Hilarity abounds like the young, supple breasts of Vlad’s harem. Big jokes, little jokes, and what do you need really but a handful of jokes? Ha ha.

In my country, there were no cheeseburgers or pizza.  Supersized were the buttocks of our women, and for that, Vlad had second orders.  Ha ha.  At dinner table, Vlad gorged on fatty slab of meat, what he called wife, Bathsheba.  Ha ha.  Right there on table.  She did not cross borders here into America, not because she had no love for The Vlad Father, but because we had to, as you say, haul ass, and when Bathsheba haul her ass, she need several trips.  Ha ha.  Who had time?

In my country, health care is free.  Go to clinic, get shot for VD.  That’s right, we shoot you in head with pistol.  So perhaps not free, for what is cost of bullet?  Ha ha.  There is no wait, and no complaints.  Our health care system is model for world, you should see.  We give new meaning to open up wide, for several doctors like to go to back door for knock-knock joke.  Ice cream, you scream, and orange you glad he has small banana.  Ha ha.

Oh, they say we are brutes without hearts, but in freezer there are several, of every shape and size.  You got bad heart, Vlad got good heart, or kidney, whatever you need, my friend.  We even run special: two eyes for price of one.  In America you are wasteful.  In my country, we harvest, and patch up like new again.  Lonely men buy the most lovely and perfect brides, who cannot speak without tongue, or eat without belly.  Sure, in time they smell, like normal living wife, ha ha.  Vlad makes no promise of rose garden, so push her in, pull her in, drag her in, and Vlad exchange decomposing flesh for less decomposing flesh.  The key word being flesh, my advice to get them while they are hot like pancakes.  Ha ha.

When I was boy, I had a puppy.  He was delicious.  Ha ha.

But now I am man in America, where treasury give Vlad staples, and this list of Craig give Vlad women.  Neighbors sniff air, and ask what Vlad is cooking.  It is Sarah from 3B.  Everyone said she had fresh ideas, and this is true, tasty and moist also her brains.  We have dinner party, and John from 2A, picking his teeth, says, “No, really, why isn’t Sarah here?”

My freezer is becoming full again, like back in my country.  Soon, Vlad will have blow-out sale on the Ebay.  Get orders in now, these prices are crazy, and will not last.

Yes, Vlad like new country, where everyone feeds like tick on ass of deer.  Sure, deer will die, but we harvest organs, patch up like new, and send to China, where they already own on layaway.  In meantime, bon appetite, my friends, and may Vlad bless America.

You are welcome!


Hem, as in Hemingway!


I’m sun burnt, hungover, have rashes of unknown origins and in hard to reach places (ahem), and have at least one dozen mosquito bites per limb.  There’s a thorn in my foot, on the bottom.  The budget is blown, and was probably a joke or wishful thinking to begin with.  There’s a dent in the rental car I’m sure they are going to make me pay for, and the kayaks we rented are a mess.  In other words, it’s been the perfect vacation, and we’ve had a lot of fun.

Did you know that Hemingway got a dose of Edison’s Medicine, and then blew his brains out in Idaho?  That when you come face to face with a Barracuda you will literally pee yourself?  Or that Key West is 90 miles from Cuba, and no, you can’t see Cuba from the top of the lighthouse.  Don’t ask.  The guy at the front desk will throw a thumb over his shoulder and tell ya to read the darn sign.  No spitting from the top of the lighthouse, either.  No jumping, not even if you have a parachute.  But if you do jump, he promises not to yell at your stupid, dead corpse, but that your estate will be billed for the clean up.  Ha-dee-har-har!  “Next!”

People come here for the water sports, mopeds, and bars.  For five-dollar t-shirts and three-dollar baseball caps.  Bracelets and Marlin, to see a possessed doll called Robbie, and the loot that was stolen from the pirates, that was stolen from the kings, that was stolen from the people.  You can’t touch the free-roaming chickens.  It’s a ten-thousand dollar fine, or about what it costs to rent a moped.  Coconuts fall from the trees, and enterprising men of young and old snatch them up, stick a straw inside, and sell the exotic-tasting water to the tourists for a ridiculous profit.  But people pay it, because what the hell, it’s vacation, right?  People line up for blocks to take photos of the southernmost point.  People walk around half naked, wholly drunk, and buy stickers that say, Fuck you you Fucking Fuck, or, I’m not drunk, my typical state is staggering, friendly and loud!  My kids drag us to the candy store, where we find lollypops shaped like penises, and chocolate boobs on a stick.   At four they feed the tarpon, and it’s quite the bloody spectacle.  If you sign a waver they’ll hoist you a hundred feet in the air, riding a parachute and tethered to the ship.  When you’re done, there are body shots and henna tattoos.  There are topless joints of both sexes, and every gender.  For twenty bucks the tarot-card reader will meditate over the cards with you, shuffle, shuffle, have you shuffle, shuffle, and make three piles.  He’ll pick them up, and wha-lah, there’s the death card, sucker, how you like me know?  But relax.  The death card isn’t always that bad.  Oftentimes it means a dramatic change in your life, that could be good thing, or a bad thing.  Or else you’re going to die.  Either way, he wants his twenty bucks.  “But good times are coming,” he says, “so long as you escape the death card.  There’s a sun in your month of October, but in November there is going to be a big fight between you and your spouse.”

“How is that any different than the month of July,” I ask him.  “Or any month, for that matter?”

He doesn’t laugh, and neither does my wife.

And so I shut up and take my future like a man.

“Don’t spend money in January, that’s a bad month,” he says.  “Unless, of course, you’re already dead, then spend it all.”  It appears that he wants the comedic glory for himself.  He gets no encouragement from me.

There’s a guy on a unicycle juggling fire, or whatever.  A guy doing backflips.  They all want money, and make no bones about it.  “Pay up. Are we not entertaining?”

There’s a seven-mile bridge, and little deer about the size of an average dog.  Speeding is frowned upon, because speed kills deer.

The house that we rented faces the Gulf of Mexico, and the waters are broad, bright, and relatively still.  When the sun is shining it dances upon the waves, and with the rain comes the ripples.  When it’s cold we get the nipples (sorry, couldn’t help myself.)  When the sun sets, it seems to dip into the waters and spread like fire.  And then the waters engulf the bright orb wholly, it happens quickly, and the clouds are bright with color.  We drink and play board games, and drink some more.  The bottle is almost empty, “So come on, don’t be a pussy,” and glasses are filled back up again.  The game is a variant of charades, and Uncle Jack gets the card all wrong.  He’s not wearing his glasses.  The answer, of course, is slinky, but he thinks it says stinky.  So he stands, grunts, shits his pants, and waves a hand under his nose.  It’s boys vs. girls, and we’re guessing outhouse and toilet paper, shit stains.  The girls see the card, notice his mistake, and while one tries to correct him, the other is laughing her ass off, saying, no, let him go on.  This is gold.  Ultimately the boys win, and so we play another game, and graciously allow the girls a victory.  Girls put out when they win, it’s a fact of life.

But it comes and goes quickly, vacation.  Work should be so kind.  And now we’ve one day left, and the kids are eating bacon.

“What’ll it be? ” I ask.  “The beach?  Kayaks?  Paddle boards?”

They shrug their shoulders and tell me that it doesn’t matter.  That they’re happy just to be here, chilling like a villain.  In the end they opt for the kayak, a trip around the block.  Maybe we’ll see some sea turtles, or manatees, who knows?  Another barracuda.  Either way, it’s our last day, and we intend to milk it slowly, and savor every drop.

The answer is vacation, and right now, right here, we’re doing a pretty good job acting it out.  Work and school will come soon enough.

Billion Dollar Bracket

I shopped online this morning.  Looked at watches, cars, and vacation properties.  One Billon Dollars!  That’s what I stand to win should (should?  no, when)  I fill out the perfect NCAA March Madness Bracket.  That’s how much of Warren Buffet’s money is going to go from his account into mine.  So that by this time next month I’ll have One Billion two hundred and fifty six dollars in my bank account, and a contract on a new condo in Miami.  Taxes will eat up some winnings, of course, but that’s okay.  I can survive on half a Billion Dollars so long as the government puts my hard-won money to good use, which they most certainly will because now I’m an optimist (one Billions Dollars will do that to a man).

Like Madonna, I’m going to sleep on this.  Right before going to bed I’m going to study the bracket and have it mostly memorized.  I’m going to keep it on the nightstand with a pen, click off the lamp, and, again like Madonna, sleep in the nude (this simplifies the act of sex, the odds of which are about the same as winning).

But I’m an optimist now, remember, so yeah, after a wicked lay the winners will come to me a dream.   (By wicked I’m talking sixty, no, fifty seconds of sweet sweet love, and fifty, no, forty seconds later of even sweeter dreams.)  The clouds will part and the angels will sing.  Moses will come forth, and instead of the Ten Commandments he’ll be carrying the perfect bracket.  Hallelujah and Amen!

That’s right, bitches, I’m gonna be rich, and I’m not going to be no asshole, neither.  Hell no.  I’m gonna be one the nice rich guys with an easy-going attitude, and not no big shot with one hundred dollar tips for the bell hop or barber just to prove how rich I am and how rich they aren’t.  No, I’m going to be graceful, and donate anonymously to worthy organizations like The Bunny Ranch, The Meth Institute of America, and Rock-‘N-Roll University!  What?  There isn’t a RockU?  Well, there’s going to be when yours truly has one Billion Dollars, or about half after taxes.  Our mascot is going to be Gene Simmons of KISS, in full regalia.  Instead of basketball we’ll have competitions to see who can roll the meanest and fattest doobies.  Ten years from now the brackets won’t be about basketball but about beer bongs, with the number one seed being from where else but RockU.  We’ll sanction extreme sports and our students will major in Fun, with a minor in sex ed!  Boom!  Instead of the geek dorm or the athlete’s dorm we’ll have the Kush dorm and the naked dorm.  We’ll have awards for those with the worst attendance, the most pathetic grades, and in another five or ten years we’ll see those individuals in the White House and congress.  Another boom!  Wanna come?  Sure you do.  Just take that stick out of your ass and let’s start the paperwork.  Tuition is free, ’cause I’m stinking rich.  And if you’re thinking abut going all Twenty-One Jumpstreet on my ass and coming undercover, bring it.  You think the law can keep down a Billionaire?  Pah!  You don’t America.

Okay.  Let’s see.  Number 1 Florida vs. number 16 ALBY?  Jesus, how simple.  Suck it, Moses.  Who needs ya?

All right.  Number 8 Colo vs. number 9 Pitt.  Shit.  Okay.  Maybe I’ll sleep on this one. That thing I said about sucking it, Moses?  Please disregard, because remember: I ain’t gonna be no asshole Billionaire with one hundred dollar tips or making it rain all up in the club, no sir.

So, number 5 VCU vs. number 12 SFA.  Ha.  Easy.  That’s right, suck it Moses, I’m gonna be a freaking Billionaire.   

Naked Men

Okay.  I just looked at myself in the mirror, and I’m not that far gone … yet!  I was standing there naked, my hair wet (at both ends, boom!) because I had just stepped out of the shower.  Pecs aren’t bad, gut’s not offensive, and I’m relatively well proportioned (wink wink).

So why am I not comfortable being naked?

I went to the YMCA today in Boise, Idaho.  Did a little cardio and lifted some weights.  All of which was great.

The downtown Y here is well equipped, happy people coming and going.  But there’s an entire other world inside the men’s locker room.

A naked world.

Of naked men.

And it’s not a pretty sight.

Recently, I read an article on the benefits of a dry sauna (it’s good for you skin and liver, among other things), and it just so happens that the Boise Y has one inside of the men’s locker room.  So what the hell, right, why not give it a try?

I stripped down to my shorts, grabbed a towel, and entered.

Four elderly men were sitting there naked.  Two with their legs spread unnaturally wide.  One guy had his knees hiked up to his chin.  Another was sitting crisscross apple sauce, and what was I supposed to do?  Turn around and leave?  I certainly should have, but damn if those health benefits didn’t sound appealing.

I sat as far away from the spectacle as space allowed.

Naked men came and went, one after another, young and old, and I’m telling myself not to look.  For the love of God, don’t do it.  But then boom, there’s a thin and shriveled penis sauntering in without a care in the world.  And I ask myself why?  Why doesn’t he have any shame or sense of decency?  Am I the only modest man left in this world?

They wanted to know how I was doing, and I hadn’t the nerve to tell them that I was doing poorly, uncomfortable having a conversation with a man whose hairy, limp penis is resting between his pasty, meaty thighs on the sweaty wooden bench.

“So, how about them Boise State Broncos?  That was quite the game the other night.”

“How about putting some shorts on?  Or covering yourself with a towel?  At the very least, how about hacking some of the rain forest away, I mean Jesus, just look at that mess.”

I didn’t say that, of course.  Simply agreed that the Broncos might have a good team this year as hairy penises and even hairier balls paraded before me.

There’s a market out there for manscaping, and perhaps I should get on the cutting edge, so to speak.  Not the grooming, per say, as I hardly groom myself; perhaps own a shop, employ attractive women with sharp blades, write a jingle to stir up business.  Bieber cut or shiny, clean cut man or slimy, come on in, we’ll try not to grin, even if you’re tiny.   No good?  How about this:  We don’t care if you got the drip, come on in and we’ll give you a clip.  Still no good?  Okay, here: Standing tall or feeling limp, girl’s don’t want no hairy chimp!  Now get your ass in here, and we’ll shave your balls!

And we’ll have coupons, two for the price of one.

You don’t like the blades, we’ll give you wax!  You don’t like the wax, we’ll give you the laser.  You don’t like to sag, we’ll give you a lift.  You’re balls are too small for the sac, we’ll give you replacements.  A ball job, kind of like a boob job, only sexier.

Imagine the locker room conversations then, everyone so clipped up and neat, sophisticated, uptight scrotums.  Instead of underbrush, we’d have fashion statements, our initials shaved above our genitals so that our loved ones won’t forget our names, not that they would be able to say our names at the time … am I right, or am I right?

At Junk Clips Unlimited ,our mission is to make the world a better place, one dick at at time.







Wait until you read what happens in this post …

You’re going to be amazed.

But do you know what?  I’ve never been amazed.  Never!

Not when the squirrel was riding on water skis, not when the flash mob visited a mall and sang a Christmas carol, and not when Mayor Ford of Toronto said that he had more that enough pussy to eat at home, thank you very much.

But that’s the hook on social media, isn’t it?  How amazed we will be when we click on the link.

You’re not going to believe what happens next.

Only … it’s totally believable.

Like when the fat kid picked the skinny kid who was bullying on him, and body slammed him onto the pavement.  Believable.

The Russian gymnasts.  Totally believable.

The dancers who form cars and hearts with they shadows, cool, yes, and also believable.

So please stop telling me otherwise.  I’m a sucker with the links, but mostly I’m worried.

Yes, worried.

What if something unbelievable happens, and because I’ve become jaded I miss out?

What if a guy really does rip off another guy’s head and shits down his throat?  “You are not going to believe what happens when the driver of car one cuts off the driver in car two.  Totally unbelievable.”

And what if I don’t take the bait and miss out?

That’s something I really want to see.

What if a young lady sneezes with her eyes open, and both baby blues go flying from her skull like yo-yos?  Priceless, and totally unbelievable.  At last, something we can’t believe in!

I want to see a guy shit his pants out, literally.  Like, literally.  He gets up off the shitter, and there in the toilet is a soiled pair of bluejeans.  “I’ll be damned.  Honey?  Bring the video camera.”

This is horrible to say, but wouldn’t it be cool to see someone get their face ripped off?  Who wouldn’t watch that?

I’ll tell you who?  Me.  Because I don’t click on those links anymore, goddamnit.

What if someone actually kills someone with kindness?

And here I am, missing out!  I mean … it’s eating me up inside.

Jesus, what if I miss out on someone getting eaten up … from inside?

And what if a woodchuck chuck’s wood?  How adorable!

“You are not going to believe what happens when it starts to rain!  Click on the link to find out.”

And when you click on the link, it’s raining cats and dogs.  Real cats, and real dogs.  Falling from the rainclouds, splattering on the cars and the pavement, the little old lady crossing the road with an umbrella.  I would watch that shit in slow motion, especially the part about the cats, fucking cats, and maybe even download it and cut it with music – Ride of the Valkyries.

So please, stop saying that it’s so unbelievable.  I’m begging you, because when the unbelievable stuff starts to actually happen I want to see it … with my own two eyes … popping out of my skinless skull like yo-yos, my head ripped clean with shit down my throat and my bluejeans soaking in the shitter.  Now that’s the life for me!